They've been close since the academy. Not the Umbrella shit, the police academy-which was, pretty much, more of the same shit. Still had to dress up in a dapper little uniform and take orders from superiors who hardly deserved the title. He spent his childhood training to take down the bad guys and some thirty year old asshole who got his badge five years ago and aced some written test knew better than him? Bullshit.

She was one of the few people who put up with him at the time. Everyone else talked their shit and played the stupid game, as if blowing smoke up the instructors' ass would save them in the field. She was the only one who listened. Who took his tips on how to disarm over the trainers. Who questioned rules that would cost lives. Who put him in his place and drew lines between Number 2 and Diego Hargreeves he didn't know existed.

So yeah, he's been in love with Diana for a while.

Which is why, when she calls asking him to come over, he turns off the police scanner, takes off the mask, and gets in his car.

When she opens the door to her apartment, he can't help the small smile that quirks at the corner of his lips. She's so goddamn beautiful even in her leggings and Synchronicity baseball tee he got her as a joke when she graduated the academy. She had laughed so hard she cried and then serenaded him with "Roxanne". It was the wrong album, but he couldn't have given less of a shit.

She, Sting, and the other two bastards are looking at him expectantly, so he quirks an eyebrow hoping that it turns his smile into more of a smirk. "You gonna let me in, or did you just want to show me your front door?"

She gives a mirthless pity laugh to tell him how not funny he is. "I was hoping you were the pizza guy."

"Sorry to disappoint," he shakes his head, and the smile situation is getting out of control.

"Not sorrier than I am," she says, heaving a long suffering sigh as she steps aside to let him inside. He doesn't even make it past her before she breaks and offers him a smile.

Diego snorts and turns towards what might as well be his second home. Or first. Hell, he's here more than he's ever in his shitty room at the boxing gym. The TV is on, blankets pooled in a semicircle on the couch, a bottle of wine and half empty glass in front of the spot. Her purse and keys sit on the table, heels kicked off under a chair. Other than that, the place is pristine as usual.

He doesn't like the way this scene looks.

"Thought you had a date tonight," he remarks, heading into the kitchen to get himself a wine glass. Behind him, the door clicks shut and her bare feet patter lightly against the floor.

"There was a miscommunication."

It's the way her voice is too light- each word is carefully chosen. How under the chair's legs one shoe is on its side while the other is still standing. The fact that she's drinking red wine instead of those stupid Whiteclaws.

"He didn't show." Diego turns to her as he says this, watching to see the words reach her. When they do, her eyes shoot down to the ground and she gives a small shake of her head.

"No." Her voice is soft and her eyes run over the scratch marks on the wooden floor from when she had him rearranging the furniture to make her new coffee table "aesthetically fit". It's threelong seconds before she speaks again. "He uh-meant to meet up with someone else."

Anger shoots through him, burning and vicious and fuck wine as a solution. Diego strides forward, heading to the front door, when she reaches out a hand to stop him. "Don't."

He looks at her and tries to arrange his features into some semblance of innocent concern. "I'm just going to my car to get a bottle of whiskey I keep there." He has to pry his gaze away from hers because the look she's giving him makes his heart feel like it's going to implode. She looks at him as if she sees him. She's the only person who's ever given him that look.

"Diego. Do not go interrupt his date to pick a fight."

"Fuck," he curses under his breath because she sees right through the lie. He turns back to her, mouth open to deny the accusation when her look intensifies.

"I know you Diego Hargreeves."

No one has ever told him they love him.

But that sounds pretty damn close.

She releases his arm because she knows that she's won or maybe she has some misplaced faith in his self-control. "I really appreciate that you want to kill him. Really, really appreciate it. But I don't need you going to jail on assault charges. I need you here, drinking wine and watching TV with me. Unless you actually have that whiskey."

He shakes his head, thankful he doesn't have to respond because the fact that she needs him leaves him just about breathless.

This time she curses under her breath, a soft damn. "You're such a tease," she comments, heading back to the couch and he goes back to get a wine glass from the cabinet.

"It's only for you, baby," he calls over his shoulder.

They're two bottles of wine deep and it's only 11 o'clock. She had apparently been joking about the pizza guy, much to Diego's disappointment. When he voiced as much, her eyes got big and bright, and she grabbed his face in her hands. "Then let's order a fucking pizza."

And then she slapped him, one cheek after the other and went to get her cell phone.

They're still waiting on the pizza.

But his attention has been less on the grumbling in his stomach and more on the fact that Diana hasn't laughed once in the last forty minutes. She hasn't so much as cracked a smile. Not even when Esther stabs her hand in front of Hank. In fact, since the phone call for pizza she's hardly even said a word, and he can see what she's doing. She's torturing herself. Her attention isn't on Barry, it's on the asshole she left at whatever bar to go on a date with someone who wasn't her.

"Hey," he says, and she turns to look at him, eyebrows raised. At least she isn't that far down the rabbit hole. That's good. He's been there enough times to know how hard it is to pull yourself out of the cycle. To silence out the memories of voices you shouldn't give two shits about anymore and focus on what's in front of you. "How did Burger King get Dairy Queen pregnant?"

Her nose wrinkle and brow creases in confusion, and she stares at him like he's clinically insane. "What?"

"Come on," he gestures, turning towards her so that their knees brush together. "How'd the Burger King get Dairy Queen pregnant?"

She seems to catch on then, her face more skeptical than concerned for his sanity. "How?"

"He forgot to wrap his whopper."

She just shakes her head, turning back to the TV. He wouldn't be Number 2 if he gave up now. "What should you do if you come across an elephant?"

"What?" her voice is flat and unamused, but it's not the same tone she gives him when she's done with his bullshit.

"Apologize and wipe it off."

She cracks then, her lips fighting against her will to keep a straight face as the corner of her mouth twitches up into a smile. A small burst of air exhales through her nose. It's not a laugh, and it's not a smile, but it's a start.

""What's the difference between 'Oooh!' and 'Aaah!'?"

"Oh no-"

"About three inches."

She bursts with laughter then, slapping a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. Her eyes crinkle in the corner, as she looks at him, shaking her head. He's gotten what he wanted, but what's one more joke?

"What goes in hard and dry and comes out wet and soft?"

She almost chokes on the wine she's sipping to help her stop laughing. "Diego!"

"Chewing gum. Why, what were you thinking?"

"Fuck you," she says, pointing a finger at him, but she's laughing, so he starts laughing too. She sets her wine glass back down in front of her and crawls all the way on the couch, shuffling closer to him so she can beat his arm with both of her fists.

"It's a good joke," he protests, laughing harder as she continues her assault.

"It's so not a good joke!" she argues back, tears streaming down from her eyes. But they're from laughter rather than what's going on in her head, so he'll take it. His arm is saved from the punching by a knock at the door. Naturally she moves to get up, but he shakes his head, gently pushing her back down into the couch and reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet.

The guy takes in his tactical outfit with a raised eyebrow, but doesn't say anything about it. Diego feels a bit sorry that he took off his knives. Scaring the pizza guy was always mildly entertaining for himself. Instead he passes along the money with a "Thanks man," and returns to Diana who has settled back into her spot.

She gives him a warning look and holds up a finger at him again. "No jokes during the pizza."

"What?" It's his turn to look at her like she's crazy.

"I'll choke and die, and you don't want that on your conscience-and don't turn that into another joke," she adds quickly, preventing him from using the innuendo before he can even find it in the sentence.

"Fine," he says, sinking into his seat and putting the box of pizza on the coffee table. "No jokes. Just pizza."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously at him even as she reaches forward to pull out a slice. She doesn't break her gaze until she's swallowed and he bites into his own piece. There's a few moments of quiet between them, but it feels better than it did before the pizza. There's something lighter in the air between them, and he hopes she feels it too.

"Thank you," she says, suddenly.

It takes him a second and a quick glance around the apartment to realize that she means the pizza. He scoffs and waves the thanks off.

"No, Diego, seriously. Thank you. For coming over," she sighs. "I needed this."

"I'm always here for you," he said, nudging her with his shoulder. "You know that. Can't get rid of me even if you tried."

She offers a small smile, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, wincing as she notices the pizza grease on her finger tips. Diego shouldn't be watching her this closely. He should focus on his pizza like a normal person. But he can't take his eyes off her. How she seems just a bit slower, just a bit quieter today. She runs her fingers over a napkin leaving a trail of yellow grease. "Do you wanna hear something sad?" she asks, her voice small.

"When you say it like that, how could I say no?" It was supposed to be a joke, but his voice is too soft.

She doesn't look at him, instead keeping her eyes fixated on the used napkin.

"This isn't the first time that's happened. It's not even the first time that's happened this month."

He wants to kill. He wants to wage a war against the boys on Tinder or Bumble or the force or wherever it is she's finding these assholes. But she needs him here. She told him she needs him.

"They're idiots," he says. "Complete fucking morons."

"Statistics would suggest otherwise," she shook her head, looking back up at the tv, frozen on a close up of Bill Hader's face. "I mean...guy after guy, I'm always the one getting broken up with or ghosted. Is there something I'm not seeing? Seriously, Diego, is there something wrong with me?" She looks at him then, eyes shining and heartbreaking in the earnestness of the question.

"There's not a single fucking thing wrong with you," he says, quickly wiping his own hands off so he can pull her in close. She wraps her arms around his middle, leaning her forehead into the crook of his neck. He can feel her breath against his skin. Feel her heartbeat. He holds her even tighter.

"I'm going to put that in my bio from now on. Not a single fucking thing wrong with me. Verified by Diego Hargreeves." She gives a single quiet laugh at her own joke, and Diego smiles, running his fingers through her hair. He isn't sure if it's as calming to her as it is to him, but her head feels a bit heavier as she relaxes more into him.

"I don't know. I think I'm just done with this all. Maybe I'll like being alone," she sighs, wiggling a little bit closer. "With you of course. We can be alone together."

"Yeah," his smile is bigger now, and he can feel her smiling against him too. "Yeah, we can do that."