If she had to guess, the reason she's put up with Diego's vigilantism for so long is because they so rarely cross paths in the field.
He takes the "action calls," the ones in the 10-30s, or that would be if he heard them from his scanner and not his contacts on the streets. Diana, however, is focused entirely on domestic incidents.
It's easy to trace this back to their childhoods. For Diana, the calling developed as she huddled in her closet, hands over her ears and clothes piled on top of her as if she were playing hide and seek. It solidified at the funeral, with the look on her mother's face at the funeral as she tasted freedom for the first time in thirteen years. It's a direct line from there to her work now. She tries to create more of those looks out in the world. Without the funerals.
For Diego, the calling was cultivated. It's always been about the amount of successful missions and cases closed. As if the more victories he racks up, the more worthy he is of being alive. She thinks a part of him expects that if he hits some magic number, he can present all of his wins to his father and finally hear those words he's been so desperate for: I'm proud of you. She's always hated this about Diego. How it's led to him skipping over the means and focusing on the ends. Still, she's not sure she's ever hated it as much as she does in this moment.
Because at this moment she's seriously tempted to arrest the sonofabitch.
He's leaning against her building waiting for her. She's not sure if he's been here the entire two hours she's been wrapping up the mess he made or if he just got here. She hopes he's been waiting out in the chilly night for a while. She hopes he catches a cold. Or the flu. Or a fist to the throat.
"You're welcome, by the way," he starts immediately as she stalks past him, throwing open her front door. She doesn't bother to hold it for him, but he slips his foot in and nudges it open so he can follow her.
"Oh, we're not talking now?" he asks, and she angrily jabs a finger up. She's not going to have this discussion in public where he knows she'll feel obliged to be calm and civil. She's going to have it in the safety of her apartment when she can tell him what she really thinks of him.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the tick in his jaw as the two of you wait for her elevator. He's mad too which is absolutely ludicrous. He has no right to be. He should be feeling sorry, guilty, ashamed, repentant, remorseful even. Not mad.
The doors slide open, and the two step on, standing on either side of a woman holding her laundry basket. Diego steps forward and jabs the button so hard she's surprised it doesn't shatter. The woman gives him a questioning glance out of the side of her eye and takes a slight step towards Diana.
It's a silent ride up in the elevator, and a poor woman who lives three floors above Diana probably feels like she's suffocating from the amount of tension in the small metal box. She audibly sighs when the doors slide open, and the two march out.
Diana's stomps echo down the hallway before the she arrives at her front door, jamming the keys into the lock and pushing it open as angrily as she can without letting go of the doorknob. She's not about to destroy her apartment over this. Diego brushes past her, and even though she's practically shaking, she calmly shuts the door before she spins on him.
"You're out of your fucking mind," she snaps, walking further into her apartment so she can place her bag down on a chair at the table.
"I'm out of my mind? You're the one who went into that house alone," he argues back, and she holds up a hand as if to block the entirely stupid point.
"Newsflash Diego, you weren't supposed to have gone into the house, at. All. "
"Don't act like you don't know what I do," Diego rolls his eyes.
"What you do is borderline illegal discount Batman shit. What I do is my fucking job. Which was a thousand times harder tonight thanks to you and having to clean up your mess," she drops her hand so it smacks loudly against her thigh. It stings a little, but she's too livid to regret the action.
Diego narrows his eyes at her. "Nobody saw me go in. Nobody saw me leave. Not even him."
"You left your knife, dumbass," she spits, pulling the evidence baggy from her pocket and tossing it at the ground near his feet.
"I'm not a dumbass," Diego says through clenched teeth, but she can see his face change slightly as he stoops to examine the bag. "You took this from them?" The recognition on his face as he pockets the knife looks somewhat close to regret. But not enough.
Instead, she's the one who has the bad taste in her mouth. Who feels dirty. "I told them it was mine," she says, shaking her head. She hated to do it. It made her no better than those shoot first, ask questions later cops. Or the ones who covered up lapses in protocol for their partners or cousins's sister's best friend's son-in-law.
"You didn't have to do that," his voice is softer, but it's lost some of its edge.
"I know. But I wouldn't have even had to make the decision if you hadn't taken it upon yourself to come in and do things your way without reading the scene first," she shakes her head at him. "Jesus, Diego. We didn't need some masked vigilante in there, we needed someone trained in de-escalation techniques."
"And how were the de-escalation techniques working for you?"
"I had the situation under control."
"I wouldn't call having him turn the gun on you 'under control.'" Diego's voice is sharp again as he throws the words at her with the same careful precision he throws his knives.
"I made sure everyone was able to get out of the house safely."
"And I made sure no one got hurt. Including you and the psycho with the gun."
"If anyone was the psycho in that house, it was you!" She's so frustrated and angry she can feel the tears building behind her eyes.
"Psycho?" Diego repeated, eyes wild. "I did what needed to be done-"
"He didn't need a knife to the hand. He needed someone to help calm him down enough to take his medicine. Those parents didn't need their son to get arrested. They needed their son to get help."
"His finger was on the fucking trigger," Diego bit back.
She stops for a moment, pulling herself up to her full height so she can stare him in the eye. "And if he had shot me because all of the sudden he was under attack, that wouldn't have been on him. That would have been on you."
Across from her, Diego's face goes blank and his pack straightens. "You really think I'd put you in danger."
"You did tonight. Some fucking hero you are."
Diego swallows, his mouth drawing tight as he nods to himself before pointing at her. "F-fuck you and your fucking m-m-moral high horse. I saved your life." Diego stalks over to the door, wrenching it open with a last look at her. "She's just like everyone else from the academy."
Diana's not thinking when she picks the remote up off the couch and wings it at him as hard as she can. With a small wave he easily deflects it, sending it spiraling into the wall. A sharp snapping sound comes from the plastic seconds before the door slams closed. She walks forward to lock him out, and it's as she slides the deadbolt closed that her eyes fall on the broken remote which lies in pieces.
It's that stupid remote that makes her break down into tears.
He hears the broken sob from the other side of the door.
It makes him feel like shit, which is total bullshit given the fact that he saved her life. And she hadn't even so much as acknowledged it.
This is the thought which stokes at the anger inside of him, chasing away all feelings of shittiness.
He shouldn't have even had to save her life. She never should have walked into that house without backup and tried to talk down a man who clearly wasn't in his right mind. She should have made sure there was no gun first.
When that man had turned the gun on her, after spewing out all of that shit, Diego hadn't thought. He acted on instinct. Protect. And it had led to the gunman being taken down, the house being deemed safe, and her being able to walk out the front door alive.
She should be grateful.
She shouldn't be crying.
She should have known better.
She did know better.
It's the reason that he even bothered to respond to the dispatcher's call on the scanner. She's the one who told him about how easily domestic calls went south. How she always felt better when there was another officer on the scene with her. So when he heard that she was the responding officer and nobody else called in back up, he knew he had to go. He had to be there for her.
The words come up unbidden-something she said to him when she explained why she even wanted to focus on domestic calls in the first place. "We're supposed to protect and serve. Everyone just forgets the second part."
He had gone in to protect. She had gone in to serve.
He's starting to feel more like shit again. Which in turn, makes him more angry.
He wants to punch a hole in that wall. He scrambles to his feet and almost does but another choked sob from behind her door stops him. So instead, he walks down the hallway, takes the stairs down to his car, and drives home to the boxing gym where he can punch as much as he wants. And maybe someone can give him a reason to make him feel so beaten.
They haven't spoken in a week. Which is fine.
She's been too angry and too busy anyway. Between paperwork and court and everything else work was throwing at her, she's hardly had time to sleep let alone process the fight. Because it's definitely work stress that's kept her from sleeping.
Still, she needs more time to get over Diego's stupidity and selfishness and maybe even make sense of the tinge of guilt she's feeling for absolutely no reason whatsoever. She needs to get to a point where she stops feeling furious every time she thinks of that night. When she does finally speak, she wants to be able to talk it out like a reasonable human adult. So yeah, if she had things her way they'd continue this radio silence for at least another week. Maybe less if his sorry ass crawled back to her apartment with the apology she deserved.
Of course, she should have known from the very beginning of this date that things were not going to go her way. That said, she's not sure if she ever could have expected them to go so wrong that she'd find herself sitting by the ring where Diego has currently thrown a right hook under the other fighter's guard and into the ribs.
She is so done with Tinder.
The timer buzzes and the referee shouts and the crowd roars as both men retreat to their corner. It's a cacophony of madness, but it all sort of dulls as she stares at Diego breathing heavily, waving off the offer of a water bottle like the dumbass he is. His eyes are on the judges waiting for the pronouncement. Hers are too. The moment his fight is over, she's done. She's going to the bathroom and never coming back. She'd feel bad about the cliche but what kind of guy says he's "got tickets to a great event downtown" and means an amateur boxing match.
She's so busy attempting to identify a path out that she jumps a little when a voice echoes throughout the room, "Your winner, Diego 'The Kraken' Hargreeves!"
There's a huge cheer with a few boo's mixed in, but the dissent is quickly drowned out by the clapping. Her date rises to his feet, and so do those around her, blocking her view of Diego and his defeated opponent.
She's fairly certain she's the only person in this room not making a noise. As such, she takes her chance to leave, shuffling around the cheering people and tossing "excuse me's" and "sorry's" back into her wake. No one seems too put out though. No one even seems to notice. A quick glance back at her date confirms that even he hasn't registered she's gone-and if he has, he's certainly not looking for her. His hands are cupped around his mouth as he shouts something at the ring. When she turns around it's only because she's run smack into someone. She jolts back as something cool spills against her arm and the man in front of her lets out an angry shout. His beer is half empty, and while she's not exactly thrilled that it's soaking through her shirt, she doubts he'll be happy if she wrings it out back into his plastic cup.
"I'm so sorry," Diana apologizes, squashing down the minor annoyance that he's clearly blaming her even though it takes two to not watch where they're going. "I'll buy you a new one."
He grumbles, and she can hear him griping about the spilled beer to his friends as she heads up to the bar. She forgot to get his drink order but takes a stab in the dark and orders a Miller Light. And then asks for a stack of napkins.
By the time she's finished the transaction, he's gravitated back towards the ring. The next fight has started-the headlined fight-and the beer in his hand is almost empty. When she gives him the new one, he takes it with a grunt of thanks, and she's so busy rolling her eyes as she turns her back on him that she's not even scanning the crowd like she should be. That's why it catches her completely off guard to hear her name called.
"Diana?"
It doesn't make sense. She shouldn't be here. She never comes to his fights, not after she saw him get his ass handed to him that one time.
That one time was a fluke. He'd been distracted. He and Patch were fighting, and then she surprised him by walking in and sitting right by his corner, staring up at him with big eyes, and he just couldn't focus on blocking as much as he should have. His form was sloppy. He'd caught a punch in the liver and gone down. She'd been so worried that she'd tried to approach the ring. It was probably one of the most embarrassing moments of his life, curled up on the canvas and struggling to catch his breath as he listened to her argue with the ref.
He kind of feels like he's been punched in the liver again.
She turns to face him, and he can see that it is her, and she doesn't look happy. Not as angry as the last time he'd seen her, but definitely not happy. He can't tell if it's because she's seen him or from whatever it was that's made her right side all wet. Whatever the case, she doesn't turn around and leave immediately, so he decides to move towards her. If she's here, maybe it's an attempt at peace. Maybe she's come to finally apologize.
"Why are you here?" It's supposed to be a question, but something goes wrong and it comes out like an accusation. She responds accordingly, crossing her arms and fixing him with a glare.
"I'm on a date."
Oh.
The answer kills all hope of an apology, instead raising a surge of jealousy and anger that he can't control. "I thought you were done with dating." This time it is an accusation.
Diana rolls her eyes which is a total cop out. It's what she does when she knows he's right but doesn't want to admit it. If he were smart he'd take the win. Tell her whatever the case, he's glad she came. They need to talk. They haven't been talking, and he's not sure if he can take it anymore. He'd even take her yelling at him. Maybe that's why he continues.
"Must be a real winner to get you out here. I couldn't even do it in-what's it been-5 years?"
"Fuck you," she spits out. It stings more than the cut on his right cheekbone. "If I knew he was taking me here, I never would have agreed to it. Especially if I knew you were fighting."
He feels like there's more to that sentence than he fully catches onto. Instead, he finds himself tripped up over just one small part of it.
Why didn't she know where she was going?
"You know you're not invincible right?" Diego asks. "You're just a regular woman. You need to stop making shitty ass decisions that put yourself in danger. Like knowing where she's going on a date. Driving yourself. Not walking alone into a house where a guy has a gun and no control over himself ."
"Before I dig in to your levels of misogyny, I just want to remind you that I'm a fucking cop. I'm trained to defend myself and other people. Just because I'm not some comic book character doesn't mean I'm helpless."
He lets out a bitter laugh then. "You are way more vulnerable than you think you are."
"And your hero complex is showing," she shot back.
He's so caught up by that fiery look in her eyes and trying to make her get it that he doesn't notice the man approaching until he's hovering right over Diana's shoulder. He looks confused and a bit wary, but makes the poor decision to open his mouth anyway.
"Everything ok?" He asks, laying a hand on Diana's back. Diego wants to rip it off and shove it up his ass. From the look on her face, Diana wouldn't object.
"Everything's fine," Diego says, giving a strained smile. The man casts an unsure glance down at Diana for confirmation. Diego has about three seconds of self control in him before he grabs Diana and whisks her away from this asshole who took her here of all places for a date.
She puts on her company smile, and nods at her date, stepping just outside of his touch. "We're friends. I just ran into him on my way back from the bathroom."
Diego scoffs. "Oh we're friends now?"
Her head whips to face him, he's surprised she didn't break her neck. He's also surprised he's not dead from the daggers she's staring into him. But what's even more priceless is the guy's look as his eyes shoot between Diana and Diego.
Diego can read the various stages of his mental process on his face. Confusion. Deeper confusion. Understanding. Awkwardness. Slight fear. Diego smirks.
"Oh. Gotcha, ok. Look, I don't want to get into the middle of whatever—of anything." So much for white knight coming in to save the girl.
Diana catches on then, and she looks both murderous and horrified. "No, it's not like that. We're just—"
"I get it. You really don't have to explain. It's cool," he says to her, backing up a few paces. "Sorry dude," he apologizes to Diego, giving him a head nod before turning around to hurry off to wherever.
"Why'd you do that?" she snaps.
He raises his eyebrows and looks like the picture of perfect innocence. "Do what?"
"You made him think—-the way you said it—" she's floundering, and he feels rather smug about it. It always feels good to come out on top.
"I asked if we were friends because it sure as hell hasn't felt like it this past week."
She draws back, anger leaving her and replaced with a look that erases all of his self-satisfaction. "You really think we aren't friends anymore?"
"I don't know," he says, because he can't help himself. He can see it cut her deeper as she blinks twice and the nods, spinning on her heel and taking off.
He feels like shit.
7 years. 7 years of friendship down the drain. She didn't even want to think about how for 6 and a half of those years, she stupidly held out hope that one day Diego could like her. She feels like an idiot. A heartbroken idiot.
There's a part of her that wants to go back into the gym and apologize. She doesn't want to lose Diego over this. Not when the guy from the call was just released into psychiatric care last week. Not when Diego's right, and it's entirely possible that he was going to shoot her.
Still.
If she means so little to him that he's willing to throw her away after one nasty fight, maybe it's not worth investing in year 8. Her insides hurt with an aching kind of pain, and all she wants to do is cry. She's not sure if it'd make her feel better, but it'd at least give her something to do.
It's too public right outside the noisy and bright gym to have a break down, so she starts walking towards the park she saw on her drive in. It probably closed at dusk, but she knows from experience that unless someone calls, no one's going to be kicking her out.
It doesn't make sense how things could end like this. Two weeks ago, Diego had been pulling her close to him on the dancefloor, making sure she didn't get roped into dancing with "some ugly sonofabitch." They'd spent the night laughing and drinking, and he'd even given her a begrudging piggyback from the cab to her apartment.
And now he doesn't know if they're friends.
Feet pound against the pavement behind her, but she doesn't look. It'll kill her if it's not him.
"Diana, wait."
A small feeling of relief blooms inside her, but she doesn't stop walking. She does slow down.
"I didn't mean that," he says. She keeps walking. The small patch of green is only a few yards away, and she wants to make it there rather than doing this on the sidewalk.
"Then why'd you say it?" The words don't have the same heat or edge as what she's said in the gym. Instead she just sounds kind of tired and done.
"Cause I'm an idiot." He also sounds done. And there's a bit of desperation there that makes her feel just the slightest bit better. "What do you want me to say to fix this?"
She pauses then, a few feet away from a bench sitting underneath a street light. But she can't wait anymore. Not when he sounds like that. "I want you to tell me we're gonna be ok."
"Hey," his fingers brush her arm, gently spinning her around to face him. He looks the way his voice sounds. Eyebrows knit together, lips turned down into a frown, eyes pleading. "We're gonna be ok. I'm not letting you go."
Her shoulders drop, and she feels a bit like she's melting. Like she can't stay up on her feet for much longer now that all of the emotions carrying her this far have deserted her. So instead, she walks into his arms, tucking herself in tightly against him. "You fucking scared me."
"Yeah, well, you scared me first," he says, wrapping his arms around her and resting his cheek on the top of her head.
The two stand like that, clutching each other on the park's path, just outside the pool of yellow light cast by the street lamp but close enough that their shadows stretch long behind them.
"What are we doing Diego?" she mumbles into his chest. He smells like sweat and beer and that slight musty smell that always lingers in a gym. But she doesn't really care. She probably smells like beer too.
"Being a couple of dumbasses," he murmurs back, and she gives a sad laugh in response.
"I don't want to fight with you," she admits to his black singlet. "I hate this."
"Me too."
"You wanna sit?" She finally looks up at him and catches his eyes as he stares down at her. A thought flickers across his face, but he just nods and releases her, allowing Diana to lead the way to the bench. She sits down at the edge, allowing Diego plenty of space on the other side of the bench, but he sits close enough that if she moved her leg just slightly to the left, they'd be touching.
Despite the fact that they're talking for the first time in a week, she doesn't know how to start this. Diego doesn't like to talk about feelings. He likes to talk about thought and opinion and facts. Seconds stretch by as she tries to find the right words-the right approach, but sometimes there just isn't the right thing to say. She hopes that just saying something is the right thing.
"It hurt that you didn't trust me," she admits quietly. "That you just took over and did things your way. It felt like you cared more about getting a win than letting me do my job."
"That's not it," he shakes his head.
"It felt like it," she insists. "It felt like you didn't think I could hold my own."
"I know you can," he says. He looks out into the dark park, allowing her to study his profile. "I just couldn't stand there seeing a gun pointed at you and do nothing." he shrugs and looks down at his feet, his mouth wavering for a second. She wants to say something, but she still doesn't have any words.
"You put yourself in danger just to try to help some stranger with a gun, and it made me…" he trails off. "I can't lose you." He shakes his head then. "You're just...everything to me."
This is the closest Diego's ever come to an I love you and it hurts. Because she wants those words-these words-but she wants them so differently from how he means them. You wants him to love her in all the ways possible to love someone. But he doesn't.
"I know," she says, a cracked smile attempting to make its way onto her lips before slipping off into non-existence.
He shakes his head again, "No. I'm not saying this right." Diego leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and eyes. his head in his hands. His fingers thread themselves through his hair. "Fuck this is hard." She reaches out and puts a hand over his knee, squeezing it gently to show him she's there and can wait-she will wait for whatever it is he wants to say.
He turns to her then, a look in his eye, and she doesn't realize what's happening even as he leans in. Even as his face gets blurry, she finds herself feeling like this can't be real-it doesn't make sense, so she leans back and his lips miss hers. At the feeling of air, he opens his eyes.
"What are you doing?" she breathes, heart pounding because what was happening. Her head is whirring, and she can't wrap her mind around the fact that Diego just tried to kiss you.
"Nothing." he flushes, leaning back into his seat.
"Were you gonna kiss me?"
"No," he shakes his head too rapidly, moving his attention out to the dark park. "I got hit in the head one too many times."
She places her hand on his cheek then, turning his head to hers as she leans forward, brushing her lips against his. It's short, and she'd be tempted to call it sweet if it weren't for the fact that three seconds in Diego's hand comes around her waist to scooch you closer. Maybe that's still sweet. But when she lets go and sees him blinking at her, irrepressible happiness blooms in her chest. He tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, and she leans her forehead against his.
And they both just know.