As Allison leaves, Vanya feels the most conflicting urge to pull her back. To grab her hand, and beg her without words not to leave, because she has never - maybe not never - known how to deal with Diego one-on-one. She doesn't - begging one sibling to help her handle another feels too weak to give into - and threads her hands behind her neck again. It lets her lean forward, elbows on her knees, head low like she's trying to keep dizziness or nausea at bay; it's not as bad as that, but hell, it might as well be. V swallows hard, and glances up at Diego from the corner of her eye as he tries to...

Christ. What is he trying to do?

Comfort her. No, that can't be right.

"Are you adjusted?" It's sharp, she might as well be throwing one of his knives at him, and she regrets it immediately. Maybe it is always her fault, the way they fight - it's so easy to heap the blame onto her shoulders while her self-hatred is spiraling. The motorcycle is the only thing that makes her look up, out toward the window. A bike?

She can picture Luther on one more easily than Ben, and her heartbeat absolutely skyrockets at the idea of having to see Number One now.