[This whole being stuck in small cages thing lost its appeal long ago. Being gawked at was fine enough, but the touching is far beyond the pale.
So maybe one of the demons made a filthy comment about someone defenseless. Alaric isn't sorry about the punch that got thrown. He'd punch a demon asshole every time he has the chance. But he wasn't entirely prepared for the retribution that followed, or that the weapons would be quite so sharp.
When he's tossed back into a cage at random, the implication is that it'll be funny to watch a human die. He's bleeding out from an abdominal wound, dark blood thick as it seeps out. It's bad and he's trying incredibly hard not to think about how bad it is as he applies pressure to the injury, retreating back to the far side of the cage to avoid being dragged out for more.
It might still be fine if he keeps holding it together. It hurts like a motherfucker, so there's no real danger of passing out. This is fine. He'll get through this without help. He considers apologizing to whoever else is stuck in with him, but that amount of energy would probably be an unnecessary waste.]
( time was he'd sooner rip out alaric saltzman's throat than let him speak. that time was perhaps only a few months ago, all animosities and jealousies considered, and while perhaps the thought was more of a wanted fantasy than an intent, klaus can't help but remember it now.
the man is a reminder. of what he had; what he could have had; what he lost.
what poor excuse his daughter has of a father figure after his death. (or a better one. the knife twists deeper.)
he could let him die. the idea also has its appeal.
klaus' head lolls back against his cage's bars; he turns his eyes to watch the teacher curled up in a ball. and he breathes in: all that wasted blood spilled. though if it's a consequence of some agony, is it really wasted? ) You're dying. ( he says as a fact, because it is. he's inflicted death and seen it more than enough times to know where this will end. )
[Klaus' voice cuts through any illusions Alaric might have had about this being a manageable condition. For him, the animosity is only barely settled. Klaus prioritized his selfish desires and monstrous whims over the lives of real, good people. He killed Jenna. He killed a lot of people's Jennas. And one of the things that matters most to him in the world is making sure that Hope breaks the cycle and becomes something better than the father who gave her life.
He grits his teeth more than he was already, tilting his head slightly in an attempt to shift his attention.]
Go to hell, Klaus.
[A more creative insult requires more energy than he can muster right now. His hands feel too cold while his chest feels too hot. That's not a great sign.]
[eventually wynonna is released from the dungeons and as relieved as she should feel, she doesn't feel any better. she might not physically show much from her torture session with lucifer beyond the scar around her middle finger and the scars on the bottom of her feet, but mentally -- she's not doing great. when she closes her eyes she just keeps reliving it. how helpless she had felt. powerless.
she can't sleep. so she grabs a bottle of whiskey and makes her way to his bedroom, knocking on the door. she somehow suspects he's awake too. or maybe she just hopes he is. she doesn't want to be alone right now -- and for some reason klaus is usually good at figuring out what she needs without her having to verbalize it.]
( he's found solace in only this ever since the cages: a blank canvas, the thick viscousness and vibrant hues of paints, and the feel of a brush in his hand. little of his current predicament sits well with him: not the indomitable stripping of his powers nor knowing the suffering wynonna shared for those riots. the former he no doubt expected, but the latter is a clever cruelty he can only assume was meant for him and homelander to truly endure.
he does not regret it. he would do it all again, given the chance. if he were to contemplate any move differently, he would only rip out lucifer's heart too.
perhaps that is why the discomfort at his powerlessness and the rage at it all is measured and muted. this will pass and he will emerge ready for the next battle. he paints deep into the nights, plotting and planning; weighing and scheming. tonight is no different. when the knock sounds at his door, klaus pauses at the sudden interruption; he takes an extended moment to listen for hints and clues with his dulled hearing, but to no avail.
he doesn't believe anyone has entered the suite proper. jason rarely knocks. it could be homelander. judging by the time of night, however... paint-spattered, he moves to the door to open it. )
[wynonna can't say there's much she's found solace in since she was released. mostly she finds herself just trying to fill her time, not staying too still too long, lest her memories and thoughts catch up with her. which they almost always do eventually, especially so late at night.
and yet, she doesn't regret it either. it still beats not fighting back at all. and maybe that's part of why she hates how much everything is eating at her -- it feels like lucifer winning and the idea just pisses her off.
wynonna is not usually much of a knocker herself, honestly, but she's feeling a little more cautious than usual -- and maybe a little weird for coming to him at all. she's never been good at asking for support. still, there's a small sense of relief when he opens the door, like a valve in her chest has been turned a little to let some of that tension out. she notes the paint covering his hands and clothes. she holds up the bottle of whiskey like the offering it is]
You're not too busy for company, I hope?
Edited (hello typos my old friend) 2020-07-11 17:10 (UTC)
The devil is literally whiteknighting. And he's acting like an acting CEO or a celebrity everyone actually likes. It's good he put a clock on your powerlessness or I'd hope it would lessen the more he grandstands. I know he punished you, but he is seriously losing intimidation points.
(when wynonna finds her list, and the weapon that comes with it, her stomach churns. it's not that she's never killed people close to her before, or hurt them, but it's always been when there's no other choice, or when she's been angry. doing it because some weird ass cult wants her to prove herself to them?
no thanks.
but it gets worse as times goes on, she starts feeling that searing burning sensation she felt after she drank at the meeting. she remembers how sara lost control. she remembers waking up, covered in blood with no idea how it happened, and when she starts losing time and literally disappearing and reappearing places with no idea how she got there?
it's time to take drastic measures. and she knows one person who will help her without going soft on her. which is what has her letting herself into klaus' room -- they have an open door policy at this point but sadly, this is not a sexy visit, something he might be able to quickly figure out between the white oak stake in one hand (the significance is lost on her, she thinks it's just a regular stake) and her list in another.)
( his family is all right. barring kol, of course; but that is a situation easily dealt. for now. all that matters to klaus truly is that hope is safe, especially after all she has suffered. besides, as he has considered the last few weeks — what is there truly to linger on, all the current blessings considered? he has his family. klaus hasn't thought twice about this uncharacteristic lightheartedness, accepting his confident suppositions with ease. after all — they are mikaelsons. he is klaus mikaelson, and all this is an inconvenient but feasible predicament.
when wynonna steps into his room, white oak in hand, something dreadful and in complete opposition with that fact drops into his gut. the screams and sufferings that have begun to echo through the halls of the hotel have been prickling at his better senses, and the haze of late has been clearing. klaus stands at her arrival, and while his eyes drop to the stake in her hands, there are centuries of experience in how utterly unmoved he seems: only a second's lingering, the slightest recoil of his head. he would know that intricate carving at its handle anywhere, and does, even at a glance.
he sees the list. he sees the desperation on her face. evenly, he says, ) I suppose I should be flattered to make the cut.
(for wynonna the calmness they had been feeling before had been the calm before the storm. he can prbably hear it, the way her heart beats wildly in her chest, the way her breath is labored from the searing pain she's enduring by refusing their orders.
she brought this upon herself, he doesn't need to say it for her to know it. but she still needs his help to make sure it doesn't get any worse.)
You should be. It's not a long list.
(and it's not. it's really just him, waverly, doc, homelander and jason. short compared to some lists, she's sure, but she's always been selective about who she lets into her heart.)
I need your help. I keep losing time, waking up in weird places...I don't want to wake up and discover I've done something I didn't mean to.
Wynonna's costume is not one she chose for herself at all, but she supposes it could be worse. Like it looks damn good on her and it is kind of funny considering how many vampires have ended up in her life. For something the demons had forced upon her, it could have been a lot worse, everything considered.
Speaking of vampires, she may have decided to suprise a certain hybrid by hiding out in his room, lounging on his bed and flipping through one of his books (there are so many big words....) as she waits for him to get home. She supposes he might find the costume offensive -- it doesn't really resemble the way any of the vampires she's known have dressed -- but it's tight and form fitting so maybe he'll enjoy the surprise.
Things have been a little rocky since she met Hope, it'd be nice to just have some fun. There hasn't been a lot of that lately.
Klaus' costume is likewise not one he chose, but it is one he can find and enjoy with some humor, despite the circumstances. Entirely because of them, actually.
It's not out of the norm to discover Wynonna in his bed after hours, but she's often not wearing much, if anything at all. She's also never been wearing this. The tight pleather leaves little to the imagination, and his eyes are creeping up the curve of her thigh before it dawns on him what exactly she's supposed to be. (A better look at the spidery cape helps.)
Wynonna is not sure what she imagined he might be dressed up as, if anyhing, but seeing him in a priest costume is amusing for a variety of reasons. And also....kinda hot. Look, she may have missed out on fleabag thanks to the eighteen months she lost but she knows a hot priest when she sees one. Plus, it's that whole...not supposed to be hot thing. Not supposed to be seduced.
She sets the book aside carefully before rising to her feet, walking over to him.
Would you care to join me for a drink, brother? We are long overdue, and there are things that I must say that doesn't feel right to say over the computer.
I should not have kept Hayley from you and Hope. Especially after I was sure it was not the Mares playing a tricks on us--to make such an announcement only to have it be an illusion?
I should not have stayed away from either of you either. There was never time after getting my memory back to process the fact I literally compelled all of you away. We had to handle Greta's followers...the Hollow resurgence in Hope, her almost dying...and then...us. I suppose I am dealing with the deeply rooted guilt and shame that I deserve. I cannot help but think, brother, that had I not compelled you all away, thinks would have, could have, been so much difference.
I don't deserve your forgiveness, or Hope's, but I'm asking for it. I am so sorry, Niklaus.
She probably would have come to his room sooner after her talk with Elena if Waverly hadn't come back when she did. As soon as she was back from the island she was Wynonna's first priority, bordering on clingy behavior. The past month has been difficult between her sister being missing, being caught under the Veiled Order's trance, and then some of her most painful memories being broadcast to people.
There was all of that, and the absence of him too. Sure, they saw one another, that's unavoidable when you live together, but they haven't truly talked since the morning he told her to leave. And even if he hadn't meant it as a rejection it had still felt like one, one that stung and seeped into her bloodstream. She's missed him. But she's not good at this stuff, that hasn't changed.
Which is probably why she's been standing in front of his door for so long. By the time she reaches her hand up to knock he's already opening the door, probably having heard her from the other side.
"Hi."
Fairly basic as far as openings go, but she's doing her best.
He supposes it was only a matter of time until she showed up at his door, if she ever would again. The possibility that she wouldn't wasn't far from his mind, all that they've said and not said considered. When he hears the creaking of the floor outside his door, sees her hovering shadow below it, heartbeat rapid and breath shallow, a tender part of his heart awakens with hope and longing. But it's a quiet refrain; a mere few strings of a prior orchestra: music stifled the day she could barely look him in the eyes; look at herself. Stifled every day afterwards.
Klaus is not one to linger on sentiment. To give to it anymore than he must, and even then, very little. As much as he's thought of Wynonna and what they've shared, what he wants and cannot expect of anyone who is not willing and prepared, he's had plenty to occupy him. His daughter. Her mother's arrival. His brother.
It's not worth the disappointment. It's not the first time nor the last that his intimacies and lovers have run their course. (That doesn't mean he hasn't felt it.)
He is still, watching the door, waiting. Waiting far too long for that knock; he's impatient by nature and his runs out. When he opens the door, it's with the frenetic desire to end his waiting and her hesitancy; his eyes, direct and piercing, lock with hers. Wordlessly, just as decisively, he turns back into the room and leaves the door ajar for her to enter.
( Hope gives him a few hours. She wants to get going before it gets 'dark' under Hell's standards. She takes time with Landon, packs a bag, and meets him back at his room. Her only instructions were, bring clothes for as many days as you want to be you. But, also bring a towel and underwear and a bag because they are not that type of family.
Not that Hope has ever blinked at stripping down and going full wolf. She's not ashamed of her body. It's the only one she has.
It's only when she reaches the outskirts of the trees that she realizes she didn't tell Lizzie or Josie she's doing this. The less people know, the less easy it will be to find her. What she doesn't need is her mom or Elijah.
And, this is so much more than her and her issues.
This is about her father, a man who was raised to reject half of himself (having it hidden from it completely) and who was made to embrace a monstrous other half. Nature abhors a vacuum and where life can be given, it also has to be taken. It is why vampires sustained on blood. As far as she knows, he transformed once when the curse was broken, when Elena Gilbert, the doppelganger died.
It's another way her family became the monsters in some stories and were -- not - in hers. Not really.
She takes them far enough in that they have room. She finds more of a clearing getting to work on the tent. )
Sometimes, I think that if mom hadn't died, that, maybe we would've done this together. Or, that I wouldn't have the pit of frustration that sent me into the woods behind the school. Mom loved being a wolf. ( Binding that side to her, knowing she is still bound, that's not easy. It, luckily, eclipses her feelings about her mother's choice in company. ) When I realized that I was in control, that I remembered what I did when I transformed, I made sure to do it. I wanted to embrace it. The air in my fur, the freedom, and yeah, the chance to ferociously rip apart small game, I'm sorry. That's Darwinism. ( She half laughs to herself, putting the finishing touches on the tent while her father tends to a fire. ) It did help when things felt overwhelming, or when I had so much anger in me I couldn't handle it. But, I don't want it to be like that for you.
It's something we get. It's ours. It's a part of us.
( She'd say nobody can take that away from us, but, someone did. Two someone's. Someone her father trusted and someone who wanted them dead.
With the fire crackling and Hope's, well, hope expressed, she moves, toeing off her shoes. )
I know that, it hurts, but I'm going to be right here.
( She doesn't want to tell him it doesn't hurt her, that it never did. Maybe because she is a tribrid. Maybe because she's just used to that level of pain. She lives her life at a 7. She's Meredith Grey.
She turns away, pulling off her jacket, but not her tank top. Looking at him, she asks, )
Do you want me to wait? I can. Until it's done. And then I'll join.
it's a such a simple thing; an every day treasure; an uncomplicated privilege. there were years in which he never had the opportunity to listen to her. years more in which he robbed himself, and her, of the cherished gift of presence. of communication.
he loves hearing her voice. not only because he did not hear her before, but because of the earnest ease in which she speaks now. she speaks to him. she tells him her feelings, her thoughts, her wishes and desires. there was a time in which she hesitated; she parsed; she lashed out; she didn't.
he finds himself, sometimes lately, quieting to the melody of her consciousness, merely existing in its existence. he's never heard anything so perfect, so compelling, so achingly lovely. he's quiet now, tending to the fire that will keep them warm through the icy, snowy days and nights.
he's quiet, not because he's afraid or nervous (even if parts of him are) but because he loves her. he loves her more than he could possibly be afraid or nervous: of whatever pain that will be trifling, whatever vulnerability that will be fleeting, of whatever deep seed of the terror of rejection and loneliness sits in him.
he believes they would have. run wild and free, as he told her to, that fateful night. perhaps in life, he would have found that same comfort as she describes, but all he is glad for it that she did. and he is certain, despite his fears, that he will too. he has only ever changed by force twice. the prospect of doing so by choice... it was never the snapping bones that stopped him. but in knowing he would be alone. truly alone and adrift, without family nor belonging nor pack.
he looks up at her wordlessly as she toes off her shoes and takes off her jacket, and offers with a concern that is touching, if unnecessary. she knows her father. she knows him enough to know, and she cares. a fine mirror for the night she changed for the first time. )
No, ( he answers, soft and conciliatory. he reaches up to grasp her hand, the life under her skin warm. his fingers tighten and loosen around them in caress. ) It is ours. ( it's his fear, he knows. it's his fear and the fear of being seen. but it's also what he needs. what he doesn't want her to see: his fear, his pain, his vulnerability. what he needs to do alone, at least this time. ) But you go on. I'll follow.
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so about that petting zoo
So maybe one of the demons made a filthy comment about someone defenseless. Alaric isn't sorry about the punch that got thrown. He'd punch a demon asshole every time he has the chance. But he wasn't entirely prepared for the retribution that followed, or that the weapons would be quite so sharp.
When he's tossed back into a cage at random, the implication is that it'll be funny to watch a human die. He's bleeding out from an abdominal wound, dark blood thick as it seeps out. It's bad and he's trying incredibly hard not to think about how bad it is as he applies pressure to the injury, retreating back to the far side of the cage to avoid being dragged out for more.
It might still be fine if he keeps holding it together. It hurts like a motherfucker, so there's no real danger of passing out. This is fine. He'll get through this without help. He considers apologizing to whoever else is stuck in with him, but that amount of energy would probably be an unnecessary waste.]
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the man is a reminder. of what he had; what he could have had; what he lost.
what poor excuse his daughter has of a father figure after his death. (or a better one. the knife twists deeper.)
he could let him die. the idea also has its appeal.
klaus' head lolls back against his cage's bars; he turns his eyes to watch the teacher curled up in a ball. and he breathes in: all that wasted blood spilled. though if it's a consequence of some agony, is it really wasted? ) You're dying. ( he says as a fact, because it is. he's inflicted death and seen it more than enough times to know where this will end. )
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He grits his teeth more than he was already, tilting his head slightly in an attempt to shift his attention.]
Go to hell, Klaus.
[A more creative insult requires more energy than he can muster right now. His hands feel too cold while his chest feels too hot. That's not a great sign.]
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text;; @fuckyoudickgrayson
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[ this is how you express you care. oddly enough, he was more direct with homelander. Was that weird? ]
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sneaks in your inbox in the middle of the night
she can't sleep. so she grabs a bottle of whiskey and makes her way to his bedroom, knocking on the door. she somehow suspects he's awake too. or maybe she just hopes he is. she doesn't want to be alone right now -- and for some reason klaus is usually good at figuring out what she needs without her having to verbalize it.]
*_*
he does not regret it. he would do it all again, given the chance. if he were to contemplate any move differently, he would only rip out lucifer's heart too.
perhaps that is why the discomfort at his powerlessness and the rage at it all is measured and muted. this will pass and he will emerge ready for the next battle. he paints deep into the nights, plotting and planning; weighing and scheming. tonight is no different. when the knock sounds at his door, klaus pauses at the sudden interruption; he takes an extended moment to listen for hints and clues with his dulled hearing, but to no avail.
he doesn't believe anyone has entered the suite proper. jason rarely knocks. it could be homelander. judging by the time of night, however... paint-spattered, he moves to the door to open it. )
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and yet, she doesn't regret it either. it still beats not fighting back at all. and maybe that's part of why she hates how much everything is eating at her -- it feels like lucifer winning and the idea just pisses her off.
wynonna is not usually much of a knocker herself, honestly, but she's feeling a little more cautious than usual -- and maybe a little weird for coming to him at all. she's never been good at asking for support. still, there's a small sense of relief when he opens the door, like a valve in her chest has been turned a little to let some of that tension out. she notes the paint covering his hands and clothes. she holds up the bottle of whiskey like the offering it is]
You're not too busy for company, I hope?
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text | un | andrea
text. un: degas
( this is an order from your father )
Though it is quite the performance.
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during the event | just doing this here as we're both technically on hiatus...
(when wynonna finds her list, and the weapon that comes with it, her stomach churns. it's not that she's never killed people close to her before, or hurt them, but it's always been when there's no other choice, or when she's been angry. doing it because some weird ass cult wants her to prove herself to them?
no thanks.
but it gets worse as times goes on, she starts feeling that searing burning sensation she felt after she drank at the meeting. she remembers how sara lost control. she remembers waking up, covered in blood with no idea how it happened, and when she starts losing time and literally disappearing and reappearing places with no idea how she got there?
it's time to take drastic measures. and she knows one person who will help her without going soft on her. which is what has her letting herself into klaus' room -- they have an open door policy at this point but sadly, this is not a sexy visit, something he might be able to quickly figure out between the white oak stake in one hand (the significance is lost on her, she thinks it's just a regular stake) and her list in another.)
I need your help.
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when wynonna steps into his room, white oak in hand, something dreadful and in complete opposition with that fact drops into his gut. the screams and sufferings that have begun to echo through the halls of the hotel have been prickling at his better senses, and the haze of late has been clearing. klaus stands at her arrival, and while his eyes drop to the stake in her hands, there are centuries of experience in how utterly unmoved he seems: only a second's lingering, the slightest recoil of his head. he would know that intricate carving at its handle anywhere, and does, even at a glance.
he sees the list. he sees the desperation on her face. evenly, he says, ) I suppose I should be flattered to make the cut.
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(for wynonna the calmness they had been feeling before had been the calm before the storm. he can prbably hear it, the way her heart beats wildly in her chest, the way her breath is labored from the searing pain she's enduring by refusing their orders.
she brought this upon herself, he doesn't need to say it for her to know it. but she still needs his help to make sure it doesn't get any worse.)
You should be. It's not a long list.
(and it's not. it's really just him, waverly, doc, homelander and jason. short compared to some lists, she's sure, but she's always been selective about who she lets into her heart.)
I need your help. I keep losing time, waking up in weird places...I don't want to wake up and discover I've done something I didn't mean to.
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we pitch and roll, wheels flesh and bones, total control and it's ours alone
Wynonna's costume is not one she chose for herself at all, but she supposes it could be worse. Like it looks damn good on her and it is kind of funny considering how many vampires have ended up in her life. For something the demons had forced upon her, it could have been a lot worse, everything considered.
Speaking of vampires, she may have decided to suprise a certain hybrid by hiding out in his room, lounging on his bed and flipping through one of his books (there are so many big words....) as she waits for him to get home. She supposes he might find the costume offensive -- it doesn't really resemble the way any of the vampires she's known have dressed -- but it's tight and form fitting so maybe he'll enjoy the surprise.
Things have been a little rocky since she met Hope, it'd be nice to just have some fun. There hasn't been a lot of that lately.
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It's not out of the norm to discover Wynonna in his bed after hours, but she's often not wearing much, if anything at all. She's also never been wearing this. The tight pleather leaves little to the imagination, and his eyes are creeping up the curve of her thigh before it dawns on him what exactly she's supposed to be. (A better look at the spidery cape helps.)
He closes the door behind him, and says with authoritative caution, "That is an eighteenth-century manuscript."
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Wynonna is not sure what she imagined he might be dressed up as, if anyhing, but seeing him in a priest costume is amusing for a variety of reasons. And also....kinda hot. Look, she may have missed out on fleabag thanks to the eighteen months she lost but she knows a hot priest when she sees one. Plus, it's that whole...not supposed to be hot thing. Not supposed to be seduced.
She sets the book aside carefully before rising to her feet, walking over to him.
"Forgive me father, it appears I've sinned."
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I should not have kept Hayley from you and Hope. Especially after I was sure it was not the Mares playing a tricks on us--to make such an announcement only to have it be an illusion?
I should not have stayed away from either of you either. There was never time after getting my memory back to process the fact I literally compelled all of you away. We had to handle Greta's followers...the Hollow resurgence in Hope, her almost dying...and then...us. I suppose I am dealing with the deeply rooted guilt and shame that I deserve. I cannot help but think, brother, that had I not compelled you all away, thinks would have, could have, been so much difference.
I don't deserve your forgiveness, or Hope's, but I'm asking for it. I am so sorry, Niklaus.
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maybe it means nothing but i'm afraid to move
She probably would have come to his room sooner after her talk with Elena if Waverly hadn't come back when she did. As soon as she was back from the island she was Wynonna's first priority, bordering on clingy behavior. The past month has been difficult between her sister being missing, being caught under the Veiled Order's trance, and then some of her most painful memories being broadcast to people.
There was all of that, and the absence of him too. Sure, they saw one another, that's unavoidable when you live together, but they haven't truly talked since the morning he told her to leave. And even if he hadn't meant it as a rejection it had still felt like one, one that stung and seeped into her bloodstream. She's missed him. But she's not good at this stuff, that hasn't changed.
Which is probably why she's been standing in front of his door for so long. By the time she reaches her hand up to knock he's already opening the door, probably having heard her from the other side.
"Hi."
Fairly basic as far as openings go, but she's doing her best.
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Klaus is not one to linger on sentiment. To give to it anymore than he must, and even then, very little. As much as he's thought of Wynonna and what they've shared, what he wants and cannot expect of anyone who is not willing and prepared, he's had plenty to occupy him. His daughter. Her mother's arrival. His brother.
It's not worth the disappointment. It's not the first time nor the last that his intimacies and lovers have run their course. (That doesn't mean he hasn't felt it.)
He is still, watching the door, waiting. Waiting far too long for that knock; he's impatient by nature and his runs out. When he opens the door, it's with the frenetic desire to end his waiting and her hesitancy; his eyes, direct and piercing, lock with hers. Wordlessly, just as decisively, he turns back into the room and leaves the door ajar for her to enter.
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You are a runner and I am my father's son
Not that Hope has ever blinked at stripping down and going full wolf. She's not ashamed of her body. It's the only one she has.
It's only when she reaches the outskirts of the trees that she realizes she didn't tell Lizzie or Josie she's doing this. The less people know, the less easy it will be to find her. What she doesn't need is her mom or Elijah.
And, this is so much more than her and her issues.
This is about her father, a man who was raised to reject half of himself (having it hidden from it completely) and who was made to embrace a monstrous other half. Nature abhors a vacuum and where life can be given, it also has to be taken. It is why vampires sustained on blood. As far as she knows, he transformed once when the curse was broken, when Elena Gilbert, the doppelganger died.
It's another way her family became the monsters in some stories and were -- not - in hers. Not really.
She takes them far enough in that they have room. She finds more of a clearing getting to work on the tent. )
Sometimes, I think that if mom hadn't died, that, maybe we would've done this together. Or, that I wouldn't have the pit of frustration that sent me into the woods behind the school. Mom loved being a wolf. ( Binding that side to her, knowing she is still bound, that's not easy. It, luckily, eclipses her feelings about her mother's choice in company. ) When I realized that I was in control, that I remembered what I did when I transformed, I made sure to do it. I wanted to embrace it. The air in my fur, the freedom, and yeah, the chance to ferociously rip apart small game, I'm sorry. That's Darwinism. ( She half laughs to herself, putting the finishing touches on the tent while her father tends to a fire. ) It did help when things felt overwhelming, or when I had so much anger in me I couldn't handle it. But, I don't want it to be like that for you.
It's something we get. It's ours. It's a part of us.
( She'd say nobody can take that away from us, but, someone did. Two someone's. Someone her father trusted and someone who wanted them dead.
With the fire crackling and Hope's, well, hope expressed, she moves, toeing off her shoes. )
I know that, it hurts, but I'm going to be right here.
( She doesn't want to tell him it doesn't hurt her, that it never did. Maybe because she is a tribrid. Maybe because she's just used to that level of pain. She lives her life at a 7. She's Meredith Grey.
She turns away, pulling off her jacket, but not her tank top. Looking at him, she asks, )
Do you want me to wait? I can. Until it's done. And then I'll join.
( Whatever he wants.
This is a tale of two wolves. )
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it's a such a simple thing; an every day treasure; an uncomplicated privilege. there were years in which he never had the opportunity to listen to her. years more in which he robbed himself, and her, of the cherished gift of presence. of communication.
he loves hearing her voice. not only because he did not hear her before, but because of the earnest ease in which she speaks now. she speaks to him. she tells him her feelings, her thoughts, her wishes and desires. there was a time in which she hesitated; she parsed; she lashed out; she didn't.
he finds himself, sometimes lately, quieting to the melody of her consciousness, merely existing in its existence. he's never heard anything so perfect, so compelling, so achingly lovely. he's quiet now, tending to the fire that will keep them warm through the icy, snowy days and nights.
he's quiet, not because he's afraid or nervous (even if parts of him are) but because he loves her. he loves her more than he could possibly be afraid or nervous: of whatever pain that will be trifling, whatever vulnerability that will be fleeting, of whatever deep seed of the terror of rejection and loneliness sits in him.
he believes they would have. run wild and free, as he told her to, that fateful night. perhaps in life, he would have found that same comfort as she describes, but all he is glad for it that she did. and he is certain, despite his fears, that he will too. he has only ever changed by force twice. the prospect of doing so by choice... it was never the snapping bones that stopped him. but in knowing he would be alone. truly alone and adrift, without family nor belonging nor pack.
he looks up at her wordlessly as she toes off her shoes and takes off her jacket, and offers with a concern that is touching, if unnecessary. she knows her father. she knows him enough to know, and she cares. a fine mirror for the night she changed for the first time. )
No, ( he answers, soft and conciliatory. he reaches up to grasp her hand, the life under her skin warm. his fingers tighten and loosen around them in caress. ) It is ours. ( it's his fear, he knows. it's his fear and the fear of being seen. but it's also what he needs. what he doesn't want her to see: his fear, his pain, his vulnerability. what he needs to do alone, at least this time. ) But you go on. I'll follow.
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