(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.
( he doesn't need to say that, no. there's much he doesn't need say; that she cares for him or that she cares for him enough to not use the weapon in her hand among them. the few creases between his brow deepen. losing time, waking up where you ought not to be: he can imagine how such situations are rife with anxiety.
he too, like wynonna, can imagine what she might do, if not herself.
all that's left to say is this, even though he knows, quite obviously, what must be done. he and wynonna have always more often than not been on the same page; as much as they've rarely needed words, they've also communicated in the most explicit terms.
he wants her permission. ) What do you want me to do?
I need you to tie me up, I need you to watch me until this passes, to make sure I don't hurt you or anyone else.
(sadly, not the context she might have imagined asking him to tie her up, but it's what's necessary right now -- and that's why she chose klaus, she knows he will do what is necessary even if it's not easy. he can care about her and still not go soft on her.
she holds out the stake for him to take.)
Take it. I don't want to use it on you or anybody else.
( for the second time, klaus' eyes drop to the offered stake. in her hands, even in her state, she poses no threat to him. perhaps if she would have listened to such insidious orders, she might've been able to surprise him. here and now, however — she cannot.
still, its mere existence in hell fills him with fear. not only of what this stake could do, but of the power of hell itself. its foot at his neck — at all of their necks — exerting ever more pressure in threat. his eyes meet hers. klaus takes the stake in a blur of movement, stashes it away somewhere she cannot readily see or reach just as quickly, and returns to face her.
his hand lifts brushes down her arm, his other gesturing towards his armchair, as if inviting her to stay. he supposes he is. ) Sit.
(he moves fast, too fast for her to track and she has no idea where he stashed the stake. good. it's better for her to not know.
when he tells her to sit, she knows he understands the direness of the situation. after all, he's not the only one on her list -- but he would have been one of the hardest to hurt, at least physically. she couldn't risk going to waverly, waverly who must have a list of her own, or doc who is so loyal he'd rather she hurt him then suffer herself.
no, it had to be klaus. that much she had been certain of quickly. so she sits down in his armchair, winces as she does, as another tremor of searing pain shoots through her body.)
( he knows it's not just him, not really him. it's her sister, john henry holliday; if he had to wager another few guesses, jason and homelander. he helps her into the chair, though there's no reason to do so, despite the agony that overwhelms her. his touch runs down her arms as if it might soothe her, and then he turns wordlessly to his dresser, opening a drawer and pulling out a coiled wheel of rope.
he does like to be prepared for any eventualities.
with a steadying breath, his back turned, he can admit to himself this is one he does not relish. witnessing wynonna in the pain she suffers now let alone what's surely to come is something he will certainly weather — but that doesn't lessen the difficulty of it.
he shuts the drawer and returns, kneeling before her, his hands settling at her thighs. injecting some humor into his voice, he says, ) This isn't how I wished we might explore some rope-work.
(jason and waverly are the biggest reasons she's taking such drastic measures. waverly who probably has her own list to contend with -- and jason who hates himself enough that he would rather wynonna hurt him than suffer herself. she has to keep them safe.
even if that means imprisoning herself for a bit. she knew klaus would understand, would be prepared for such an eventuality in a place like this. maybe it was cruel to ask him to, knowing what his feelings for her are, but he was her best bet. the only one she trusted with this.
a tired grin spreads across her lips at his words.)
Maybe when this is all over, we can try the more fun kind.
Well. ( he meets her grin with his own somewhat muted smile, his voice soft as he ducks his head and reaches to begin intwining her ankle. his hands work carefully, gently, but with expert knowledge; the tension of the ropes firm against her skin without being overly tight.
he can keep her restrained while minimizing any extraneous pain or discomfort. there is still levity in his voice, knowing for the moment, they could both use the distraction. ) If you've not tired of it by then. Or you could always try it on me.
If not rope, maybe handcuffs, same song, just different instruments.
(it's a welcome distraction, though for once in wynonna's life, sex is far from her list of priorities at the moment. still, the distraction is welcome.
he's done this before, she thinks vaguely as he restrains her. it's tight enough to hold her, but not enough to cause overt pain. much like that morning after the frenzy, he's being gentle with her, as much as he can be given the situation.)
Or we can figure out something else entirely to play with. We're good at being creative.
I don't know. I find rope a bit more sensual. ( perhaps not the time, but it's honest, and it is distracting, no matter how far away his mind is from the act, with the leaden dread weighing in his stomach. still, he lifts his eyes to look up at her beneath his lashes, the look in them as suggestive as it is intimate.
he starts to work on her other ankle. ) Though I'm certainly not committed to bondage. ( they have been infinitely creative. ) Variety is the spice of life, and all that.
(it is easy to imagine, in different circumstances, letting him tie her up in other ways, leaving herself to his mercy, his desire to watch her come undone over and over again.
it's a nice distraction. something to look forward to. )
And we have been very good at keeping things spicy.
(even now though, she can't forget how intimate things were between them the last time. would it be like that from now on? the idea both scares and excites her, honestly.)
( it would be a lie to say he does not fear and anticipate the same. he cannot lie, not even to himself, but he has wondered, and he wants. he has been patiently waiting for her at his doorstep again, but this has certainly not been the scenario in his mind.
he begins to wrap the cord around her wrist, pinning her to the armrest, his lips curling somewhat at her comment. true though it is, the distraction is growing thin, a fragile veneer over why he is truly tying her up.
perhaps it is a distraction from the intimacy they shared too. the reminder of it, in the list still clutched in her other hand. he loops the knot, pulls the ropes taut. instead of continuing his task, he hold out his hand for the list. ) May I? You won't need it. ( he adds the last with a shake of his head, because he has no intention of reading it. only taking it from her, putting it out of sight and in consequence, out of mind. out of reality.
(she had needed time to process what had transpired between them, and then after he left her such a personal birthday gift, one that is hanging up in her room now, she had been unsure of what to say to him. intimacy isn't a language she's very fluent in. still, she had assumed one of them would end up at the other's door eventually, though under much different circumstances.
and yet once she made the decision to not go through with the list, and once she realized how far they were going to go to try to push her to do so, she knew he was the person she could trust with this.
her grip on the list loosens enough so he can take it from her.)
Thank you.
(because somehow she knows, she knows, he won't read it. if he had wanted to he could have taken it from her and read it already. but he's asking. there are so many times where he's asked things of her instead of simply taking them, and that matters.)
( she does trust him. it's a powerful, humbling thing that takes his voice in the moment, the full force of her gratitude and what she came here to do and not do suddenly thick in the air; weighing on him. he takes the list, his eyes averting from her, his tongue sweeping between his lips. paper pocketed, he reaches to bind her last limb.
he doesn't believe anyone has trusted him quite this much. perhaps more pointedly, he's rarely given any so completely reason to do so. )
(perhaps if she knew his full history, everything he is capable of and has done, she would not trust him he way she does, but she is ignorant of those things. if there is one blessing hell has given to people, it is a clean slate, a chance to make connections with no baggage connected, and given how he has behaved with her here, how he has treated her since day one --
there is no reason for her to not trust him now.
she is quiet as he ties up her last limb, until anothe burning, searing sensation runs through her body, causing her to cry out in pain. they want to break her. like lucifer wanted to break her. she's too stubborn to make it that easy.)
( he knows she's stubborn, that she's strong enough to withstand this, that despite whatever her life previous to this and hell itself has thrust upon her, she has not broke. his belief in that is not shaken, but hearing her cry out again, feeling the pain run through her tensed, trembling body has him rattled enough that he feels the reverberations in his own form. he feels the anger and helplessness that accompanies watching her suffer, again, and he could not go on if he did not at least offer.
his hands skim up her body after he's hastily finished the knot, reaching to cup her face.
and he does offer — for her and perhaps, selfishlessly, for himself, his eyes burning with the rage he feels. ) I could try... ( his thumb sweeps across her cheek ) to compel the pain away. ( doubtful it would work. but worth, perhaps, the effort. ) At least force you to sleep, for a time.
I don't know if it would work on me. When the vampires in my world tried to glamour the whole town -- it didn't work on me.
(she thinks that it was peacemaker's doing, the gun has a mind of it's own and it wouldn't be the first time it zapped her out of some sort of spell or enchantment.)
You can try, though.
(maybe it makes her weaker to take his offer, to want to take it. but it hurts. her whole body burns with agony and the desire to make other people to hurt, and sometimes, sometimes she gets so tired of having to fight. of being the one who never runs.)
( it's not weak. it's practical. perhaps that's only his desire to make it all stop, to take away her pain, but if they can cheat the system, why shouldn't they? it's not as if any of this has at all been done in fairness. at least not in a fairness in which he can agree.
unlikely or not he nods slightly, shifting forward to his knees and keeping her eyes with his. it's a desperate, hopeless play, and the moment before he speaks he knows it is, seeing that same look in her own gaze.
still. his cradles her face with firm tenderness. his pupils dilate. ) You're not in pain.
(his touch his calm and warm, tethering her to something other than the pain. but that's all it is -- a comfort. whether it's peacemaker, or hell, or the cult's influence, it's hard to say, but his attempt to take her pain away doesn't work.
( the disappointment is heavy, and he lingers, taking in her brave and wearied smile for a suspended moment. she says it means something, and while the sentiment is sweet and real, klaus knows it makes no difference besides that comfort. he is helpless. he cannot take her pain away. they can do nothing but let the tide come in.
klaus stands, letting out a soft and quiet exhale, moving to sit in his accompanying, though mismatching armchair, dragging it a little closer, their knees nearly touching. he says what he does not only because he feels that he can, because he wants to, as he often does with her, but because it's something to say. another diversion.
he speak to the space between them. ) Being immortal, impervious... for a long time I wanted it to mean that nothing could ever touch me. ( but this... this is inescapable. caring, wanting, loving. he never could, truly, escape this. ) At least I pretended it could not.
(maybe it offers nothing but comfort, but that is all they can offer one another right now: comfort. he can't take her pain away. nothing can. they just have to ride it out, for better for worse. she knows this is a lot to ask of him, but she's also grateful she does not have to bare the weight of this alone.)
But obviously, that wasn't true. (her words aren't cruel, but matter of fact, she remembers all too well what he confessed last time, that he was dead.)
( she's right. it wasn't. but that's not what he meant. his eyes lift to hers; he corrects her. ) I don't mean physically.
( klaus looks down again, his memories beckoning him, his elbows at his thighs, his hands lifted with subtle gestures as he elaborates. ) I used to tell my brother that as vampires, we do not feel, and we do not care. All the blood and suffering left in our wake was nothing to us. The truth is when I killed for the first time... ( waking up in the woods, blood on his hands and in his mouth, the dead bodies littered around him in pieces... ) For the second and the third... ( for so many after that. ) I was devastated. ( to be a monster. to be what his father had been so certain he was, his entire life. an abomination.
to be, also, what mikael wanted him to be. a killer. to be someone who destroyed, and took, and not created. ) Devastated enough that it began to feel inevitable, and cruelty was my only defense. ( he's quiet for a moment, reliving those centuries in a condensed moment, looking back on them with different eyes. newer ones. wiser, perhaps. )
But despite all my best efforts... ( his lips turn into a subtle smile ) and they were many... The one thing I could not quiet... ( he trails off, the word still tucked inside of him. his heart. what he could not quiet then, and cannot quiet now. klaus exhales and presses his lips together. )
(wynonna listens. maybe it's because it's all she can do, maybe because she wants to, because she wants to know more about him. for all that they've shared, there's still so much they don't know.)
The first person I ever killed was my father. It was an accident. I was never supposed to be the heir, it was supposed to be my sister, but the revenants broke into our home and they had my father, but I killed him instead. They took my older sister. So when I turned 27, they killed my uncle to lure me back home. When I started killing revenants -- I thought it wouldn't effect me. They weren't people.
But with each shot it got easier and easier.
(and sometimes the only way to survive a cruel world is to become cruel yourself.)
But it didn't -- as much as I tried not to care --
(she did. she cared. she loved even when she tried hardest not to, and everything death weighed around her neck like an anvil. the air that's been forcing confessions out of her seems to still be in effect, among everything else, and the conversation helps distract some, at least, from the pain)
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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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he too, like wynonna, can imagine what she might do, if not herself.
all that's left to say is this, even though he knows, quite obviously, what must be done. he and wynonna have always more often than not been on the same page; as much as they've rarely needed words, they've also communicated in the most explicit terms.
he wants her permission. ) What do you want me to do?
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I need you to tie me up, I need you to watch me until this passes, to make sure I don't hurt you or anyone else.
(sadly, not the context she might have imagined asking him to tie her up, but it's what's necessary right now -- and that's why she chose klaus, she knows he will do what is necessary even if it's not easy. he can care about her and still not go soft on her.
she holds out the stake for him to take.)
Take it. I don't want to use it on you or anybody else.
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still, its mere existence in hell fills him with fear. not only of what this stake could do, but of the power of hell itself. its foot at his neck — at all of their necks — exerting ever more pressure in threat. his eyes meet hers. klaus takes the stake in a blur of movement, stashes it away somewhere she cannot readily see or reach just as quickly, and returns to face her.
his hand lifts brushes down her arm, his other gesturing towards his armchair, as if inviting her to stay. he supposes he is. ) Sit.
no subject
(he moves fast, too fast for her to track and she has no idea where he stashed the stake. good. it's better for her to not know.
when he tells her to sit, she knows he understands the direness of the situation. after all, he's not the only one on her list -- but he would have been one of the hardest to hurt, at least physically. she couldn't risk going to waverly, waverly who must have a list of her own, or doc who is so loyal he'd rather she hurt him then suffer herself.
no, it had to be klaus. that much she had been certain of quickly. so she sits down in his armchair, winces as she does, as another tremor of searing pain shoots through her body.)
no subject
he does like to be prepared for any eventualities.
with a steadying breath, his back turned, he can admit to himself this is one he does not relish. witnessing wynonna in the pain she suffers now let alone what's surely to come is something he will certainly weather — but that doesn't lessen the difficulty of it.
he shuts the drawer and returns, kneeling before her, his hands settling at her thighs. injecting some humor into his voice, he says, ) This isn't how I wished we might explore some rope-work.
no subject
(jason and waverly are the biggest reasons she's taking such drastic measures. waverly who probably has her own list to contend with -- and jason who hates himself enough that he would rather wynonna hurt him than suffer herself. she has to keep them safe.
even if that means imprisoning herself for a bit. she knew klaus would understand, would be prepared for such an eventuality in a place like this. maybe it was cruel to ask him to, knowing what his feelings for her are, but he was her best bet. the only one she trusted with this.
a tired grin spreads across her lips at his words.)
Maybe when this is all over, we can try the more fun kind.
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he can keep her restrained while minimizing any extraneous pain or discomfort. there is still levity in his voice, knowing for the moment, they could both use the distraction. ) If you've not tired of it by then. Or you could always try it on me.
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If not rope, maybe handcuffs, same song, just different instruments.
(it's a welcome distraction, though for once in wynonna's life, sex is far from her list of priorities at the moment. still, the distraction is welcome.
he's done this before, she thinks vaguely as he restrains her. it's tight enough to hold her, but not enough to cause overt pain. much like that morning after the frenzy, he's being gentle with her, as much as he can be given the situation.)
Or we can figure out something else entirely to play with. We're good at being creative.
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he starts to work on her other ankle. ) Though I'm certainly not committed to bondage. ( they have been infinitely creative. ) Variety is the spice of life, and all that.
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I suppose it is compared to cold metal.
(it is easy to imagine, in different circumstances, letting him tie her up in other ways, leaving herself to his mercy, his desire to watch her come undone over and over again.
it's a nice distraction. something to look forward to. )
And we have been very good at keeping things spicy.
(even now though, she can't forget how intimate things were between them the last time. would it be like that from now on? the idea both scares and excites her, honestly.)
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he begins to wrap the cord around her wrist, pinning her to the armrest, his lips curling somewhat at her comment. true though it is, the distraction is growing thin, a fragile veneer over why he is truly tying her up.
perhaps it is a distraction from the intimacy they shared too. the reminder of it, in the list still clutched in her other hand. he loops the knot, pulls the ropes taut. instead of continuing his task, he hold out his hand for the list. ) May I? You won't need it. ( he adds the last with a shake of his head, because he has no intention of reading it. only taking it from her, putting it out of sight and in consequence, out of mind. out of reality.
promising her it will be. she won't need it. )
no subject
(she had needed time to process what had transpired between them, and then after he left her such a personal birthday gift, one that is hanging up in her room now, she had been unsure of what to say to him. intimacy isn't a language she's very fluent in. still, she had assumed one of them would end up at the other's door eventually, though under much different circumstances.
and yet once she made the decision to not go through with the list, and once she realized how far they were going to go to try to push her to do so, she knew he was the person she could trust with this.
her grip on the list loosens enough so he can take it from her.)
Thank you.
(because somehow she knows, she knows, he won't read it. if he had wanted to he could have taken it from her and read it already. but he's asking. there are so many times where he's asked things of her instead of simply taking them, and that matters.)
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he doesn't believe anyone has trusted him quite this much. perhaps more pointedly, he's rarely given any so completely reason to do so. )
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(perhaps if she knew his full history, everything he is capable of and has done, she would not trust him he way she does, but she is ignorant of those things. if there is one blessing hell has given to people, it is a clean slate, a chance to make connections with no baggage connected, and given how he has behaved with her here, how he has treated her since day one --
there is no reason for her to not trust him now.
she is quiet as he ties up her last limb, until anothe burning, searing sensation runs through her body, causing her to cry out in pain. they want to break her. like lucifer wanted to break her. she's too stubborn to make it that easy.)
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his hands skim up her body after he's hastily finished the knot, reaching to cup her face.
and he does offer — for her and perhaps, selfishlessly, for himself, his eyes burning with the rage he feels. ) I could try... ( his thumb sweeps across her cheek ) to compel the pain away. ( doubtful it would work. but worth, perhaps, the effort. ) At least force you to sleep, for a time.
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I don't know if it would work on me. When the vampires in my world tried to glamour the whole town -- it didn't work on me.
(she thinks that it was peacemaker's doing, the gun has a mind of it's own and it wouldn't be the first time it zapped her out of some sort of spell or enchantment.)
You can try, though.
(maybe it makes her weaker to take his offer, to want to take it. but it hurts. her whole body burns with agony and the desire to make other people to hurt, and sometimes, sometimes she gets so tired of having to fight. of being the one who never runs.)
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unlikely or not he nods slightly, shifting forward to his knees and keeping her eyes with his. it's a desperate, hopeless play, and the moment before he speaks he knows it is, seeing that same look in her own gaze.
still. his cradles her face with firm tenderness. his pupils dilate. ) You're not in pain.
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(his touch his calm and warm, tethering her to something other than the pain. but that's all it is -- a comfort. whether it's peacemaker, or hell, or the cult's influence, it's hard to say, but his attempt to take her pain away doesn't work.
she offers a weak smile.)
It means something that you tried.
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klaus stands, letting out a soft and quiet exhale, moving to sit in his accompanying, though mismatching armchair, dragging it a little closer, their knees nearly touching. he says what he does not only because he feels that he can, because he wants to, as he often does with her, but because it's something to say. another diversion.
he speak to the space between them. ) Being immortal, impervious... for a long time I wanted it to mean that nothing could ever touch me. ( but this... this is inescapable. caring, wanting, loving. he never could, truly, escape this. ) At least I pretended it could not.
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(maybe it offers nothing but comfort, but that is all they can offer one another right now: comfort. he can't take her pain away. nothing can. they just have to ride it out, for better for worse. she knows this is a lot to ask of him, but she's also grateful she does not have to bare the weight of this alone.)
But obviously, that wasn't true. (her words aren't cruel, but matter of fact, she remembers all too well what he confessed last time, that he was dead.)
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( klaus looks down again, his memories beckoning him, his elbows at his thighs, his hands lifted with subtle gestures as he elaborates. ) I used to tell my brother that as vampires, we do not feel, and we do not care. All the blood and suffering left in our wake was nothing to us. The truth is when I killed for the first time... ( waking up in the woods, blood on his hands and in his mouth, the dead bodies littered around him in pieces... ) For the second and the third... ( for so many after that. ) I was devastated. ( to be a monster. to be what his father had been so certain he was, his entire life. an abomination.
to be, also, what mikael wanted him to be. a killer. to be someone who destroyed, and took, and not created. ) Devastated enough that it began to feel inevitable, and cruelty was my only defense. ( he's quiet for a moment, reliving those centuries in a condensed moment, looking back on them with different eyes. newer ones. wiser, perhaps. )
But despite all my best efforts... ( his lips turn into a subtle smile ) and they were many... The one thing I could not quiet... ( he trails off, the word still tucked inside of him. his heart. what he could not quiet then, and cannot quiet now. klaus exhales and presses his lips together. )
no subject
(wynonna listens. maybe it's because it's all she can do, maybe because she wants to, because she wants to know more about him. for all that they've shared, there's still so much they don't know.)
The first person I ever killed was my father. It was an accident. I was never supposed to be the heir, it was supposed to be my sister, but the revenants broke into our home and they had my father, but I killed him instead. They took my older sister. So when I turned 27, they killed my uncle to lure me back home. When I started killing revenants -- I thought it wouldn't effect me. They weren't people.
But with each shot it got easier and easier.
(and sometimes the only way to survive a cruel world is to become cruel yourself.)
But it didn't -- as much as I tried not to care --
(she did. she cared. she loved even when she tried hardest not to, and everything death weighed around her neck like an anvil. the air that's been forcing confessions out of her seems to still be in effect, among everything else, and the conversation helps distract some, at least, from the pain)
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