Another long night after another disappointing day, gripped with worry and needfulness for this one vulnerability — that is what brings him to Rousseau's just before closing. Enough stragglers are nursing their drinks and requiring attention that he steps in quietly, without attracting any notice from behind the bar. Or perhaps that's just his aim and his prerogative, being what he is. Who he is. Perhaps he enjoys the moment to linger, watching her in reflected mirrors and between bottles of liquor, catching glimpses of her bright smile and golden hair in such every day, commonplace interactions.
It's a balm. A dangerous weakness. A comfort he feels as if he is stealing, longing and unfulfilled and guilty in its undeservedness, from afar. Not twenty-four hours ago she was in danger, in Aurora's clutches and before that Lucien's, through his own failures to understand and rein in his enemies. That remorse is impossible to dismiss so easily, despite her insistence it was not his fault.
His concern and his fear: more so. How he feels for her. How he felt, when she was missing. Klaus sits at the end of the bar and waits.
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