[there's a panic when she's sees Nik's name on the list, as she's all too aware of the sacrifices he made for them back home. for him to be in this strange place as well -- she isn't sure what it means but he's the first person she calls.
[ he's known it's possible. freya, cami, and everyone here has made it clear that people come and go. people from other universes, other walks of life, other times. people from home. he knows he's been here before, that his sister has. that elijah has, and kol.
even knowing that, seeing rebekah's name calling his phone is enough to have his heart in his throat. his little sister, his partner, someone who had been his world once upon a time: it chokes him with relief and terror and anger.
he swallows it all down and answers. ]
Rebekah. [ he wants to ask how she is, if she's okay, if she knows - ] Where are you?
[Rebekah doesn't know any of that, not yet. She is still new here and still trying to figure things out. This is the first call she made. How could it be anyone else?
He is her brother. She has loved and hated him her entire life, as long as it's been, but at the moment all she feels is love. She does know. She knows what he did for her, for all of them. It means everything.
How could it not?]
In a garden of some sort, near a fountain.
[She seems to be okay for now, she does not feel the creeping madness of the curse that had been placed on her, not yet anyway.]
[ close. she is close. near enough to see, to have, to -
rebekah is here. klaus is choked by it for a moment; it's not lost on him she is where he was when he arrived. only but a few steps behind. ] Stay there.
[ it's his only response before he hangs up. he does not waste time; he does not dally. there is nothing more important than this: seeing his sister. it takes him no time at all to stop at the mansion's entrance to scan the grounds to spot her. even less to be before her. it's bittersweet awe and joy that washes over him seeing her face, panicked and uncertain of her surroundings. it's gripping, seizing worry that takes him next. ]
her heart seizes in her chest as she waits for her brother, unable to truly believe he is here until she sees it with her own eyes. she does not forget for a moment what he had done for them back home. when he arrives in front of her she surges forward, as if of no volition of her own.
her arms wrap tightly around him, as if she is frightened he will disappear if she lets go. despite all of their differences and issues through the years he is her brother and she loves him.
selfishly, she's glad he's here. that she does not have to endure this alone.]
It's good to see you, brother. I didn't think I would be able to so soon.
[ he suffers the same selfishness as she: a terrible gratitude and gut-clenching relief as she steps forward to embrace him without hesitation and with nothing but the welcome and need of home. whatever love and hatred has existed between them over the centuries, this has been rare. he knows even as he lifts his arms to return the embrace when she must be from; he knows it before she speaks. (he knows it, her outfit notwithstanding~)
but it is still a cold dousing; he moves away, reaches for her wrist to see it unmarred, smooth and pale. he stares at it cradled in his palm as if in doing so the mark might appear, much to his terror.
it doesn't, and he lifts his wide, full gaze to her.
[though she has loved and hated him in equal measure for centuries for a long time the hate seemed to outweigh the love. currently, however, that has shifted and perhaps nothing is more telling of that than how she embraces him, how she allows his presence to offer her comfort in a way that is has not in a very long time.
soon enough he's pulling away to check her arm, something she has barely done herself so far. the mark seems to not be there -- whatever magic freya pulled to put them in that stasis seems to have extended here. she is safe from the curse.]
I'm alright, Nik.
[thanks to you goes unsaid, she is unable to quite find the words for how she is feeling in this moment.]
[ she is all right, as is he: bereft of torture and their sacrifice, suffering no ill effects of the blade. he knows it is possible; he knows it is possible to arrive here in wonderland no worse for wear, better than. he runs his thumb absentmindedly over her wrist. the warmth in her words touches him and he shifts slightly under it, uncertain how to weather the grief of it all.
what he does not truly believe is that they are all right, that they are safe. there is danger in whatever reality they inhabit. ] I suppose you have questions.
[in all honesty, rebekah does not truly believe it either. they have lost too much to be all right and yet it seems like the words to say all the same. they are both here and for the moment untouched by the curses that should be plaguing them still.
it is not much, but it's something.]
I have a few. Where is this place, exactly? I found the device that helped me find your name and Freya's as well, but I know little else.
[ it is something. it is a comfort and a problem both: that rebekah is here to share their grief, their terror, and what haunts and hounds them to its fullest. she knows like no one else knows: she knows the truth of their future, the full horror of it. she knows it in visceral and total ways that freya and camille do not.
in ways perhaps they need not. should not.
he keeps her wrist in his hand, sucks in a soft breath hearing what she does know: who she knows is here, and who she doesn't. (camille.) he will tell her; he will. but they are words better left for later. (for him, not for her.) it's best to start from the top before he touches on timelines.
now give him like a short second to brace himself for the ensuing ridiculousness of what he's about to say. his jaw tightens and his smile is tight; clearly this is a point of never-ending frustration for him. ] We're in Wonderland, it seems. [ yes, that wonderland ] A separate dimension... from ours. [ that smile fades towards the end because he is 100% serious ]
[the future brings nothing but pain and despair for their family, misery that perhaps they've earned in some ways but it does not make it any easier to bare. the solidarity of knowing klaus has suffered through it is comforting to be sure but if she could rob him of that knowledge, she would.
it's why she does not fight his grip, the way his fingers stay wrapped around her wrist, keeping her tethered to him.
(always and forever, the curse and gift of the mikaelsons)
her expression turns slightly judgy at the mention of where they are]
You don't mean like the Wonderland in Charles Dodson's silly books, do you?
[Originals: the only people pretentious enough to use Lewis Carrol's real name.]
How is this possible?
if put to the test would you step back from the line of fire?
[ two days since elena's departure. one day since damon had left his mark across the mansion.
three grimoires with zero solutions for one witch who's desperately perusing bajillions of books in the library. in her heart, she most certainly knows that this top row that she had to climb a ladder on wheels (who puts ladders on wheels???) to get to will provide nothing.
yep see look what even is this? it's the actual dumbest-- oh-- ]
Shit!
[ rolling ladders!!!! bonnie drops the book in favor of catching herself to hang from the top of the shelf, and is suddenly thankful that she'd cowed and stayed in cheerleading as long as she had. ]
A little help? Hey! Excuse me, can you grab that ladder?
[ yeah, random blond guy that seems totally helpful and not at all ancient and murderous! a little help, buddy? ]
if put to the test would you step back from the line of fire?
ooc: you can totally ignore this if you want to omg it's been a month and a half
[of all the witches, in all the libraries, in all of wonderland is the basic summation of klaus' thoughts, watching bonnie bennett reach with all her considerable might to find quite the darling self-help manual (yes, he can see the title from here) only to fall quite literally into an unfortunate predicament.
the ladder rolls his way; his lifts a hand to stop it, even though its progress has already slowed. ] This one? [ is that a familiar voice you hear bonnie ] Well, I suppose it'd be my pleasure. [ he moves it back towards her, close enough to be caught by her dangling legs. ]
if put to the test would you step back from the line of fire?
( ooc | nooooope you're stuck with me muahaha -- would you be open to retcon timing to something recent? maybe just prior to the fourth wall event? also if you need any AC lmk and we can move this to the logs comm <3 )
[ it's not ice that runs through bonnie's veins. ice is something left to women ruled by their head. who feel their fear and accept it so that they can more easily manage it. no, beneath bonnie bennett's veins is the crackling ever-moving heat of magma that threatens to crack her open and run over unbridled. she cannot use fear as her tool until she transforms it into anger.
her feet snag the ladder and despite herself she scrambles to find purchase. once secure, though, she somehow feels less safe. surely klaus can sense the way her heartbeat has skyrocketed, her breathing paces as if she's just run a dash. her knuckles turn white where they grip the ladder. (turn it into anger.) ]
Gee, thanks.
[ she is not elena. she doesn't care about winning social chess. so her gratitude comes out covered in sarcasm before she presses her lips together against it. be smart, bonnie bennett. do it for elena. this is how you keep her safe. this is how you be her shield instead of a sword. she huffs a breath and tries again, and it almost sounds genuine from atop her high (ladder-shaped) horse: ]
Thank you.
if put to the test would you step back from the line of fire?
ooc: yes!! something more recent is good. i concur; just before the fourth wall event. and i am good on ac but thank you ♥♥
[ klaus wonders sometimes, bored as he gets in this unfortunate dimension, when and if the former residents of mystic falls might move past the terrible traumas he's befallen them. (actually he doesn't think of them more than they deserve at all, but that's semantics.)
in truth he's quite indifferent if they do or not, so long as they do not get in his way. if bonnie's vitriolic sarcasm is anything to klaus, it's quite charming, as is how careful she is in correcting it.
for elena and their survival, no doubt. ] Well I wouldn't countenance such a powerful ally and witch hurt. [ he'll even hold the ladder so she may climb down it with some security.
such a gentleman ]
if put to the test would you step back from the line of fire?
[ she's too exhausted to do this, voice lacking the usual poison she'd try to inject. even with her feet planted on the floor, bonnie feels unseated. she refrains from rolling her eyes, instead forcing them upward only enough to meet his. (do it for elena.) ]
We're just ... people from the same world stuck together by a more powerful force.
[ this is who bonnie is. blunt and guileless. and in order to do this thing elena has made clear must be done, she's got to find some thread of truth for her inaction. her hand shakes with fear and the effort of doing nothing. ]
[He opens the video feed, but hesitates there. There's something that's pulled him towards Klaus as soon as he started to feel vulnerable, but now that he's faced with actually approaching someone for aid, he can't help but feel silly about it. It'll be open long enough to get an image of him and the labspace behind him, but he'll shut it down a moment after.
It's not worth troubling Klaus. There's too much else pressing at him.]
and he is very concerned by fitz's short and hardly comforting missive: an image of his friend clearly troubled. thoughts of obstacles at the lab and with their research immediately take hold; with freya's disappearance the instinctual paranoia clenches his insides double-fold. (he needs his plans to carry through, especially now that he has intimate proof wonderland will not discriminate with its whims.)
it's barely a few seconds after fitz's message that klaus downs his scotch, gets up from his seat, and opens up a connection in response.
he's in his living area; his rooms are all wood and southern gothic comfort, the paintings and ornaments representing the many splotches of color. it's no surprise his concern is genuine. ] What's wrong?
[Oh, he hadn't disconnected quickly enough; how embarrassing. Fitz grimaces apologetically, and runs a hand over his face as though that might wipe the dark circles away from his eyes.]
Oh -- it's nothing. Jemma and I are moving forward with the project. It's a bit difficult to pinpoint out location without reliable celestial bodies, but we ought to be close to returning to where we were before initial lab incident.
There, ah... may be a small detour to be made, though.
[ it certainly doesn't wipe away any dark circles; klaus has been troubled and heartened by them before: in the backdrop of the lab, it might be proof fitz has been working to his full ability. (which klaus knows he has; at least to the extent of showing up to work. he checks, every morning, for fitz's scent outside the laboratory doors.
their semi-regular tea is also informative.)
this, however. this is new. klaus' concern morphs. he blinks and his jaw tightens. ] And what's that?
[He's been holding the Will issue back from Klaus during their meetings. It doesn't seem like the sort of thing he'd find relevant, considering his own issues. But the truth would have outed itself sooner or later anyway.]
Jemma was imprisoned before arriving here -- that place I mentioned to you before. There's still someone there, and he.
[ he remembers: the place where jemma was absconded to by a force unlike any he knew could exist, in his world. jemma, in that place; what had previously motivated fitz to his point of fevered desperation.
klaus sucks in a breath as his friend goes on. it's a soft reaction not of surprise, but in preparation for a sigh of understanding. it's the same, tedious story, told countless times. love, unrequited. he looks off-screen into space: fitz is hurt. he feels as if he's not the first in jemma's heart, if he ever was or could be. ]
I doubt as important as you. [ they are not empty words, spoken merely out of rote comfort: they are true. klaus is sure of it; jemma cares about fitz and has cared about him longer than anyone she might know now. ] How long was she there?
[But "rote" is how Fitz feels all of this must be. Jemma loves someone else. It would make her happy to be reunited with him, and how could he possibly deny her that? There's nothing else to be done, but what they're doing.]
I'd been working for six months before I came here. I believe that her conception of spacetime places her sometime later than that. She remembers me bringing her back, but I've not yet done that. I don't know how long she had to get to know him. There was no reliable method of timekeeping in her prison. It might have been years, for all we know.
[ he shouldn't deny her. in point of fact, klaus would hardly be able to, in the same position.
fitz deals in facts and figures. that's what klaus asked for, and that's what he get. that is what fitz strives to do, but facts are never the sum of their parts. jemma could have been there for years, as far as fitz knows. years in which she didn't love him but loved another. time well enough to forget the sweet lab partner she once knew. for all he knows, all the heartbreak he feels is tangential to jemma's longings, in the wake of this.
she was there for long enough.
klaus is not one to suffer uncertainties, and he's not about to allow fitz's, or fitz, to get in his own way. his question is impatient and defiant, an expectation plain in his gaze. ]
[Oh, had he gotten bogged down in the details? How unprofessional of him, preambling like that... He shouldn't have bothered messaging Klaus in the first place; what had possessed him to initiate unwanted contact?]
And -- ah. So retrieving him will need to take priority. But if we can directly locate that particular planet, then it oughtn't be difficult to streamline the process to funnel others beyond that. It shouldn't be a substantial delay, all things considered.
the supposed delay means little to him; it's obvious. despite his momentary agitation at its existence, it's not a detour he can avoid, not without intentions to fundamentally alter and manipulate both jemma and fitz's priorities. and even if he will decide to eventually, it's not particularly pressing at the moment. in fact, the added stimuli might only aide both of them to his ends. no, the point he meant to prompt fitz to admit is the one truly weighing in his friend's mind, and in his heart.
what is truly making him heavy. what has been a heavy enough burden to ask for help in sharing it.
(klaus knows what it is like to be heartbroken. he knows what it is like to love, and lose, and love again. now more than ever, he knows the tragedy of time's finiteness, when you do love, and lose, and love again.
and, well. a happy worker is always a more productive one.)
a soft sigh, a short, contemplative pause later, and: ]
May I ask you: what exactly have you told Jemma of your feelings?
he's definitely not fooling klaus, who, if anything, seems slightly amused at such an incredulous reaction
he rears back a little to take it in, and hardly pauses to respond. ]
Are you? So you don't love her? You weren't willing to move literal heavens and earths to find her; to save her life and be with her again? You're not in love with her. [ he's staring you down, fitz
[He goes quiet then, shrinking back.Jemma is the most important person in the world, maybe in any world. "Love" doesn't seem like a big enough word for it. It feels limiting, like it ties then into roles neither of them wants to play. At the same time, "Love" feels enormous. It could crush them both.]
[He shakes his head at the question. Of course not now. They'd attempted a date, and then... And then all of that. He can't ever breach the subject again.]
There wasn't time for her to answer when we talked. We were in danger, and it just... Came out.
[He smiles, though his eyes still droop with sadness.]
She's too kind to hurt me on purpose. I wouldn't want to put her in that sort of position.
I doubt very much she would like to be culpable in how you are hurting now.
[ a grim honesty dealt for the sake of the truth: fitz is hurt, and he is only hurting because of himself.
klaus sucks in a breath, looks away, groping and searching for what wisdom he carries. what words of guidance and comfort he has; what pieces of himself might aide and not cut. ]
Love is... [ he trails off, looks to his friend, and tells the truth. ] It is a terrible thing. It will hurt you. [ it will certainly hurt fitz, as selflessly as he feels it. as cowardly and close as he holds it. ] To ignore it will only deepen and poison its roots.
Tell her. [ a certainty enters his gaze, his voice. ] Or you will regret it, and so will she.
[He shakes his head again. Klaus is drawing conclusions based on an incomplete dataset.]
After I told her last, I was... [There are a lot of words to describe it, and Fitz hates all of them.] Injured. I became a burden, and she left for quite some time. We were able to reconcile, but I couldn't endanger our friendship again.
If she's happy, then that's enough. Recovering Will is what she needs most.
[ what klaus hears is fear. that's what this is: fear of rejection, fear of being alone, fear of self and what little worth fitz places in his own. ] You can't know what she needs, or wants. You can't know what will make her truly happy, not until you admit what you need to, to her. You're afraid. You're afraid just as you were of your friends, that they would abandon you, but there is nothing to fear from loneliness. [ it was all he feared, for centuries, and still does. his hand curls into a fist in his lap. ] That is a terror you make all on your own.
Take my advice, or don't, [ he knows there's little he can do to force this kind of will, to heal this kind of damage. all he can ask is: ] but remember it.
[Klaus compares this to the last time Fitz found himself dissolving into feelings that ought to stay locked up where they can't hurt anyone. It's not productive to have these talks. And yet he can't seem to stop having these talks lately.]
I think it's become quite clear that those friends did abandon me. Quite completely, considering they left me to be strangled and mutilated, and subsequently couldn't be bothered with as much as an obligatory floral arrangement while I recovered. I mistook coworkers for true friends, and I've learned to live with that mistake.
[Klaus intervened then to help Fitz recover from a raw, bleeding wound. And though he's recovered well enough to talk about it now, what once was pain has since scarred over. There is no more worry, but nor is there any trust towards them.]
But still... Thank you. For talking with me. And for understanding. I'm sorry for troubling you unannounced.
[ klaus looks away. he cannot help it, for the harsh words that leave fitz are no doubt in part his fault, created through his influence. he was abandoned, yes, but that bitterness was not created in a vacuum. it's just as possible, even knowing fitz's anguish and anger over that day, that he had a hand to play in what is so vehemently expressed now.
fitz has been abandoned, yes. that does not mean he always will be.
klaus softens, something of a smile in his eyes, a lightness in his tone. ] Well, it's difficult to announce trouble.
[ that is to say: it was no trouble at all. ]
It was my pleasure, as your friend. [ he pauses. there is some encouragement and support to give. admiration, to depart. ] For what it's worth, it is the right thing: to help her.
[And what a friend Klaus is. As much as his heroes' betrayal has left him bereft and embittered, support from Klaus provides possibly the last vestiges of real hope left to him. He can't rely on heroes he once believed in, or on Jemma to ever reciprocate his feelings, but Klaus is a constant. He knows, deep in his bones, that Klaus will never betray him. It'll have to be enough to get him through.]
Thanks, Klaus. That means quite a bit, coming from you.
[it's the smaller celebrations that rebekah loves most as well. don't get her wrong, she loves a good party, but holidays are family events and nothing about that has changed for her. which is why underneath the tree of their little celebration Klaus will find a gift for himself wrapped up in green and gold wrapping paper.
It's a small box containing a necklace she had purchased from one of the merchants (one who took money, not memories, no worries there). It was a wooden pendant carved down in the shape of a wolf. She may not be the artist he is but she likes to think she has a good eye for these things.
There's a note along with it.
To my favorite big bad wolf, and my annoying big brother.
[throughout the week klaus will find little messages on his bathroom mirror written in very familiar handwriting.
the first one:]
do you really think you can change?
[the second message:]
you're as selfish as you've always been.
[the third:]
you destroy everything you touch. you ruined your first child, you'll ruin the second, just like you ruined me and everything else. you can't love anything without destroying it.
[the fourth:]
to be loved by you is a burden, they would be better off without you. your siblings, your children, you precious blondes Camille and Caroline, everyone
[and finally, at the end of the week]
i wonder how your daughter would feel to know you're content to stay here and be happy without her.
[ he cannot pretend that the messages his dear and perverse sister leave do not strike him. if she's watching (and he's no doubt she is, with that vicious and terrible streak of cruelty only one born of rebekah can unleash) she will see how each love note makes its mark.
it only worsens by the end, each word needling under his skin despite all his better sense and defenses; each sentiment impressing upon him truths and his sibilant whispers that so often plague and haunt him and hound his steps.
for centuries, for now, for always.
(and that they are from rebekah, who knows his weaknesses, his faults, his heart—from any version of rebekah—
it is nothing less than intimate.)
there's a crack on the mirror, in the shape of a fist, stained with his blood, by the third. by the last, no amount of calculation and pacing stops him from picking up a pen. ]
I wonder how content you will be when I have your head on a pike.
Perhaps as content as you are now, all alone in a sad, fabricated world.
[ and with that, he rips the mirror off the wall and lets it shatter. ]
[Cami leaves the coffeeshop, glancing behind her to make sure Fitz hasn't suddenly decided to follow before she pulls out her phone from her purse. She's trying rather hard not to be angry, but it isn't the easiest thing.
Not when she's walking away from the first victim of compulsion she's found in Wonderland since Klaus' return.]
We need to talk, Klaus. [She marches upstairs, not towards the second floor where their bedrooms are, but rather her office. This isn't a conversation for some place where they've cuddled or kissed.]
[ he's not been particularly pleased by the arrangement of laying low and hoping for the best this month, but klaus knows the benefits of giving a wrathful creature his space: after all, it's a tactic often reserved for him.
mostly he's used such instances to plot and scheme and plan, so truly the only benefit of this has been his own increased worry and paranoia, but he digresses.
(despite it all, it is the only route that makes sense: take the time to regain strength and pool resources.)
therefore it's no surprise cami's short message is met with concern that pulls him to his feet. despite any reassurances to the contrary, lucifer is still a wildcard. ] What's happened?
[She's not thinking about Lucifer or the danger he presents to Klaus at the moment; it's the furthest thing from her mind, despite the clear concern in Klaus' voice when she calls.]
I just had a really interesting conversation with Leo Fitz. [Another look around, and Cami starts taking the stairs quicker, aware that she'll need the privacy for her half of this conversation soon.] About compulsion.
klaus' response is only somewhat delayed, but when he does reply his tone is conversational and much too sharp to be convincing. ] Yes, he has been interested in the phenomena of late. We're to assist someone called "Captain America," I believe. [ is he or isn't he being super casual about this and name-dropping someone cami knows to distract her from the inevitable, or—
Steve? [Good job Klaus. Now Cami has an entirely different reason to be unhappy! Excellent distraction technique.] Why on earth does he want you to compel Steve?
Well I believe Steve [ he even used the captain's given name this time ] would like me to compel him, or at least he agreed to it. [ as long as the distraction works, klaus has no regrets. anyhow, it was a matter of time. ]
You're telling me that Steve Rogers wants to be compelled. [Especially given what had happened to Bucky, Cami would've thought he'd be one of the ones most adamant against mind control.
Unless, like Fitz, Steve doesn't realize that's what this is.]
Memories. He wants to remember what he's forgotten. [ he doesn't mention leo is truly the one who instigated this entire plan, but neither is what he says a lie: steve rogers said yes.
klaus is doing this for leo; it's the reason he pauses and admits, ] I saw no reason not to acquiesce to his request.
[He doesn't need to mention Fitz; what he's said falls right in line with the rambling Cami had heard not a half hour earlier. She knows Steve had been there during an event inspired by his world; there's something he's forgotten, and they're going to try and get it back.]
Especially since it didn't come from him, right? [But regardless, if Steve has agreed, knowingly, then Cami can't really say anything. Part of her may even be hopeful that against all odds, this somehow works.]
[ klaus pulls in a short breath he holds because she's hit the nail on the head; there is no surprise in him she would. ] No, it did not. [ how can he explain: leo's earnest and impossible desire to only serve good? to make a world free of treachery and pain?
he supposes out of anyone camille would understand, but it is not the worry or thought that lingers on his mind at present. after all, they are back to the original topic. ]
[Indeed they are. Steve's agreed to the experiment, but given Fitz's misconception about the full capability of compulsion? It's just as likely the man doesn't know exactly what he's getting into.]
Fitz said he wanted a full understanding before he began practical testing. [Steve.] He also seems to be under the impression that you're shy and reserved about your powers.
[He can see how Cami figured out Fitz had been compelled here.]
What did you tell him, Klaus? What did you compel him to believe?
[ of course the scientist in his friend couldn't proceed without the necessary accoutrements of his trade: research. it's a conclusion klaus has quietly come to during the length of this conversation, for of course leo would go to the one woman klaus trusts above all else, besides his family, for a varied account. cami's words only confirm it; what rouses klaus is the truth she herself has come to.
agitated and firm both, he answers, ] I didn't compel him to believe anything. [ not true, but not untrue: he never claimed to be shy nor reserved about his powers; on the contrary. ] I told him what I was.
[ a monster. he gave fitz quarter and safety from his own: the mirrors and saviors that did not save him. he gave fitz quarter from the monster he is.
shame crawls up his throat. (he did the same for her.)
he cannot swallow it down, no matter how much he has tried these months.
he knows what she knows; that was not the full truth. he bars apology from his voice. ]
I couldn't let him be afraid of me. [ to hate him. to not continue his work. ]
[With his supernatural hearing, Klaus likely picks up on the sound of a door opening and closing. Cami's in her office now, where she drops down on one of the chairs even as Klaus confesses what he's done. It draws a sigh from her lips, because of course she remembers.
Klaus had told her of the greater world in which they lived, then stolen her fears. Next came her memories, and then--]
That should be his choice to make. You know that. [For better or for worse. Fitz deserves the right to make up his own mind about who Klaus is.
As much as she suspects Klaus might dread what he could choose.]
[ he does know that. klaus also knows that he had a choice and he knows what he chose: to violate his friend's mind and whatever semblance of misplaced trust he had. the better for him, is what klaus thinks; is what he would think, if he could believe it.
(he must.
or he doesn't, because he did it for his daughter.
and himself.
but it is camille saying these words and they reach too deep. they stir and pull out a raw and vulnerable truth. he does care.)
klaus turns to his own couch but instead walks with sudden purpose towards his drink cart.
there's a reason he stays where he is. there's more he's not saying. there's more he does not want to say, facing her. he never said he wasn't a coward. ] Of course I care; he's no mean friend. [ mean ally is what he means. perhaps not entirely. a pause, and the clinks of ice in a glass. ] He's my friend.
Then isn't that all the more reason to respect his choice?
[For most people, it would be. It is for Klaus on some level too, because Cami knows how protective he is of those he chooses to hold dear. He wouldn't abide anyone else manipulating Fitz in such a way, period.
But that same connection is itself reason enough for the paranoia that so often wraps itself around Klaus' heart. Hearing the ice clink inspires the temptation in Cami to get a drink of her own, but she doesn't. Not for the moment.]
But you're afraid of what that choice will be. The possibility exists that Fitz won't be able to see past the worst parts of you and choose to stay your friend.
[The New Year's Eve conflict with Lucifer no doubt has only made that worse as well. Thankfully, from every indication Fitz is at least human, and in turn incapable of doing similar damage.
Physically.]
It's not really a friendship if it's based on manipulation, Klaus. Relationships, real ones, are forged from trust in each other.
[ his hand tightens around his phone; he nearly entertains the impulse to pull it away from his ear, to hang up, to break it, if only to escape the words he does not want to hear. the truth he does not want to acknowledge, for in acknowledging it he is acknowledging the consequence of his actions.
what he's done. what he's wrought. he pushes the cart into the wall it stands beside instead. the violence causes the crystal to clink and the alcohol to slosh, but nothing breaks, nothing spills.
she is right. he knows better. he knows plenty, his words clipped, fermented in incitement. ] There is no trust where there is manipulation, and I took away that when I took away his fear.
[ they can't be friends. they are not friends. ] We're not friends, Camille. He has simply been... [ he cannot seem to keep the waver from his voice, pretending so poorly his indifference. there was a time when he was better at it. ] a means to an end.
[She winces at the sudden sound of glasses and bottles striking against each other, although it doesn't sound like too much of a disaster. Just loud enough for her to hear over the phone--
Yet not so sharp that it covers the depth of connection Klaus tries to hide.]
So was I. [A means to an end, a stenographer, a spy--and all the other things Klaus couldn't deny anymore than he can now. And yes, Cami had been livid when she learned the truth, enduring a night of unspeakable agony just so she could remember. But time has given her the chance to forgive him for that, and the ability to understand.
The opportunity to see Klaus grow.]
Don't do this. Not when you've come so far. [He's grown, taken risks, become so much better than he had been then. It's painful to see him pull back within his walls.] You're afraid he won't be able to forgive you, but you know that doesn't give you the right to make the choice for him.
[so was she. the reminder has his lashes fluttering; his throat closing. yes, she was a means to an end. she played her role just as he played his, and in every way that soon came to matter more, she didn't and wasn't.
she's wasn't, and she was. just as fitz was and never was. the anguish in him builds into weights that press down with guilt and remorse on his chest. he reaches for his glass as her pleas break and slip past the walls that have already been damaged; have for so long stood on a failing foundation. perhaps they lost their integrity long ago.
if they truly had that fortitude in the first place. she's right, but perhaps he's not better than this. tears hang in his eyes; klaus swallows thickly and speaks softly, gravely, for despite all the rawness of his emotion, he must weather what the reality of this is: ] And when he doesn't? [ because fitz very well might not forgive him. he might not understand, when he has not forgiven and understood the faults of so many. ] When my own cowardice and scheming costs me... [ he fights past the lump in his throat, the crescendo and climax of what he is reaching to— ] true friendship and the chance to... [ klaus stops, for he knows this will hurt her more than anything. it's not hope he wants to give. ] A chance to go home. All of us, to go home. When he doesn't forgive me, what then? Do I forsake my daughter to a passing friendship? Do I forsake you?
[He speaks with certainty about Fitz’s condemnation, and Cami cannot counter with anything more than possibility. She knows that not everyone would be able to forgive Klaus his deeds; some of his past actions indeed stand so sharp and so deadly, they cannot be forgiven at all. The likelihood that Fitz won’t be able to see past the manipulation of his thoughts and feelings is high, not only on principle but because Klaus knows Fitz so much better than she does.
The question is, where does the line fall between his paranoia and his perception of the other man?
All questions she means to ask, but that fall forgotten as he confesses a deeper truth. It has Cami leaning forward, her lips parted in unwanted surprise with the admission of the greater end Klaus has in mind. She’s known that he’s wanted to go home, but not that he’s been actively working towards it—not that he’s had Fitz doing as much, and not just for those members of Klaus’ family who live.
All of us. He means to defy death itself—her death—and she knows instantly that it is something she cannot let herself hope for.]
No. You don’t forsake anyone. [She swallows, closes her eyes to focus on the present as she so often does. She would not be distracted a second time.] Including him. You go about this the right way, and you remember you’re not alone.
[The words he spoke to her, softly, sweetly, when she’d been unable to hold back her tears and her heartache. Even if his goals are too lofty to be possible, Cami can at least have some faith. She grins to herself as she continues on; not so long ago, she never would have seen herself saying these words to him.] Case in point: you’ve got me. For better or worse, I’m kind of an expert in both talking to people and moving past being compelled by someone.
[By Klaus, in the name of his cowardice and scheming both.]
[ he doesn't have to hear the waver in her voice, the pauses in her words and the silence before them, the swallow of her hopes and fears to know them. it's a strain to his heart, attached so inextricably to her: what he has confessed has anguished her in ways both terrible and beautiful. it anguishes him but before and mingled with that anguish is the roar of his agony:
he does not want to do this. not for her pains and hopes, not for the selfish desire he holds for a friendship, not for the ease in which he can guard himself from the abhorrent and baleful stares he has always expected and incurred and weathered and feared.
he is not afraid of being alone, not solely, not most importantly. (he has always been alone; it is not a new nor impossible terror.)
he is afraid for his daughter, his little girl, all else that is good and right in his world—he is afraid of leaving her alone. he is afraid of failing her as he has failed not only marcel but all others who have counted on him, who have looked to him, who he should have loved better; done better for.
(he is a broken, lacking thing. his love has always been incomplete.)
he does not want to do this for his daughter. the tears welling in his eyes blur his vision and his jaw tightens against their falling. (he is not alone. he does have her. he knows, just as she knows, what he should do. what he has to do. to be worthy of his daughter and for his daughter both.) he shakes, the phone trembling in his hand with how hard he clutches it. his voice is full and heavy; he promises. ] I'm not leaving you. [ not here, in this world. not now: this conversation is not over. but: ] I have to handle this on my own. [ he pulls the phone from his ear and hangs up. ]
[ this is hardly a message klaus is eager to see. of course he knows it was only a matter of time that camille would want to learn the truth or learn it despite her desire to avoid it. he didn't consider she would hear it so haphazardly from his sister, no doubt on the wings of her own crippling guilt and remorse. the concern rises up and shakes him: for camille, her foreseen future even more broken now and the grief that is assuredly wracking her; the anger follows and nearly bubbles over: for freya, to tell her. and yet it wars with something stronger: the worry and grief and pain he knows his sister feels. the worry and grief and pain he does. that familial bond strengthened by blood and anguish and love. what and who he would always choose.
his fingers are tight around his phone. his chest aches and it is for them all. (for camille. for he and freya, standing alone with these sins.) ]
[She knows this is the last thing he wants to hear, but it was going to come out eventually, and frankly Freya would prefer that it be on her and Cami's terms, rather than at the whim of an unexpected arrival to Wonderland. She'll admit, it wasn't her finest moment, but the truth is supposed to be better in the end, isn't it?
They say confession is supposed to be freeing, but that isn't Freya's experience at the moment.]
I left her in the bar when she asked me to leave. I don't know if she's still there.
[ he wouldn't believe it was freeing. how could it be, knowing camille reacted with such anger and hurt? and he cannot not blame her, but... freya is his sister. he knows how close she had become to camille. he can only imagine how they had both leaned on each other here. klaus pauses, frets for words that might comfort and fortify. ]It'll be all right.
[ what would elijah do? what would his big brother say? (he would seek to fix this, and that is what klaus will do, in his own way.) ]Keep heart, sister.[ and because she is not abandoned nor should she feel so: ]I'll find you after.
[To be fair, she didn't reach out to her brother for his comfort, though it is appreciated all the same. She simply didn't want him to be blindsided by Cami's anger when they saw each other next. But his words still mean a great deal, even if it wasn't what she was looking for (or maybe because of that.]
I'll probably be in my room.
[She's not feeling much like people otherwise. But after a moment:]
[ it hardly takes long for klaus to respond after leaving camille. he makes certain he doesn't, barely down the hall before his hands begin to shake and his eyes sting; taking out his phone to message freya is all that keeps him tethered. she is his sister, and it is as much his responsibility to look after her as it is to help her. (he could not help her tonight, with camille. he did not help. he works past a lump in his throat.) ]
[The response takes a long time to come, as Freya's coordination is not the best when she's drunk so "Drinking with Damon" turns into:]
Demicng with damgb.
[You're welcome. But it's at least somewhat an indication of her mental state at the moment. She'll correct this in the morning after water, sleep, and other side effects of all that drinking have worked their way out of her system.]
Incredibly hungover, but otherwise I am fine. More or less.
or it doesn't, not fully, not until morning, though it's not as if klaus didn't hear her stumble home at an ungodly hour if that was the case. he's spent the long night drinking, though not sleeping at all. when he gets freya's follow up, he's sitting on an armchair in his bedroom, a glass of half-empty bourbon next to him.
his hesitation to reply comes not only from the obvious that he is not fine and no doubt the state of his relationship with camille might be something she would consider her fault, considering it is also obvious she is not wholly as fine as she might communicate. (she will be. it will be, no matter the consequences, but that doesn't soften the blows.) ]
[Yep, they are clearly the best at this. And he's right, she is very much not fine, and would probably be doing more drinking, if she thought her stomach could take it, but for right now, her largest plan is going back to bed, after possibly talking with her brother.
It's masochistic, but she needs to know how Cami is, and whether or not she's damaged things irrevocably for all of them. She's already cost him Marcel, and she would hate to think that she may have cost him Cami too.]
I intend to remain lying down, but I'll be up for a little while if you'd like to join me?
[ there is no reason to prolong the inevitable conclusion to this night or the choices and sacrifices they have made. she had told him once that she would rather live prepared with the weight of burden than ignorant without; the desire to protect her remains but that assurance and his better pragmatism perseveres now.
he made her a promise, however unspoken, when he told her about davina those months ago. klaus finishes what is in his glass in one swallow and is at her door a moment later. his knock is perfunctory; he twists the knob and steps inside directly after, glass and bottle in hand.
he stops at the sight of her, attempting to soften the trouble of his expression, if only for her comfort. it does not change what words he must say, but he does it instinctively all the same. klaus moves forward take a seat beside the bed. ] Well. I suppose this was all inevitable.
[She sighs as she shifts to her side to face him, eyes bleary under the weight of her hangover. But she knows that while difficult, this was the right thing to do.]
It is better for her to hear it from us now than risk her being surprised by it by Davina, or worse yet - Marcel.
Or herself, [ klaus expands, leaning forward, an elbow on his knee, ] leaving here only to come home. [ it occurs to him that is a cruel option as well: that cami could leave and die; die again. she could experience the terror and trauma firsthand.
and then she would learn the rest of this nightmare.
klaus wants another drink, even as influenced as he is, but he does not move to fill his tumbler, only lifts his eyes to his sister.
it occurs to him also that this is cami's home now and she knows it, he knows it anew with terrible, anguished finality; she will never have another. and he knows—to be a part of it here will only cause her pain. ] I told her the rest. About Aurora. About what she'd become.
[Her face softened at that, because there was a moment where she had also contemplated delivering that blow herself. But that was too much at once, and Cami had only asked for the "after."
A cowardly technicality, but a technicality she exploited nonetheless.]
At least there are a few less secrets between all of us.
[though that's a cold comfort when it's likely Cami didn't take Klaus' news any better than she took Freya's.]
[ a colder comfort he wouldn't hesitate to accept, so he doesn't hesitate to accept this one. what else is there for him to do, but to concentrate on what could be affecting; what could be changed? their precarious state is shared, just as their troubles are:
he doesn't want to think about cami anymore. (nothing will change that he will.)
klaus tips the bottle against the lip of the glass, pours a splash and offers it to her. ] Not quite Elijah's cocktail, but... [ an offer; the flickering humor in that offer not faded for how drawn it is ] if you prefer.
[ he takes a moment to cleanly open his wrist with his fangs, letting drops of his blood fall into the glass until the wound closes over. he hands it to freya and lets her drink.
nothing will change that he will think of camille. nothing will change that freya will. they have both lost her and more, in their own ways. but more than just heartache has occurred this night. he could not save camille. he cannot be by her side, not anymore. but he will do here what he couldn't at home. klaus has always benefited from action over mute resignation, even in thought. freya is cut from the same cloth, and he needs her in this.
he glances around the room. unsurprisingly, they are all fastidious about covering their mirrors. but mirrors can still hear.
he reaches for a notepad and a pen at her bedside table, flips to a blank page, and writes, ]I know how to do defeat my mirror.[ he shows it to her wordlessly. ]
[She knocks back the glass, only managing to make a slight face at the metallic taste of blood mixed in under the burn of the alcohol, but by the time she finishes, her brother's message is in front of her, and her eyebrows rise slightly. She then reaches for the pen, and scrawls her response underneath his.]
[ bringing the pad back into his lap, he pauses at the question. he considers what he truly needs, what he's always needed. what she's granted him, time and again. they are cut from this same cloth, ruthless and practical, and where he might distrust others for the same, just as he did her in the beginning, he trusts her for it now all the more.
he would place not only his life, but camille's in her hands. all those he holds dear. ]
Your trust.
[ he shows it to her, eyes rounded and lips pursed, but does not hand the pen and pad over, not yet. with a breath, he writes, ] I'm going to give Damon Salvatore a piece of white oak. I've acquired the knight.
From Camille.[ he swallows before adding that fact, knowing she will have questions about how he attained it. ]
[If she has them she doesn't ask them. Given their history with Damon Salvatore, he must have chosen this for a reason. And given her experiences with Damon the night before, she'd hope that he wouldn't let her confide in him and then betray her family so soon after. Especially since he knows what she can do.]
Are you sure you can trust him?
[She'll only ask once, but she wants to be sure he's sure.]
I'm sure we can trust we want the same things. [ that's the truth. as necessary as their alliance with the denizens of mystic falls has been, it's been a tentative truse, held in place only by the swaying balance of his power and elena's will.
this, however. this is different. this is a true risk and one he does not make lightly. ] I need you to ensure he upholds his end of the bargain, if I cannot. [ if the worst happens. there are so many 'worsts' that could. ]
[Freya glances up, studying her brother for a moment in silence, because while he doesn't know how she spent her evening previously, he does know she won't hesitate to protect her family, no matter the cost.
She's certainly proven that well enough.
At least she knows that Damon has a clearer picture of what kind of power he will be crossing if he doesn't use the white oak for it's intended purpose.]
[Peter can't trust that Fitz won't tell Klaus everything else he'd mentioned to Fitz that day, and he needs to be certain that he isn't responsible for even remotely shaking up the alliance that Elena and Bonnie have worked so carefully to craft between their people and his. It was an overemotional accident. He's not used to- He's not used to living in these worlds where secrets are so important all the time.
His chest still feels carved out after his conversation with Fitz. Peter's always been a loner. He's starting to remember why.]
[ to be honest, klaus would much rather ignore this message. for one, he has little to no interest to involve himself any further in the affairs of the mystic falls crew, particularly considering what his last foray might have wrought. (and he did entrust the lad to elena's care.) for another, he has no desire to complicate fitz's relationship, particularly when peter's involvement already has put them on thin ice.
nor does he particularly want to have his own relationship, but that's tangential.
but. he would like to decide for himself what sort of man this peter parker is. it is in his best interest to know all the players. klaus opens the connection. ] So I've heard, [ he replies. ] Though he's told me little about you.
I know he told you about what how I was compelled once before. [his stomach twists as he wraps his head around the fact he's actually having this conversation right now.] I wanted to let you know that I didn't tell him to try to create trouble. Everything I told him, I told him, because he was my friend. When I saw the vervain he has, I- I reacted poorly and protectively, and I opened up about something I promised I wouldn't talk about to anyone. I get why it's important that it stays a secret and how- how dangerous that all could have turned out. [it's nothing that will happen again. his friendship with Elena is on the rocks because of it, and he- he hates that Klaus knows that he was compelled before, and he hates he almost created a big thing when he was just trying to- trying to open up to someone he cares about.
he doesn't know what else Fitz could reveal to Klaus about that conversation. it's why he's trying to be open now, trying to show that all of it came from him, but he didn't do it because he was trying to- trying to start anything.]
[ klaus recognizes this for what it is: a plea, though of course the motivation behind could differ. peter could truly be afraid, worried for his friends and himself, desperate to smooth things over after a disastrous mistake. he could also be attempting to lull them all into a false sense of security and camaraderie before turning on them all (or perhaps damon in particular) like a snake.
if it's the former, klaus is unimpressed and amused by his purity and naiveté. if it's the latter, well, klaus is also unimpressed and amused, but perhaps would find it a little more interesting.
though even if it's the former, klaus does wonder how pure those motives, even subconsciously, might have been. ] Of course, [ he intones, and one who doesn't know him might say he is being understanding and forgiving, even comforting. ] You wanted to protect your friend. [ because it occurred to him that he and fitz shared something to be protected from. klaus doesn't particularly like the implication. ]
( he is sad. peasants are incapable of understanding the true depth of a tortured artist's mind, but iskra is no peasant. she is a magical cat belonging to the last petrova doppelganger; of course she's a snowflake. the last time she brought someone a dead mouse as a gift it was received poorly, people are unappreciative is what they are, and so she learned to change gears quickly. her gift for klaus is to be less impossible and distracting as he broods, though she doesn't waste the opportunity to keep him company. she saunters into the library with a charcoal pencil in between her teeth, and proceeds to drop it on his lap.
[ he's been spending more afternoons here, sprawled in armchairs, reading books of strategy and story, searching for occupation when he cannot find it at the tip of his paintbrush or the distraction of others. iskra is always a sudden and expected partner in these public spaces; it's not the first time she's weaved through book shelves or tea rooms to hop up on his knee or rub along his ankles.
klaus looks up from his book (the hunchback of notre-dame, original french) as iskra jumps into his lap and drops the charcoal pencil. with an impressed and touched raise of his brow and a smile, he reaches to scratch her head. ] Is this your way of pulling me out of my head and into something productive?
[ yes klaus talks to iskra like she can respond shh ]
( she responds as best she can ok. magical cats understand.
iskra leans into his hand with blatant chirping to express her approval. her eyes are half-closed, blinking slowly to convey a considerable degree of trust, but she is not about to let herself get distracted, no matter how artful those clever mikaelson fingers are. you don't know what you're missing, caroline.
with a paw, she proceeds to nudge closed the book that he's reading.
yes, klaus. this is iskra's way of pulling you out of your head. and also sun tzu. )
[ perhaps it's ridiculous, but he suspects she does understand, whenever and however she feasibly can. for not the first time he remembers her as an owl, how her feathers ruffled when she wanted a treat, how she pecked when she wanted to be stroked, and the wise creature in her eyes then that he imagines is staring back at him now.
he wonders if she did carry back with her a bit of magic.
klaus laughs softly at her response and then picks up the pencil. ] So what should I do then? Would you like me to draw you? [ he opens the book again but this time to the blank pages beside the back cover. he sketches her head with quick, decisive lines.
then adds a crown with a few more. he shows it to her. ] How's this for likeness?
this is why you're her favorite. if iskra were a peacock, she'd be flaunting all her feathers. as it is, her contented and near aggressive purring will have to suffice. her tail curls around his arm in a display of both affection and possession. her paw presses against his chest, and then moves back to the book.
what would a drawing of klaus look like if he were to draw himself? would there also be a crown? )
[ there is a raw commonality to portraits, and particularly to self-portraits, that klaus has always appreciated, in his way. there is a frankness to them; the ugliness of imperfections so obscene it can be a thing of beauty and intimacy to behold. a certain color of the eye or line of a brush stroke and there revealed are secrets people so often endeavor to hide or do not realize exist. even in the lies of a self-portraits is truth: art reflects parts people they would rather not acknowledge nor consider deeply, so what better than a portrait to do so?
perhaps for these reasons klaus has never been a lover of committing his own face to paper. he has, of course, painted portraits for display in mikaelson homes and just recently here, but rarely privately. every attempt has been met with frustration and failure, this compulsion to tell himself. he never could; perhaps because it was not a story worthy of telling. not a story he wanted to tell.
how apt to be asked to now, with reflections abound, after all he's endured and gained and lost these past many years.
when he processes what iskra asks, he pulls in a breath somehow both shallow and deep at the same time. ] Clever girl, [ he says finally, ] aren't you?
[ with a weak smile, klaus presses pencil to paper. he draws the outline of his face, then pauses before adding a quick sketch of his hair. he draws his eyes, deep set. his nose, rounded at the end, and then his mouth. it's an easy drawing; an honest enough depiction in study. a start.
( people are a study in contrasts, and self-portraits are no different. they reveal how one seems themselves. would klaus' self-portrait have looked the same a year ago, two? it seems honest enough that it brings about recognition. iskra appears to be as fond of the drawing as she is of the subject.
it has often been said that dogs are a man's best friend, but cats possess a unique kind of perception and understanding. to the surprise of many, they share traits that are inexplicably similar to human beings. iskra's anxieties, her displays of dominance and affection, her intermittent need for quiet and solitude: they make her an empathetic and well-suited companion to similar personalities... when she isn't up to something mischievous, of course.
iskra is in the process of giving klaus cheek rubs when they are rudely, rudely interrupted. )
[Rebekah storms into the common room, still dressed in a robe and a towel around her head, fully ready to do something nasty for someone ruining her day so much already. It's when she spots the cat cuddling up to her older brother that she makes her way over towards them, pointing an accusing finger.]
Nik. That little mongrel of yours threw up all over my favorite bedsheets.
[She hadn't expected to be welcomed with that when she got out of her bath, to say the least.]
Are you going to clean up after it? It's not my responsibility.
[ way to ruin perfectly cheek rubs, rebekah. way to ruin them.
though truth be told his sister's outburst does little to ruin the moment. it only inspires from klaus some mild amusement and even milder interest. his little sister's indignant tantrums are hardly cause for more. klaus' head lifts just so from iskra's cuddles; his hand stays rested at her neck. ] Sounds like a job for the closets to me, personally.
Elena isn't here, and you're the one who decided it was fine keeping that thing here half the time without consulting the rest of us which means her messes are your responsibilities, especially when it involves my things.
klaus' conversational response is not aimed towards rebekah, who honestly deserves to be addressed directly and with heartfelt apologies, and yet— ] It sounds as if someone's a bit peeved at not being liked. [ and the bedsheets maybe, but eh. klaus gives iskra a Look. ] Perhaps you should apologize. [ or don't it's fine. c: ]
[ if klaus could, he might purr a little at iskra's head bumping and nuzzling the scruff of his cheek. as it is, he only smiles small and then looks pointedly over to rebekah. ] So you don't care? [ #ontoyou ]
[ his fingers delicately scratching behind iskra's ears, klaus watches rebekah's obvious show with such knowing, very predictable ] Well ever since she rejected you that once or twice or three times, [ because klaus is the best brother he seems amused by this ] you've been quite hostile.
it probably doesn't help iskra's purring is adorable af. she keeps leaning into klaus' hand like the spoiled little thing she is. also, who is elenerrrrrr? she's never heard of an elenerrr. vikings are so weird. )
I think perhaps she knows her mistress doesn't like you very much. [ as if he didn't kill elena that once and then terrorize her and her friends for over a year, but anyway. ] That or you've been a little too eager.
genuinely amused and fully charmed at that pouting ok ]
Well you did rob her of her human life. [ and then not to gasp be the one to defend elena gilbert for a myriad of reasons, klaus addresses iskra. ] Though it was out of love for me, so perhaps you can forgive and forget. [ crooked smile and ear scratches here. ] One day.
she'll remind herself after the fact that she should from now on, for various reasons. one in particular.
she doesn't knock, simply steps inside caroline's room with a familiarity that comes after years of growing up together. it doesn't take long to realize that a.) caroline isn't in the room, and b.) she is not alone in spite of this. it's almost instinct, the way elena's back straightens and her lips part. it would be dishonest to say freya's mirror hadn't brought back brutal memories involving the mikaelson family. it would be dishonest to say that deep down, elena does not still fear him.
it's another tether, petrova and mikaelson, except this time around, they were both unwilling prey to a much larger force. isn't that in itself terrifying? once upon a time, elena believed there was no greater force than the one behind his fangs and his intent. wonderland tends to change things. )
I was looking for— ( well. it's obvious who she was looking for. )
[ it would be a lie to say he didn't hear the telltale signs of someone coming, though if this was their destination, he had expected them to knock.
klaus is lounging as if he belongs for all the world where he is: settled on caroline's settee, surrounded by and ensconced in her presence, from her copy of little men in his lap (it was a gift) to the teal pillow nestled against his side.
his face falls. perhaps it was only a matter of time, encountering elena gilbert and particularly in the backdrop of her best friend's abode, but he was not expecting it now. his lips part as her recalls the memory of her drained and pale against the sheets of freya's bed, a corpse that has not quite left their rooms.
(he thinks of the deep maroon beneath the carpet. he thinks of how he left it there.)
just as quickly as his expression slacks, he recovers. ] She's here, [ he replies, glancing back to his book as if he has not a care in the world.
maybe he adds this next bit to be purposefully provocative: ] Showering.
( it's a testament to her state of mind that elena hardly bristles at what must be a deliberate, if not harmless, provocation. if something starts to crawl up her back like understanding, then she can resolutely ignore it. she looks in the direction of the hallway that leads to caroline's bathroom, lost for a second in her searching. she can't remember ever feeling like she was intruding, like she didn't belong here. she's not sure she likes that feeling. but maybe that's a consequence, too.
maybe she deserves that, too.
her tongue feels too thick in her throat, finding that holding klaus' gaze is difficult. so she stares off into the hallway, but really all she registers is what she's been seeing for days. blood on walls, paw prints on the ground, and always, always that goddamn lullaby. )
So she's okay?
( it occurs to her just then that klaus would know better, and she's not sure how to feel about that, either. )
[ he pretends for a moment that he is not looking at her, that he assuredly does not care, but his eyes are drawn back: by curiosity, by concern he feels rooted and inconveniently so deep inside him. (he's yet to try to dig it out.) she's not all right. (are any of them?) his unforgiving and piercing gaze catches hers a moment before she looks away to look blindly after caroline.
(he knows what she feels. he can figure it out: uncertainty, awkwardness, longing. guilt.)
klaus presses his lips together at her question. ] She's all right. [ the words echo the conversation they had not long ago. she'll be all right. (he's not sure if that'll ever be true, but close enough is always something he's learned to live with.)
he reaches forward in quick, decisive movements to set up an extra teacup for her, knowing and refusing to know he's doing it to make her feel more comfortable. for caroline, he tells himself. it's not a lie. he pours her a cup; it's strong and bitter. he likes his with a heaping of sugar, but he leaves hers to do with what she likes.
( elena isn't the kind of person to fidget. she carries herself with confidence, though not vanity or arrogance, but she feels comfortable in her skin. lately she fidgets. the urge to bite on her thumbnail is there, but she forces herself to keep her hands at her sides.
she finally sweeps her gaze upward, until it lands on him. she's all too aware of the raw power that courses through this man's veins. how easily he could snap her, and anyone he chooses, like a twig. and yet his hand was forced along with hers. it may be easier to say to herself that she does not care, but she does. she cares about all of this. it's possibly why there's only a moment of hesitation. just a moment, before she lowers herself down to sit.
just a bit of honey to her tea, and then she sits. )
... And Freya? ( purple hyacinths have been left at her door, and she didn't need ask. she knew who they were from. )
[ he's lived for a thousand years in a body he could not change, imbued with magics he did not ask for. her discomfort in her own skin is nothing new, nothing insurmountable. it may make its mark on her as it has done before; as he's done to her, but it will become a part of her. (as it's done for him.) he notes the uncertainty in how she shifts. he notes her hesitation before she accepts the offer, and the company. (it's not until she sits that he realizes he'd not mind hers. in quiet nights in an emerald and silver dungeon months ago, this would be a comfort to him.
now it is a quiet reckoning. they are more alike than they were before; they are more of the same and terribly different.)
klaus adds another dash of sugar to his tea. the intent of her question doesn't escape him either; he hears its careful notes, its concern. she doesn't need to ask this either, but she does. perhaps she believes it an olive branch because she cares to ask and know the answer. perhaps she's too traumatized to ask freya herself, but it's not he that needs to hear her concern. he sighs, heavy and audible. wordless, he looks up at her, his gaze steady, his look full of volumes. (he thinks of freya's buried remorse, the guilt hanging on her shoulders, and the exhaustive energy she's already expended.)
( his eyes say it all. more than words ever could.
it's what she thought, but she couldn't not ask. some might find the question redundant, the damage done speaking for itself. but the devil is in the details. some people react to trauma and guilt differently. perhaps it shouldn't surprise her that freya is only motivated to work harder. but it also wouldn't surprise her to find out freya has also isolated herself, the way elena has isolated herself a bit, too. even from caroline. because caroline will look at her with anguish for all the things she didn't do, the choice she did not make.
the choice she couldn't have made, for what would have stopped a thousand-year-old witch, bottomless in her power?
this is nothing he'll speak of, she knows. much like she will not acknowledge it. if she gave it any thought, she'd think it brings them comfort to pretend it isn't there, swimming somewhere in the depths, out of the surface's reach: a terrible and dark understanding. so she sits, and they drink tea, the silence an odd comfort of its own. it's almost a relief she doesn't need to say anything, much like she wouldn't expect him to say anything, either.
but if anything is true in their world, it's that silence never lasts. there is always the next storm. )
[This silence will be even shorter than expected. All of the mirrors have been busy at work, and each one seems to come out of the word work as each day passes. First Freya's, then Caroline's own, and now...
...well, she's had her own stalker for awhile, but today's is the worst message yet.
Whatever she'd used to cover the mirror has fallen off by the time she gets out of the shower. She doesn't notice the words that have been left for her until she gets out from behind the curtain, one towel wrapped around her body and another in her hand as she uses it to get most of the moisture out of her hair. She catches them out of the corner of her eye, reads them once, then reads them again.
She knew that her mirror had been on this side, but that meant she would have had to go mirrorside. The problem was, she didn't remember being there, hadn't put it all together.
Suddenly it was crystal clear, and she feels like her heart just dropped out of her chest.
She wants nothing more than to shatter the mirror, but she knows he's watching, must still be behind there waiting for her reaction. He's sure getting one, a mixture of revulsion and horror on her face, the sting of tears pricking the back of her eyes, but given the ramifications of what she's just realized, letting go of her towel to strike back at the glass became the last thing she wanted to do.
Elena and Klaus would both hear the sound of her backing up until her back hit the door, followed by her hand scrambling for the knob so that she can wrench it open. It hits the wall with a smack, the message elegantly scrawled and now exposed for them both to see the reason for her sudden commotion.
'O, a kiss. Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge'...
Thank you.
She screams one single word before she's slamming the door shut.]
Asshole!
[She's just going to be trying to keep ahold of her anger, because the alternative is something so much worse.]
[ he can hear the soft thud. he can hear the rush of her heartbeat, the rattling of the knob.
he's been listening better of late; purposely, instinctively. not only for her but for all else. for himself and those he loves. a part of him for the rage deep but not quelled inside of him, looking for a mark.
he hears these things and lifts his head. he stills and is up before she opens the door, by her side before she speaks. he sees the black, curling, chillingly familiar letters on the mirror before the door slams shut and shakes in its frame; he feels ice branching out through his veins, infecting his heart.
there is a gripping riot of terror and anger in his gut. his hand has long curled around her arm, the grip tightening to a vice. his eyes widen as he looks from her to the door and then he's striding through it, the abused frame hitting the wall yet again.
it shudders and stops on its hinges. he reads the message once. he reads it again. it hardly takes a genius, but he considers that's what his mirror wanted—the horror of realization. (he was not acting alone. they—caroline's counterpart and his own—were not acting alone.) the certainty of his timing. (after the dangers have passed. now, when he can see the results of his violation.) the fury compounds in his curling fists, stoppers his throat.
he could break the mirror. he's shattered countless.
it would not ease nor encompass the murderous rage possessing him now.
a terrible calm overtakes him. he knows this is what his reflection wants, what he's received until this point: power, reaction. klaus steps forward, eyes unmoving from his own. he reaches for the fallen sheet.
he covers the mirror.
elena had followed him on his heels. he turns towards her now, eyes downcast, the wheels of his mind turning. he considers the odds this is not the only assault. he considers he will not leave the woman they both love. after a quiet moment, he lifts his eyes to her. he entrusts her. he asks her. ] Check the other mirrors.
elena doesn't see at first what has assailed them both. she doesn't see until klaus steps forward to cover the mirror, and then the words are each another gash on her throat. she takes in the sight of her lovely friend, vulnerable and covered in a towel. she processes the words that are scrawled on the mirror with the most vile of intentions. and then—and then nothing. this, here, is why elena could be comforted so little, despite those remaining closest to her doing their best to try. damon, billy, peter.
they've tried their best, if not with their love, then with fries, or other silly and welcome distractions. but she knew. she knew it was not the end, but only a beginning.
there is so little left, right now. she can't cry anymore. she can't even fear. when her eyes meet klaus', it's there again: that dulled and terrible understanding. it's the mirrors, or it's them, and instinct and burrowed desire dictate that it needs to be them. no, there are no tears, but there is anger. violation after violation after violation. it needs to stop.
it all happens in seconds, elena's reaction, but it feels like centuries to her. her weighted gaze darts from klaus to caroline. attempting to hold caroline's own gaze just long enough to ensure that she will be all right if elena steps away. only a year ago, this would have never happened: elena leaving one of her dearest friends in the arms of klaus mikaelson.
but life has its twists and turns, and here they are.
she assents her head, just the once.
swallows bile.
looks to the now covered mirror, and then turns away in search of the other pieces that the mirrors took. )
[She hasn't been dealt enough blows to be able to suppress it, the pure emotion that ripples through her. Anger, hate, guilt. She can see in her mind's eye how it all happened, how she was duped, remember thinking something was a little off but not bothering to double check.
She thought she was safe. But here in Wonderland, they're never safe. They're just trying to find the illusion of safety so they can sleep at night.
Except apparently, they can come at them then, too.
Her eyes meet Elena's briefly, some strange sort of understanding passing between them. Now it's three for three; they've all been dealt horrible blows, had precious things stolen from each of them in quick succession, both physical and otherwise.
She watches her friend leave, watches the door close, and she feels her walls settle into place, the control she's exercised on so many occassions. She hides behind it because the mirrors can hear, and she doesn't want to give him a satisfaction greater than she's already given away.]
They knew you were here. They waited until we were asleep. I thought it was you.
[She's lucky it wasn't worse than it was, and that might be what bothers her the most. The only reason it wasn't was probably because he didn't have time.
Her blood runs cold and her cheeks run hot as she wraps her arms around herself, as if that's going to keep her all in one piece. It has to. She has to. There is no other choice.]
I feel like I'm going to be sick.
[Her voice is barely a whisper. He'll hear her. Maybe, for once, the mirrors won't.]
[ elena leaves, and there's just them. there's just this. there's only her.
the rage that had been boiling beneath his skin, emanating for his every pore, recedes. it drains from him in a single rush, unneeded and uncalled upon from the moment the door shuts, the moment they are alone and he witnesses the crest of her reaction. (he sees that anger, that hate, that guilt. he sees her fear, his own horror paralyzing him as he watches her for only that moment, only for a one-second space of that unravelling.
he wants to tear anyone or anything that could make her feel this way apart. he wants to take her in with these hands as if the will and tenderness of his love will make it all right.
it slices through him. revulsion for what could have transpired, for what did, for knowing a twisted version of a man with his face hurt her. to see her pained, to know it's for touching her life, to bear the same anger and terror of this invasion.
there was nothing they could do.
not yet.)
he goes to her. he gathers her into his arms, against his chest, the sound of her small, reedy whispers a stab to his heart. they did know. they waited. he— klaus pulls back, the taste of bile in the back of his throat, and smooths back her damp hair. ] What did he—? [ his voice is a breath between them; his rounded eyes search hers, his hand cradling her face. ] Did he—?
[She's too busy in her own head for a moment, but comes back to herself as she feels his arms encircling her, pulling her in. She releases a breath that felt stale in her lungs, and she shudders once, a physical manifestation of her relief before she relaxes in his arms.
He speaks and she answers.]
No. [The word bursts out of her, as if she can't say it fast enough. His hands are warm against her cheeks, her own fingers lift to thread through his, as if by consoling him she's doing the same for herself. Her head shakes ever so slightly back and forth, her voice calmer when she repeats:] ...no.
[Her hands trail down his, her fingers curl around his wrists, her thumb strokes his knuckles.]
I woke up. I thought it was on my own, but now I'm not so sure. [Her eyes dart toward the mirror that was both covered and behind a closed door, wondering if he was trying to listen to all of this, if there was any real place that they weren't capable of being watched.
She looks at him again.] He just kissed me a couple of times. Held me as I went back to sleep. Something seemed off, but when I woke up I just thought it was because I was half awake, like I imagined it.
[She knew it wasn't just a matter of distraction. He'd been stalking her for months by now. He could have just let her sleep.
[ he could have compelled her. had she been on vervain that night? had it left her system? he could have snapped her neck, bit her, tore her to pieces; he could have done anything, but he did this. only this? he softened her with caresses, with kiss, with twisted intimacies. was that his end, to instill in them both fear? to practice his power and fool them both, when and where he could?
or was it more? what did they take?
it is this, regardless: a warning, a demonstration. the terror of it lodges in his throat, looking at her, touching her, each moment he does a respite as if each second will assure him she is here and she is in one piece. the relief of her denials is followed by the anxiety of his worries. it's followed by the unspent and foddering rage inside of him, working his jaw with the crush of its tide.
his fingers slip into her hair; they stay between the wet strands and her soothing touches.
he looks at her, his eyes darting away, his lips pursing as his thoughts race and circle and calculate: how best they tackle this. how best he protect her. she's precious; to him, that is what she is: strong despite the fragility his counterpart will exploit, kind and sharp in ways he can only cherish and awe, nestled in his heart in ways he does not desire to extract. (would it be better for her if he did? he wouldn't take that choice from her. it's too late for that. she's a target.) the next time—
(the idea chokes him.)
next time they might not be so lucky.
his eyes focus in all their intensity on her. he whispers. ] You can't stay here. I can't protect you. [ he didn't. ] There are only so many spells Freya can do. [ she been casting plenty, back in their rooms. even if she casted them here... ]
[The mirrors had wanted to teach their reals a lesson. No one could say they hadn't done that.
Her shoulders tense at the intensity in his gaze, her own eyes locked on his as she processes the words coming out of his mouth. At first, she's confused. This is where she lives and Bonnie put all kinds of spells on her room. All of her things were here.
Except Bonnie was gone, and her magic could very well be gone too.
At first, she's about to ask him the most obvious question; where was she going to go? But then he's talking about Freya's spells and it hits her.]
Are you asking me to move into your place?
[That's...an awkward way of putting it, but seriously? This is not how she expected to be convinced to move in with someone for the first time.
Solely by dangerous necessity. With their siblings.]
[ he doesn't know what he's asking, what he's implying, besides the obvious — it isn't safe for her here, floors away. he can't protect her, no matter what precautions or steps they take. she needs to be near him, where he can know she's all right, where they can be closer than this.
it isn't until she defines it in such plain terms that he realizes what else his professions might mean to her.
his eyes close, the slight wince of his features involuntary and for his own directness, for the toil he feels at the implication. (it's important to her.) he looks away, to the floor, and worries his lips. he considers: is he?
does that answer matter, if what he wants and what he needs are the same?
he looks back to her, decision in his eyes. ] Yes. [ if that's what she wants. if she wants a compromise, he could want that too. ]
[At first, she thinks that maybe she read this all wrong, that he simply wanted her to uproot and resettle somewhere closer for convenience sake. Which would be fine, of course. That would make sense, beyond the fact that Freya probably couldn't cast that many spells whether she lived here or on their floor.
Or maybe, because she said it in that context, he's changing his mind. Little doubts always seem to worm their way into her mind, no matter how often she might be told otherwise. They're quieter these days, but they still exist, whispering at various opportunities.
And then, just when she's sure he's going to correct her, he does the opposite, and she isn't quite ready for it.]
Oh.
[She wonders if Rebekah and Freya will have anything to say about this if she agrees. Or more like when she agrees. It's not like they don't spend enough time together already, or live under the same roof.
Maybe she can convince herself this isn't as big of a deal as it is because she's sure making it feel like one.]
Alright, but only so long as you accept that I'm there to look after you too. And because I want to, not just because you think I need to. Got it?
[ there forms a light inside of him, from the moment he felt the decision solidify; an anxiety, from the moment he assents and knows he needs only wait. it's what they need to do, what he needs; that is what is priority above all else: her safety. but he would be a fool to not recognize he means the rest. he chooses to mean it.
he wants to be near her. he wants to be with her.
he wants this in all the ways it is possible, the desire and longing taking hold of him from not one moment of knowing her but from all of them.
he wants her to say yes. he wants her to want what he's always wanted.
always dreamed.
there's no time to consider it, to analyze and understand the flutter of apprehension and longing inside of him. later, he might countenance what these nerves are about before casting them aside for the fullness of their future. for now the dousing of relief at her acquiescence is all he feels, and he would agree to anything. not blindly, no. it's more than fair that she be there for him too. she has been, no matter how dangerous, no matter how he fears for her. it's fairer more that she want to be.
he shifts on his feet, his breath sudden and ragged, lips pressing together and eyes rounded. ] All right, [ he agrees without pause, and pulls her into him.
his heart is full; his gut heavy. it is relief and happiness, on the heels of dread and horror that is ever present.
klaus closes his eyes and tips his cheek against hers, to feel her. the side of his nose slides against her jaw. he huddles her close and his shoulders relax. ]
[Her voice is smaller and infinitesimally soft as she replies:]
Good.
[He gives her no argument, just acceptance. He understands her need to control this situation, to be in charge of what she does even with some degree of necessity involved. She has to decide, not be told. She wants this to be because of them, not because of some outside force.
And it is, even if that outside force exists, even if it sped this decision along faster than it might have otherwise.
She breathes out, cool air ghosting against his face as the tension in her body releases and she leans into him.]
[ he knows what she thanks him for her. he knows that she needs to take control of this endeavor; that she needs to be the one making this decision. he knows what she needs. he knows because he knows her, because his own needs are hardly different: he needs her to be safe. he wants with all his being for her to be happy. (to be happy with him.)
he stays still and comforted against her, his nose nestled against her neck, savoring her scent and warmth and touch. his arms are firm around her, wrapping her up. klaus lingers there, knowing with certainty that here, in these quiet, private moments, they can find some whisper of elusive peace. (it is harsh outside of this embrace. there is war beyond them.)
he pulls back, just enough to cradle her face in his palm. ] It'll be all right, [ he tells her, as if his will and promise could make it so. sometimes uncertainties armored in both are what is needed, and he wants her to hear them.
and oh, does he want it to be so. his lashes flutter; his brows lift as he tempers the sharp edge of how he wants too for this to be so: ] You will be happy. [ this should be. he wants to make her happy. ]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
She hasn't properly heard from him in awhile, and when they finally cross paths, it's only in passing, and he doesn't even notice that she's there.
It's easy to miss things when you're as intoxicated as he must have been. It's a state she rarely sees him in, if ever, and she has to wonder why? Things have been complicated, to say the least, ever since Asgard. She hasn't quite known what to say, and despite their rekindled 'friendship,' their obvious flirtations and her sheer panic in the midst of her bloodlust left her frazzled and more unsure than ever.
The one thing she knows for sure is that when he's not around, she misses him.
She doesn't necessarily think his perceived mental state has to do with her, her ego isn't nearly big enough for that, but she knows the kinds of things he does when he's feeling, and she wouldn't be Caroline Forbes if she didn't decide to do something kind of impulsive about it.
She waits until it's late before she shows up at his door, knocking loudly. If he's drunk himself into a coma, he's going to need someone to take care of him. Even if he hasn't, he was there for her when she was a mess. Time to repay the favor.]
Klaus? It's me.
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
he lets it in, quietly sitting in the dark of his rooms with the cool touch of the necklace rebekah gave him in his palm. he lets that grief and pain and lack flood in, for there was no avoiding its endless tide regardless. his sister is gone. he will mourn her absence, he will miss her, and despite every instinct in him believing he will not be able to go on without her by his side, he will wake up one day, and it will be easier.
he knows this is true. he knows this is true, ashamed and unburdened in stoicism from that shame, knowing just a mere hour ago he had attempted to lance this wound differently. he closes his eyes as he thinks of the rage and malice and cruelty that filled him, this desperation and longing he would have wielded like a knife.
he is tired and he is worn but not beaten, and when he hears her footsteps outside his door, when he hears her voice, he is torn in a limbo between hope and uncertainty — the two war, for in this quiet, sorrowful moment, he knows that they have been since the moment she returned. since the moment they were here, on opposite sides of his door, and she needed to leave.
he pulls in a breath and rises, driven by the simple longing of wanting to see her, forever unable to deny that wanting, to deny her, and opens the door.
he does not look well, but he is calm. the drink he imbibed still lingers, but he has not touched the bottle since he returned. his clothes are still damp from the lake, clinging and sticking to his skin. rebekah's necklace still hangs from his grasp, the small wolf dangling from his closed fist. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
[She knows that feeling, that emptiness, wanting to fill it with anything or to just make it go away.
She can hear footsteps beyond the door, hears them closing closer before the door opens. She sees him standing there, knows that her suspicions were correct within the space of a breath; something is wrong. She can smell the liquor still on him, clinging to his wet clothes, and her expression morphs to something of despair.
There's not much that could leave him like this, she knows. The necklace she recognizes from the memories he gave her, and she can take a few guesses as to what's occurred, all of them terrible.
She steps toward the threshold, closer to him, then steps closer still. Her arms slip around him as she rises onto her toes, feeling the dampness spread across the front of her blouse as she pulls him in, but she doesn't care.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
( he lets go of the door. he lets go of everything weighing him into the shallows and depths he feels underneath him as she comes forward. his arms open and the force of her body rocks him back before she pulls him in. pulls him somewhere far better than here or in a thousand universes, somewhere so rare and precious because it is her with her loving abandon taking him in; filling up that space where it is her body pressed against his and her arms enveloping him.
she is warm, and he has never felt more needful of warmth now. he has never felt more humbled by it or more in submission of its power; despite the despair, despite his anguish, despite the aching and uncertainties he has felt in clementine's betrayed regard, the horror in jessie's, the lost love and belief in rebekah's, his eyes close. after that suspended moment his palms press into her lower back, one above the other. he leans his cheek to hers as if he cannot feel her close enough, and rubs his hands in slow half circles, switching them along her spine. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
[She can never be entirely sure how he's going to react, but she had been almost certain that he wouldn't reject her, not once he'd already opened the door. Why else would he let her see him in this state if not to seek comfort? No, he would have pushed her away from the start.
The way he holds her, presses them cheek to cheek, breathes against her skin, all of it signals that he needed this, needed her to be here.
She'd needed him in her own way, too.
Her arms are around his neck, one palm laying across the back of his neck, her thumb running over the bottom line of his hair.]
I'm sorry.
[It's not an apology, but something else. It doesn't matter what happened, she wishes it hadn't. She wishes Wonderland hadn't done something else to him, to them. She'd fix it if she could.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
( there is no reason for closed doors, denied comforts, or for shame, not between them and not tonight. it is not the first nor the last time he has given himself to the solace in her arms, and though a mere hour ago he might've turned away or lashed out with anger, embroiled in his own bitter sorrows, he does not now. he will not. he does not want to.
he wants to hold her. he wants to feel her holding him. he wants to be reminded of the goodness in life, in him, in her, in this.
she reminds him. with her touch, her words, her vow. she lets him breathe with that reminder.
he is sorry too. tear prick his eyes. they burn. one of his hands moves up her back to cradle the nape of her neck. to cling. ) Rebekah's gone.
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
[It's one of those moments where she realizes, with utter clarity, that no amount of optimism is going to help here. She wants to soothe him with words, tell him he'll see her again, that it's going to be okay, that she's still here even if Rebekah is not.
It won't help ease this pain. His sister isn't here, it isn't okay, and Caroline is neither a replacement nor is her presence in Wonderland a guarantee.
Anything she says could end up a lie, and none of them will make the hurt go away.
She squeezes him tighter instead, lets him cling, providing a place where he feels safe enough to let himself feel what he needs to. She's not someone who would claim this reaction to be a weakness, and maybe there's some solace in that too.]
Edited 2017-10-06 04:53 (UTC)
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
( he wants to share with her everything: every pain and uncertainty that has been harshly dealt these past few days; every terrible, frightened, and anxious thought that has emerged from his spinning head. (he keeps those thoughts close. he always has. as a child beaten and a growing man silent in fear, he always has.
he has not kept them quiet from her. he wonders now if she wants to hear those hushed, thick whispers in the dark. if he can trust she wants his heart as she once did. it's hers; it's hers: that's how it beats, and he wants always to offer it.) perhaps those words will come. (that offering will come, vulnerable and longing in his eyes.) perhaps he will summon them or let them fall in snapped desperation soon, but for now all he wants — all he needs —
she holds him tighter and he feels that gaping emptiness weigh in him. he thinks of a life without his sister. he thinks with horror that one day they might all be gone. (his truest fear, come to life again and again. hope. elijah. hayley.) clementine. freya. caroline, the woman he holds so fiercely in his arms. they will fade away as easily as he met them here, and there will be nothing but this emptiness.
his arms are not empty now. there is solace in that. there is strength. he dips his head, presses his face into the curve of her neck. his breath is shaky but he breathes her in, his fingers crushing the soft curls in his grasp. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
[Her hands moves up from the nape of his neck to the back of his head, fingers threading through hair as she cradles it, letting him hide his face in the hollow of her collarbone. She feels him breathe, the shake of it impossible not to notice, and remembers the moment when he'd ceased to do even that, if only for a short while.
It's ever present, how temporary all of this is, and it scares her. Not because she might lose something, but because she might regret the things she doesn't say and do, because she'll never get this time back, and the day will come when it will be like it never happened.
She's been wasting it. Rebekah's departure proves that even more.
Her own breath stills, her words quiet when she speaks, a question that she isn't sure is right but she also isn't sure she cares.]
...Do you want me to stay?
[It's not just about feeling bad about leaving him like this, no matter how much time would pass before she did so. It's about the fact that she wants to be here, but it's about his grief now. He'd given her the space she'd asked for when their situations were reversed; this time, it's up to him.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
( she smells like yesterday. like all the days he wishes were this one and the next, and the next. she smells like now, this constant he will always seek and know: this inexplicable, endless well of how he loves her. he feels the tether between them, that presence and act of intimacy he covets and holds.
he feels it and he loses himself in it, despite uncertainty, despite heartache, despite fear. a shiver runs down his neck, feeling the journey of her touch; the tension in his shoulders unwind at her fingertips against his scalp.
her question stills him. klaus pulls back, his touch drifting down from her hair to her spine. he pulls back enough to look at her, to seek to understand, his heart large and hopeful in his chest.
his eyes search hers, his own wide and awed, filled with the longing and fear he has not voiced. he blinks and attempts to temper the transparency, the answer echoing inside of him and possessing him. what he worries, what he wonders, what he nearly asks is, does she? does she want to stay?
(he is terrified of being alone, yes. but he can weather his loneliness. the grief and the emptiness. he has time and time again. what matters to him is what she desires; he has always known what he wants.)
decision cements in him. faith and fear that she will do what she chooses. he can only make himself known. ) Yes.
Edited 2017-10-07 11:40 (UTC)
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
[She always does what she chooses, now that she has the strength to be able to choose. No one tells her what to do anymore, and the things she does are very rarely out of anything resembling obligation.
He knows this. He's dealt with it from her more than enough times.
He pulls back to look at her, and her expression is vulnerable, as if she's afraid he'll say no. It only hurt more to know that she turned him away when he likely felt the way she does now.]
I just...I watched you practically die and I can't stop thinking about it.
[She feels like she needs to explain, to prove that she's not just doing this for him.]
If you left tomorrow, I'd regret it if I'd kept doing what I'm doing.
[She needs to make her decisions based on the now and not what might happen. She can live with that, no matter what happens later.]
So if you want to be, then I'm here. I don't want to waste time anymore.
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
( he has suffered his own unravellings from that close brush with whatever death is possible for him here. he has, but he has not thought of hers. he has not considered what fears or revelations it might have inspired in her, much too occupied with his own.
her confession strikes true, and the dealt blow of it is clear on his face: he did not consider her worry for him. he does not consider anyone's worry for him, from perceived indifference to the lack of necessity for it. he is immortal, but that is not why this moves him.
it moves him because she cares. (she cares like so few do.) it moves him to stunned silence, his breath held in exquisite anticipation as the rest of her confession falls from her lips, because it means she wants. she wants more. she wants again. this is a blow, because it takes him a moment of incomprehension to understand, to believe —
he shifts on his feet once in his uncertainty.
then there is nothing left to say. his hand reaches to cradle her face; his lips fit with tender and firm passion to hers. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
[It had inspired a multitude of things that she'd found difficult to process or express. He was supposed to be one of those things that would always be there, that couldn't get brought down by anything, that she didn't have to dread the loss of. Maybe, somewhere in her mind, she simply assumed he would always be there when she might need him, but that very thought had been shaken to the core when his heart stopped, when he dessicated just like any of them could.
She could lose anyone, at any time.
At first, that made staying away seem like the safer option, but Caroline needed people. She needed friends and love and company to be happy. Isolating herself would only make her angrier, and she couldn't fathom the thought of doing it just to save herself some heartache in the future.
That would happen. It was inevitable. Nothing could have saved her mother and nothing was going to prevent what might happen in the future, regardless of how they tried to fight whatever might come their way.
She was selfish. She hadn't wanted to have this conversation now, when his wounds were so fresh from his loss, but she hadn't been able to help herself now that she was here, wrapped up and feeling a warmth she'd resisted for too long because she'd been afraid.
The press of his hand against her cheek is less surprising that the sudden pressure of his lips against hers, but it feels as good as it always has, and she finds herself unable to fight the urge to stop. She doesn't want to, even if hiding pain in comfort might not be the best course of action. If he wants, then so does she, and she proves it in the way she responds, pulse racing and lips turning up against his mouth.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
( the wounds are fresh, yes. there are words they should speak, sentiments and confessions and secrets of the heart and mind they should whisper to each other. there is grief to be felt, but klaus knows that grief will always be there, when he is ready to feel it. (he will feel it still, heavy and sorrowful in the whole of his heart, even with the bittersweet joy possessing it now.) he wants this comfort. he wants this piece of homecoming.
he wants her.
he needs this, as he's needed it all these months. as he's yearned and longed for, as he's weathered in absence. if that is selfishness then so be it, but he doesn't consider selfishness for a moment.
all he considers is her lips, turned to his. the wild, tender need spiraling out of control, feeling her racing heartbeat so close to his. her body, pliant and perfect as he presses her close by the cut of her waist. he turns her inside and reaches blindly to shut the door behind them. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
[It's easy to give in to this selfishness, because if he isn't thinking of it, then they aren't hurting anyone.
Her lips grin again as he turns her into the room, hears the door shut rapidly a moment later, her body curving into his and her arms slipping further around his neck to keep her balance. Those same lips part gently, the whole movement so familiar to her that suddenly it seems like very little time has passed at all.
He tastes exactly like she remembers.
Her arms loosen around him, hands dragging over shoulders and then down between them to reach for the hem of her shirt. Her lips part from his reluctantly, though only so she can drag the thin fabric over her head and toss it aside.
If this right here isn't the biggest fuck you to Wonderland right now, I don't know what is.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
( she tastes as he remembers. better for her absence, the pleasure like a bolt of lightning through him, her soft, open mouth a tease against the way they bend and press and pull to be nearer, to be seamless. he nearly whimpers, nearly groans; he leans in to chase her lips as she pulls away, his breath a dragging gasp.
his heart is pounding and pounding harder still as his eyes open slowly to see her smile and bare her skin.
it's the joy in her grin that electrifies him. that brings him to life. that reflects his own elation, so stark and bittersweet, mingling with the low of devastation crowding his heart. he takes it. he embraces it. he rushes forward, pushing her to the edge of the bed. his hands grasp the waist of her skirt and he tears it in half.
he grabs behind her thighs and lifts her up, coaxing her legs around him, as they've been dozens of times before. his eyes are full of heat, of wickedness, of love and promise as his palms slide up from her thighs to her back. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; THIS IS PROBABLY ABOUT TO GET NSFW
[There's a short gasp of disbelief at the sound of ripping fabric (always with the destruction, Klaus), but his hands easily coax her legs around his hips all the same, her thighs tensing to hold herself flush against him.
Her hands fist into the fabric laying against his back, slipping it up until she can grasp the bottom of his shirt and pull it over his head, her skin aching with the need to feel his against it.
There's a strange exhilaration in her eyes, as if her confession took some immense weight off her shoulders. She's as relieved to be here in this moment as he is, any fears or concerns dashed by the action of making her choices and knowing they're the right ones for her.
Her hand slides over the back of his neck, pulling him into her, the intensity of her kiss speaking volumes about how much she's been holding back, how it's been welling up inside her, how it was only a matter of time before it spilled out.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW INCOMING
(she should really expect destruction at this point. order two of everything from the closets?
she sheds his shirt. it's discarded with all haste; he needs the feel of her skin just as she. he needs the softness of her and the solidity of her against him. his hands span her waist, the light in his eyes ignited by the same in hers: it's content. passion. that same uncoiling relief. when she pulls him into her, her sweet mouth finding his, he meets her with a moan.
his fingers dig into her skin. he savor and revels and cherishes that desire of hers, pushing and pulling at him. he falls into it with abandon, his kiss just as hungry, the corners of his lips turned up in a smile that fades only as the pleasure overcomes all other sensations but bursts of joy and want.
his hands clutch and caress her. he groans into the heat of her kiss and spin them around, sitting at the edge of the bed and tugging her hips into his, her into his lap. his heart races; he pulls from her mouth to press his lips and tongue to the hollow of her neck. his palms finds the curve of her shoulder, the strap of her bra to fist in his hand and draw into down. his lips and teeth and tongue find the peak of her breast beneath fabric. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW INCOMING
[Just because she expects it doesn't mean she has to like it, sir. But let's be real, she's clearly not that pressed.
His fingers press and leave their marks. She sucks air through her teeth even through her kiss, the pressure of his hands against her skin feels like home. Another quick spin and she's straddling him, sinking onto his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. Her palms carve a path up his chest as his lips part from hers, then run up the sides of his neck and into his hair as his teeth and tongue do their work.
Her hips shift against his, her head gently falls back with a contented sigh, long blonde locks brushing over her shoulder blades.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( there is no hesitation, no pause, no thought — only ardency and fervency. if he lingers, tongue painting wet circles around pert peak straining against his touch, his fingertips drawing down her arm, it's only because every sensation intoxicates him. it's only because he knows how to touch her and how he needs to touch her.
a breathy hum rumbles in his chest as her hips implore friction against his. (that's what he wants; he wants that.) he turns his head, bites the soft mound of her other breast and pulls her negligée down with coaxing force; it slips away beneath his mouth, already open and wet above her nipple.
she feels like home. she also feels like water to his parched throat; he's desperate for her. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[Her mouth closes as his teeth graze her skin, her own clenching shut as she pulls another breath through them in a quick hiss. Her nails drag against his scalp she pulls her fingers free from his hair, chin tilting back down to look at him before she's placing her palms against his chest and shoving hard.
She doesn't think he'll resist.
Her arms reach behind her, undoing the clasp on her bra and discarding it before he leans forward, her now bare torso brushing against his. One hand falls flat against the mattress above his shoulder, the other slipping between them to tug impatiently at his belt.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( he has no protest despite the loss; on the contrary — his eyes are dark with pupils blown, revelry in her show of force in the hint of his dimples. his back hits the bed but immediately his shoulders lift from it. (he feels a rush from her bared and commanding above him. he wants to claim her; he wants her to have her way. he wants everything and in this wild passion he will take it.)
he buries her fingers in her hair, savoring the softness of her cheek and the shape of her face cradled in his palm before delighting in the silk of those locks he reveres so much. his skin sings for hers; he arcs slightly at the brush of her body, heats and melts at the slide of her hand. klaus does nothing but aid her endeavor, helping her undo his belt and shuck his jeans down his hips. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[She shifts above him, her foot hooking into the waist of his jeans as he shucks them down, dragging them the rest of the way with a stretch of her leg.
Good enough.
She grins wickedly as she leans in again, reclaiming his mouth as she rolls to the side, calf slipping around his hip and dragging him with her until they're laying side by side. Her heel presses into his lower back, pulling him closer. Her arms encircle his neck as her torso presses firmly against his.
Each of her movements is demanding, insatiable, as if she's trying to physically destroy any remaining distance placed between them by Wonderland's meddling.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( there is no distance. he eschews every inch of it, only her hands pulling him in, every part of her rediscovering and known again, wrapped up with him. his breath catches and his lashes lower at her exquisite allure and dark intent, and when her lips descend on his, his fingers are already curling into a fist into her hair, tilting her face to the side to meet her.
and he groans, face flushing hot, heart racing at the friction and pleasure of her, from the wet, tender heat of their kiss to his hard arousal pressed between them. his arm, wedged beneath her, squeezes her impossibly closer, needy as his hips roll. his other hand maps a path up her thigh, from her hip to the curve of her spine to the nape of her neck. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[His name spills from her mouth as she inhales a quick breath against his mouth, the touch of his hand drifting over the length of her body sending a ripple down her spine. He's so close, but it's not enough; she wants more, she needs it.
Her leg shifts even further up, over his hip bone, before an impatient hand slips between them, her abdomen tensing to create just enough room to reach lower, fingers wrapping around to stroke him a few times before she guides him between her parted thighs, pressing the tip against her entrance.
She draws her mouth away from his, opens her eyes to look at him. Her breath shudders once in anticipation, her gaze holding his with hooded eyes holding a mixture of emotion and lust.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( he knows. he knows with familiar, instinctual, answering heat: from the sweet tenor of his name on her lips to the soft shudder and melding of her body against his how much she wants. this. him. them. it catches his breath short before she ventures her hand between them, the shallow raggedness of it erupting into a soft grunt as her hand wraps around him and strokes him in a way that drowns all remaining thought. his hips seek her touch; his lips part with breaths of pleasure against hers.
she leads him to the wet, promising heat of her and he shudders and heats. his hand presses to her hip; his other takes her wrist to guide it around his neck. his eyes are open too, depthless and ardent, tender and lustful both. he presses them together, slow and seamless: sinking her onto him as much as he meets her. this is what she wanted. what he wants. he wraps her up close, forehead to forehead, chest to chest, and gives to her impatience just as he draws their desire out. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[She can't help the parting of her lips at the gentle press of him, her mouth falling open further as he sinks inside, and she exhales a long contented sigh that brushes across his face. Her hips shift slightly against his, settling her body against his even as it cries out for the heated friction she craves.
Her forehead presses harder against his as her lips press together then, stifling a groan that she firmly silences as she presses her mouth to his. The kiss is needy but doesn't last long before she's breaking her mouth away, her breathing heavy despite their relative stillness.]
I missed you.
[She missed this, a fact that she had tried to hide from as if it were wrong to seek this comfort in the midst of her grief. She wanted to miss this for the right reasons, not just because she was alone.
She does. She did. He should know.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( he holds her close. he holds her so close his knuckles whiten when his fingers flex; the shifting of her hips, the answering, slow strain of his own in their held stillness as agonizing as it is perfect. he wants to feel her, to embrace her, to feel the breathlessness in her kiss. he shivers; he shudders with impossible desire, with the intensity of pleasure, the deliriousness of quiet ecstasy, of the contentment, he finds with her in his arms.
his eyes open slow after their kiss. she breathes, i missed you and he shivers again with awe and with need. he holds her tighter, tangling his fingers impossibly deeper in her hair, his fist tugging gently at the root. his body presses to her in a slow surge, his breath quiet and ragged against hers.
she missed him. he knows. he knows this is right; he sees it in her eyes. he feels his own, filling his heart. he suffered that lack just as she: feeling that empty space, that empty quiet, that piece of rightness taken away. his lips bush her cheek; his eyes stay on hers. ) Every moment, without you, ( he whispers. it's a promise. an oath. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[Just as he shivers at the words she murmurs to him in their brief quiet, so does she shudder at his whisper, the short exchange nearly bringing her to tears. She doesn't know if she should be deliriously happy or drown in despair at needing to have had that space for so long.
She decides she'd rather cling to the first.
Her thigh and calf tense at his hip, in some futile attempt to somehow draw him closer as she exhales another desperate sigh, contenting herself with leaning in to kiss that mouth that says the things that hit her deep inside her chest, fill her heart and lungs to bursting. Her hands grasp at his back, fingers pressing into his skin as she clings to him, head tilting as her lips part, hungrier this time.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( he's entranced by the joy and despair intermingling in her eyes, both reflecting from him; he's entranced by her tears that shine in the dark. his heart stutters in his chest; it feels as if it stops as they share this hanging moment of bittersweet tenderness threatening to overflow. the desperation of his unyielding hold on her loosens, but his strength and fervor does not. his unclenched fist moves down the wave of her hair, down the back of her neck.
he doesn't believe he's shared in or experienced anything more beautiful or heart-aching, but he embraces the former and releases the latter just as she.
he is tense with pleasure. the stillness and slight shifts of their bodies, the touch and hunger of her mouth, the tightening of her leg around him pressing him to the brink. he does not fall over. at the last moment he finds a reserve of calm. he kisses her with fierce, tender strength edged with heat; he kisses her until he cannot kiss her anymore. until his blood is pulsing like thunder and he is aching inside of her. he smooths her hair back. his eyes open. he looks at her in the stillness of the moment, before her begins to rock into her. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[Her eyes open as his does, eyelashes fluttering briefly as they try to focus through the haze. Her chest presses against his with each quick breath she takes. His hand dragging through her hair brings her a necessary prompt of calm. Her gaze locks with his, lips parting with a sigh as he starts to move again, this time with purpose and intent.
Her body constricts around him, seeking friction. She wants to feel every inch of his skin, which she explores with roaming hands, palms smoothing over his shoulders, up the back of his neck, down his spine.
She rolls onto her back then, pulling him with her, longing for the press of his weight above. Her legs encircle his waist, ankles hooking at his lower back as her hips rise to meet him, to let him bury himself as deeply as he pleases.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( for those exquisite moments there is only the touch of her hands luring him in, the quiet yearning of her body, pushed and pulled against him by hers and his own — by his own hands at her back, around the span of her hips. he gets lost in the raw and excruciating intimacy of it; he gets lost in how he wants her and how she wants him, the depth of both in the dark and longing of his gaze.
it's not enough. it never is, and when she beckons him atop her, her legs parting around him, the depths in which he slides into her is sweet, blinding relief. he groans, breathless, the endearment of sweetheart a rumble in his throat. he does bury himself as deeply as he pleases; he could hardly assuage nor censor himself. he covers her with his body, the flush high on his cheeks as he rocks ceaselessly into her. and he whispers against her lips, his fingertips running from her hair down to her shoulder, up to her pulse —
and he whispers. he whispers everythings: about the beauty of her like this, about what she wants, what she likes, about how he wants her, about how she is everything filling the spaces of a thousand years — )
Edited 2017-10-29 01:44 (UTC)
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[The concept of time ceases to matter, the room around them ceases to exist. There is just the press of the mattress at her back, the feel of his body above her, and the sounds of his voice in her ear. She soaks up the words, tucks them away in a safe place, to revisit when her own thoughts betray her, when she forgets how he sees her and can only find her own faults.
He sees them, she knows he does, but he loves them as much as the rest of her.
She holds him tightly to her, heart racing inside her chest, her cheeks flushed with need. Her lips press together, her teeth bite into her bottom lip, nearly drawing blood as she tilts her hips to get what she needs, letting herself peak as he continues to whisper to her.
After the first few blissful moments, words cease to make sense, and she silences him by pressing her mouth firmly against his, stealing the air from his lungs as her lips part against his.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( nothing matters but her, the sensations overwhelming between them, the hitch of her breath, the scent of her skin, the heat of her blood high on her cheeks. he clutches her just as she clings for him, the firm insistence in her embrace returned and shared. he isn't going anywhere. (he's never been anywhere else but for her.) she isn't; the intensity in which he murmurs to her and the ardor in which he drinks her in is in want and devotion of that.
she doesn't only want him. she knows him, and wants him.
she knows this. she wants this. he surrenders.
when she comes he feels it in the fever of her body slotted against his, the bite of her nails in his skin. she undoes him. he drives his hips relentlessly down into hers, presses her deep into the mattress, groaning into her kiss as the cresting waves of his release follow hers. his breath is heavy; his hands run up and down her side. one moment floods and blends into the next; the surge of his body slows but does not halt. the sweat cools and builds on his skin; he grabs at her and rolls beneath her, one hand cradling her neck, the other smoothing down her chest and around her hips.
hybrid stamina)
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[Her chest rises and falls above his. Her body curves into the path of his palm down her skin, which is damp with sweat beneath his palm. She shivers once at the cool air brushing over her back now that it's no longer warmed by the mattress, her hips rolling against his slowly as his hands pass over her hips.
Her breath comes quickly, keeping up with the quick beat of her hear more so than any actual fatigue. She could do this for hours, lose herself in him until she couldn't tell where he ended and she began, and she wouldn't find cause to complain.
If anything, she'd think of it as making up for lost time.
Her forehead presses against his as she continues to catch her breath, eyelashes flicking open as she looks at him with eyes that see nothing else in the moment before they close again, head tilting so that she can fit her lips against his with feverish pressure.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( his breath is caught. it is caught witnessing the quiet pleasure and devotion in her opening eyes. it is caught, his lashes lowering, as her body moves over his, sitting him deep inside of her. klaus moves with her, his hand following the guide of her hips; his own lifting to meet her.
he would do this all night. he will do this all night until all that's left is the desire to hold her close and sleep. until there is nothing but the scent of her skin and the knowledge of her body and heart in his dreams. his exhale is a soft moan that her kiss consumes. his hand roams through her hair, over her shoulder, down her back. he rocks beneath her, dragging his lips from hers to seek the beat of her pulse.
his tongue is warm over the rapid rhythm and the sound of his veins blackening is loud in the relative quiet. his growl is a rumble and his fangs nearly nip her skin. he desires her, but he does not want to taste her blood yet. he only wants to hear it thrum as they both ache. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
The surge of her blood just beneath the skin mixes with the stirring of her vocal chords as she moans his name. The fingers of one hand dig into the flesh of his chest, the other slips through her hair to pull it over her opposite shoulders.
Her body sinks down on his, calves sliding against his outer thighs, a cool breath sucked in between grit teeth, before she hisses out another needy sound.]
Yes.
[It's not a request or a plea, but it's close.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( time has no meaning; becomes nothing more than the pumping of her heart, the exquisite pleasure of her body, and the visceral answer of his. he groans, low and drawn-out from his chest, hair standing on edge with a shiver from the puncture of her nails, hips lifting to seek the depths of her. his hands contour down over her hips. he tastes the sweat on her skin when he kisses her frenzied pulse again, his body tense and electrified.
she asks and he relents. she wants and he takes. his teeth sink into her skin, the slow and heavy burst of her blood maddening. it soaks his tongue and floods his mouth and sends him spiraling into a primality that consumes him. his arms wrap around her tight, one at her waist and the other around her shoulders, and he rocks up into her, the sounds rolling from his chest as animalistic as they are exultant.
he is blinded by the pleasure, by the bloodlust, by her, and when he pulls away he feels the blood between them, sees it red on her neck and jaw before he seeks to kiss it away. )
Edited 2017-12-04 00:05 (UTC)
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[She feels weak and powerful all at once; his grip on her is crushing yet exhilarating, as it reminds her of the effect she can have on him in any number of ways. She feels the warmth of her blood against her skin as it paints his lips and his chin, hot and throbbing as it leaves her, leaving her lightheaded as the sound of his voice cascades through her chest as his ribcage vibrates against hers pressed so tightly to him.
She exhales a hot, heavy breath, crimson splashed across his face as he briefly pulls back from her skin long enough for her to see it through half-lidded eyes, and then his mouth is against her skin again, his mouth and his tongue warm and comforting as they move against the wounds he's made.
The true debilitation of his bite wouldn't kick in till later, so she just revels in the gentle burn of the marks he's left on her, not so dissimilar from the feeling of liquor as it slides down her throat. He rocks up inside her and she presses back as she sits up slightly, her hand coming up to her collarbone. Her fingers draw away, sticky with her own blood, and she lifts those fingers to her lips, tasting it for herself in a lustful haze as her veins stir below her eyes.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( the delicate veins branching beneath her skin are black under the sparse glow of moonlight from the window. they stir in him a different sort of hunger, of need, of perfect pleasure so overwhelming it envelopes him. he watches, taut as an arrow, as her fingers dip into her mouth; watches her taste herself, creases of effort and agony forming between his furrowing brows.
he groans brokenly. no sooner does she have her fill does he reach for her, his hand a blur in his instinctual impulse. his fingers wrap around the roots of her hair, her name a staccato moan, an oath and a plea, as he lifts his shoulders from the bed to meet her lips in a bloody kiss. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[His mouth is hot at metallic against her, the scent of her blood fills her nose, mingled with the heavy scent of their carnality. For as much as she savors her control, needs it in all things, there's something about losing it with him, because of him, that thrills her in ways she didn't really understand before.
They control each other so that they both can give it away.
Her teeth clench against his kiss, her own baring behind her lips, jaw clenching as she grips him tightly, holds him against her. He body rocks down on his, giving herself cause to gasp, and her nails sink into whatever purchase they can find, rational thought a distant thing and impossible to grasp.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( he wants to savor the sensual dominance of her control as much as he thrills in wielding his own. truth be told, in moments just as primal and lost as this, he is desperate to see her fray and snap and claim him. desperate enough to provoke or persuade her with his hands, his mouth, his insistence where he verbally still cannot.
he wants to be made to submit. he wants to lose himself in that oblivion; he wants the safety and fear and vulnerability that comes with it. (he wanted to feel her want in the beginning. he wanted that reassurance and wonder and delection. now he knows it. now he finds himself sinking into it, earnest and wanting to rule and be ruled by it.) after all this time he wants it now, again; he needs her.
he feels the tension in her jaw as she bears down on him; he gasps too, voice strangled, as her nails score his shoulder and his chest. he takes the opportunity, forcing his tongue into her mouth, seeking to caress her tongue, to taste her blood intermingling against their senses, to run that caress down the length one sharp fang. )
Edited 2017-12-24 01:31 (UTC)
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[Her tongue tangles with his, hot and metallic, before she lifts her chin high enough to break the kiss. Her nails dig deeper, the scent of his blood sharp and different from her own as she breaks skin.
She wants. She needs.
So she'll take it.
Her left hand reaches across his face, palming his cheek to press the opposite into the sheets. She wants to lay claim to him the way he did her, in every way they know, so she strikes like viper, burying her mouth against his throat, inhaling deeply even as she rends his skin and clamps her mouth against that which flows in her wake.
She groans as it hits her tongue, so different from the taste of her own.
She missed it.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( he bleeds at her mercy. the puncture of her nails is sharp and he hisses and heats at the harsh sting, but the pain of it is overwhelmed, intensified. the delectable force of her pinning him with her strength and teeth bristles and consumes him: he grunts as the breath is pushed from him, exultant and agitated by the viciousness of her mouth. he moans, open-mouthed, the hands at her hips following and grabbing the roundness of her bottom, circling to her back.
his blood spills and flows from him with such vitality he feels weak and suddenly sluggish, or perhaps that's just her, the tips of her breasts against his chest, her tummy against his, his hips rocking close and ceaseless, with a mindless slowness up into her. a lone finger dips into the curve of her spine and drags up; he shudders as she drinks. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[She swallows, greedily once, then with more patience second. By the third, it's lazy and slow, her tongue dragging over the wounds decorating his throat, mouth breaking away finally with a groan as he rocks up into her.
She finally lowers her gaze back down, the hand at the side of his face tracing down his throat, smearing the lingering blood there even as his wounds heal under her palm, before she sits up, lifting her fingers to her mouth to lick away the remnants.
It's messy, but sometimes so are they, and she can't bring herself to care.
Besides, there was always the shower.
The darkness in her eyes slips away, and she wipes futilely at her mouth with the back of her hand even as her lips spread into a satisfied grin.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( it's incomparable: the rapture of her violence and domination and the visage of her pleasure afterwards. he is malleable to her will a moment more, heart pounding and face flushed as she sits back. his eyes stalking and focused, watching her with a possessive heat and desire. his hips still for now, though he is painfully and exquisitely hard for her, his palms kneading her bottom, his own stained lips parted.
there is a smile alight in his eyes, reflected by hers. he sits up and pulls her chest close to his with a soft hum, blood wet and slightly sticky between them. he kisses her, mouth open and hungry, fingers drawing down her collarbone, down, down, to gently pinch and tug at the pebbled peak of her breast.
she feels like heaven. she looks just as stunning as he pulls back, his voice but a whisper over her lips. ) I want to taste every inch of you. I'll have you coming until you beg me to stop.
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[There's a slight gasp between parted lips, masking her smirk only briefly before it reappears, the corners of her eyes pinching with her amusement. Her body flexes around him with deliberate strength, her lips brushing over his as she gives him her very forward reply.]
That's quite the lofty goal, but...
[She trails off briefly, one arm slinging around his neck, the grip of her hand tight on the back of his neck. The other hand plants itself against his chest as she rolls her hips once, grinning wider.]
...I have to wonder if you'll be the one to beg first.
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
( the relish he feels in her body is mindless, overwhelming, pulling him under like the tide. it's without words, though she seems to have a few, and he cannot help but wonder at their foresight. he gathers her close, the sensation of her warmed and wet against him, the clench and friction of her movement driving all thought from his head. he groans his helpless, shameless enjoyment, and ducks his head with sudden desire to capture a pert nipple between his teeth and tongue. he tastes lingering blood and the salt of her sweat; her skin is so soft, her breast plush against his lips.
one of his hands presses into the small of her back.
he pulls away and inwardly considers there's no reason they both can't have their cake and eat it too. ) If that's a challenge, ( he says, voice low and rough, ) I beg you to give it your all.
[ Claire doesn't want to make a big fuss, but she does need to be sure the person who saved her life is aware of her gratitude. ]
Mr. Mikaelson, this is Claire Fraser. I wanted to extend my thanks now that the event is over. You saved my life. I'm not only thanking you for myself but my husband as well. And I apologize if I...said anything off-color about your method of saving me.
truth be told, he's been content to put the entire encounter from his mind. wonderland has seen to it that there's plenty to turn his focus, but he also hasn't quite been able to forget. (there was one trauma he was able to prevent, even if only for now.) for this reason, her repeated appreciation means something. it meant something, to her.
he pulls in a breath, braces himself, and seeks words. )
You were dying. I did only what I knew I could. ( that sounds unnecessarily detached even to him, but he can't seem to countenance anything approaching an expression of 'you're welcome.' perhaps because that savior is not who he is.
still. his voice softens some. ) I suppose I should thank you. For not running for the hills. ( she could've. many have. and worse. )
While your abilities are...certainly nothing I've ever heard of before, running from someone who used them to save my life seems rather rude.
[ She doesn't understand how a vampire/werewolf comes to be and she has no idea what kind of life even leads to that or what you do once you become those things, but what she does know is that he was under no obligation to use his blood for her. ]
( at that he has to smile. rueful though he is, he certainly cannot disagree. ) I concede your point. ( after a beat, he asks with some concern: ) And your husband? ( he'd like to know if she found him safe. )
He was all right. We found each other as soon as everything went back to normal. [ And she may have saved Klaus from what she's sure would just feel awkward. ] He wanted to thank you in person but I believe I've managed to convince him you would rather remain an anonymous savior. Unless you would like to come for tea, that can be arranged.
No, I believe it's best if I decline. ( klaus smiles through her explanation. he's glad on both accounts that she found the man she loves and that she has practiced a decency towards him that he does appreciate. (it would be awkward, but he finds her husband's insistent gallantry admirable.
he'd want to do no less, if the positions were reversed.) ) I appreciate your confidence. ( he pauses. this sort of gesture is not typical of him and means all the more because of it. ) Know you have a friend, if ever you're in need.
Thank you. [ It's not an offer she will ever take lightly, and there's a soft hint of a smile in her voice. ]
Should you ever need my assistance, that kindness goes both ways. [ She won't keep him and after a beat, begins her farewell. ] Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Mikaelson.
[ So Klaus made Alice cry over a very public network transmission. It's vexing for Fitz. Klaus has made so much progress, but then sometimes he reacts like this. He opens up more direct communication, sighing deeply. ]
She's just a little girl, Klaus. You're better than this.
he almost doesn't even dignify this with an answer )
She's a centuries-old relic of the place holding us prisoner, who either does know or could impart leagues more than she lets on. And quite frankly, I could do with a little less judgement and a little more common sense from you. ( he may or may not be scathingly referring to how you caused a scene at his girlfriend's party since we're bringing proper conduct up js )
[It's apples and oranges, as far as Fitz is concerned. Damon Salvatore is an unrepentant monster, and more people ought to be willing to stand up and tell him so.]
She's been imprisoned here, tortured. If she's been traumatized, can you really hold it against her? Maybe she knows things but is afraid to say them. She's been victimized. She needs compassion, not more things to keep her awake at night.
( even if leo is right, it hardly changes klaus’ intent nor what he would do to ensure it. his anger does not abate; if anything, that righteousness strengthens. ) I never said I held it against her. What I said was holding her hand through the process has hardly gleaned productive results, and if you're so concerned about taking care of the children here, perhaps look to those who are actually still children.
[ Oh no don't tell Fitz he's right. He's been sanctimonious enough without people enabling it ]
Tough love only works when there's love involved. [ Like when Agent May is absolutely terrifying and gives him nightmares. Because she loves them. If she's capable of love inside her robotic chassis. ] She has no reason to trust us. How many people like us have failed to save her before? If she's not developing, she could be mentally challenged, or under some kind of course, or... [ he doesn't have a third possibility ready, and trails off instead. ]
The... the point is that she's not the one with any power here. And I know who you are. And I know you're working to better yourself. You don't need to lash out.
when he speaks, his voice is tight and angry, searing and cold )
Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I am willing to do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of those I do love, and I will not prostrate to your misbegotten, naive sentimentality because it will help you sleep at night. If you know who I am, then you know exactly what I am willing to do, and if you don't, then that's no one's fault but your own.
( clementine noticed when klaus was absent (and it scared her. in the same breath she hoped he got to return to his daughter. she also didn't want to lose that relationship in her life. it's not fair- it's not fair because he does have a daughter, and he seems like he'd be a very good father to her, and she deserves to have that). she checked into his room to find out his stuff was still there, but- but that's not always a guarantee she's learned. a week passed she figured out he came back, but she also knows adults well enough to understand. they need time to themselves. they only let out certain emotions alone or among others of their own age.
it can be hard being around kids, especially when one's separated from their own kid. so she gives him time to recover, to get back into the groove of everything.
it's not until a week later that she sends a message. )
( he hasn't forgotten her, but she would be right to consider he needed space. he hasn't forgotten her, but amidst the five years past and the loss of his brother, he has wanted to keep so many things at arm's length. shame prickles over him at the sound of her voice, because he did. he did, but it's not her responsibility to suffer his silence —
she has. it's not fair. it's not fair because he does have a daughter at home, he has many things at home, and clementine does not have a father. (at the moment, he hardly feels strong or worthy enough to be anyone's father.)
his exhale is quiet, shaky. after a beat, he says, ) I'm all right.
( he hesitates, a suffocating feeling weighing down his voice: it's worry, guilt, love. ) I trust you haven't been up to too much trouble in my absence?
( clementine rests her back against a wall, but doesn't speak at first in response to when he says he's all right. she believes him, but she also believes going home was hard and coming back was harder. people can be all right in the face of a whole lot of painful shit.
they have to learn how to be.
and her heart sort of gives a little stab of pain at the realization, at the weight. she doesn't want him to go through painful shit, but she also knows wanting doesn't change anything. )
Didn't you hear? ( she smirks because she's joking to make it easier on him. ) Got together a group, threw all the Queens off their thrones. We're all in charge now. Big trouble but the good kind.
( he appreciates the effort. it reminds him of hope; that kind impulse reminds him of his daughter not in the abstract way it used to, but as a visceral ache. (she would, too. she would be kind. she would want to protect him, like she protected him before he returned here.) klaus' eyes sting, but it is not the grief that wins in the battle of his feelings, it's bittersweet joy.
here still is this bright, beautiful little girl who cares for him, who he cares for.
he tempers his tears, injects a sober playfulness into his tone. ) That is edifying, though I am disappointed I wasn't included. I assume you're a princess? ( pause. no; ) A queen? How you will organize your new regime?
If you were here, you would have been included. ( clementine smirks a bit, resting her back against a wall. sometimes it's good to just talk, to catch up, to let him know she is here still and she cares about him whatever the hell happened where he went and whatever the hell happens in the future. because she does.
she makes a bit of a face then at the mention of her being queen. wonderland's sort of messed that up even in a joke. )
Not a princess, not a queen. I'm tired of queens. Maybe I'll be a president or supreme leader. There'd be a council. People would get to vote unless they voted something really stupid, and then I'd say hell no.
People would get to choose when they came and when they left. They could bring people here or take people to their own worlds.
( he concurs; it's especially good to talk and catch up now, with such separation between them. he listens attentively, his smile genuine, amused, and proud at her insistence of veto-power. ) So a sanctuary, ( he summates. it's not what he would have in mind; there's a goodness to it. an idyllic and generous nature. just like her. ) I like the way you think. And would the closets actually work?
I don't know. The closets always seemed too easy, but I don't want it to be as hard as it is in my world either. ( clementine knows what it feels to be starving, and she's not looking to put anyone else through that unless she really hated them. there's no one here she really hates in wonderland. at least not yet. )
...you really think people could actually do that? ( maybe without walkers around, people are less likely to need to only act for themselves all the time. people in wonderland seem more giving than she's used to. if people could choose to be here, if they could-
clementine shakes her head. she doesn't do imagination often, because her realism gets in the way. ) There's still people needing to die and lose their memories to keep this whole place running. ( carver said she was like him for a reason, because she is. she'd make those choices to keep this place running. ) I could make those choices too, but it wouldn't make this place a sanctuary ever, huh?
[ He'll find two boxes: one holds a nice set of artist markers. In the second box is a a mug with a note: I know it's silly, but I hope looking at it will help you remember what you really are. - Chloe ]
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entranceway inbox
the best part of waking up is feelings in your cup
Her voice is almost breathless when he picks up]
Nik?
best wake up *_*
even knowing that, seeing rebekah's name calling his phone is enough to have his heart in his throat. his little sister, his partner, someone who had been his world once upon a time: it chokes him with relief and terror and anger.
he swallows it all down and answers. ]
Rebekah. [ he wants to ask how she is, if she's okay, if she knows - ] Where are you?
*_*
He is her brother. She has loved and hated him her entire life, as long as it's been, but at the moment all she feels is love. She does know. She knows what he did for her, for all of them. It means everything.
How could it not?]
In a garden of some sort, near a fountain.
[She seems to be okay for now, she does not feel the creeping madness of the curse that had been placed on her, not yet anyway.]
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rebekah is here. klaus is choked by it for a moment; it's not lost on him she is where he was when he arrived. only but a few steps behind. ] Stay there.
[ it's his only response before he hangs up. he does not waste time; he does not dally. there is nothing more important than this: seeing his sister. it takes him no time at all to stop at the mansion's entrance to scan the grounds to spot her. even less to be before her. it's bittersweet awe and joy that washes over him seeing her face, panicked and uncertain of her surroundings. it's gripping, seizing worry that takes him next. ]
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her heart seizes in her chest as she waits for her brother, unable to truly believe he is here until she sees it with her own eyes. she does not forget for a moment what he had done for them back home. when he arrives in front of her she surges forward, as if of no volition of her own.
her arms wrap tightly around him, as if she is frightened he will disappear if she lets go. despite all of their differences and issues through the years he is her brother and she loves him.
selfishly, she's glad he's here. that she does not have to endure this alone.]
It's good to see you, brother. I didn't think I would be able to so soon.
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but it is still a cold dousing; he moves away, reaches for her wrist to see it unmarred, smooth and pale. he stares at it cradled in his palm as if in doing so the mark might appear, much to his terror.
it doesn't, and he lifts his wide, full gaze to her.
they are both all right. ]
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soon enough he's pulling away to check her arm, something she has barely done herself so far. the mark seems to not be there -- whatever magic freya pulled to put them in that stasis seems to have extended here. she is safe from the curse.]
I'm alright, Nik.
[thanks to you goes unsaid, she is unable to quite find the words for how she is feeling in this moment.]
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what he does not truly believe is that they are all right, that they are safe. there is danger in whatever reality they inhabit. ] I suppose you have questions.
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it is not much, but it's something.]
I have a few. Where is this place, exactly? I found the device that helped me find your name and Freya's as well, but I know little else.
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in ways perhaps they need not. should not.
he keeps her wrist in his hand, sucks in a soft breath hearing what she does know: who she knows is here, and who she doesn't. (camille.) he will tell her; he will. but they are words better left for later. (for him, not for her.) it's best to start from the top before he touches on timelines.
now give him like a short second to brace himself for the ensuing ridiculousness of what he's about to say. his jaw tightens and his smile is tight; clearly this is a point of never-ending frustration for him. ] We're in Wonderland, it seems. [ yes, that wonderland ] A separate dimension... from ours. [ that smile fades towards the end because he is 100% serious ]
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it's why she does not fight his grip, the way his fingers stay wrapped around her wrist, keeping her tethered to him.
(always and forever, the curse and gift of the mikaelsons)
her expression turns slightly judgy at the mention of where they are]
You don't mean like the Wonderland in Charles Dodson's silly books, do you?
[Originals: the only people pretentious enough to use Lewis Carrol's real name.]
How is this possible?
if put to the test would you step back from the line of fire?
three grimoires with zero solutions for one witch who's desperately perusing bajillions of books in the library. in her heart, she most certainly knows that this top row that she had to climb a ladder on wheels (who puts ladders on wheels???) to get to will provide nothing.
yep see look what even is this? it's the actual dumbest-- oh-- ]
Shit!
[ rolling ladders!!!! bonnie drops the book in favor of catching herself to hang from the top of the shelf, and is suddenly thankful that she'd cowed and stayed in cheerleading as long as she had. ]
A little help? Hey! Excuse me, can you grab that ladder?
[ yeah, random blond guy that seems totally helpful and not at all ancient and murderous! a little help, buddy? ]
if put to the test would you step back from the line of fire?
[ of all the witches, in all the libraries, in all of wonderland is the basic summation of klaus' thoughts, watching bonnie bennett reach with all her considerable might to find quite the darling self-help manual (yes, he can see the title from here) only to fall quite literally into an unfortunate predicament.
the ladder rolls his way; his lifts a hand to stop it, even though its progress has already slowed. ] This one? [ is that a familiar voice you hear bonnie ] Well, I suppose it'd be my pleasure. [ he moves it back towards her, close enough to be caught by her dangling legs. ]
if put to the test would you step back from the line of fire?
[ it's not ice that runs through bonnie's veins. ice is something left to women ruled by their head. who feel their fear and accept it so that they can more easily manage it. no, beneath bonnie bennett's veins is the crackling ever-moving heat of magma that threatens to crack her open and run over unbridled. she cannot use fear as her tool until she transforms it into anger.
her feet snag the ladder and despite herself she scrambles to find purchase. once secure, though, she somehow feels less safe. surely klaus can sense the way her heartbeat has skyrocketed, her breathing paces as if she's just run a dash. her knuckles turn white where they grip the ladder. (turn it into anger.) ]
Gee, thanks.
[ she is not elena. she doesn't care about winning social chess. so her gratitude comes out covered in sarcasm before she presses her lips together against it. be smart, bonnie bennett. do it for elena. this is how you keep her safe. this is how you be her shield instead of a sword. she huffs a breath and tries again, and it almost sounds genuine from atop her high (ladder-shaped) horse: ]
Thank you.
if put to the test would you step back from the line of fire?
[ klaus wonders sometimes, bored as he gets in this unfortunate dimension, when and if the former residents of mystic falls might move past the terrible traumas he's befallen them. (actually he doesn't think of them more than they deserve at all, but that's semantics.)
in truth he's quite indifferent if they do or not, so long as they do not get in his way. if bonnie's vitriolic sarcasm is anything to klaus, it's quite charming, as is how careful she is in correcting it.
for elena and their survival, no doubt. ] Well I wouldn't countenance such a powerful ally and witch hurt. [ he'll even hold the ladder so she may climb down it with some security.
such a gentleman ]
if put to the test would you step back from the line of fire?
We're not allies.
[ she's too exhausted to do this, voice lacking the usual poison she'd try to inject. even with her feet planted on the floor, bonnie feels unseated. she refrains from rolling her eyes, instead forcing them upward only enough to meet his. (do it for elena.) ]
We're just ... people from the same world stuck together by a more powerful force.
[ this is who bonnie is. blunt and guileless. and in order to do this thing elena has made clear must be done, she's got to find some thread of truth for her inaction. her hand shakes with fear and the effort of doing nothing. ]
video (sort of)
It's not worth troubling Klaus. There's too much else pressing at him.]
video
and he is very concerned by fitz's short and hardly comforting missive: an image of his friend clearly troubled. thoughts of obstacles at the lab and with their research immediately take hold; with freya's disappearance the instinctual paranoia clenches his insides double-fold. (he needs his plans to carry through, especially now that he has intimate proof wonderland will not discriminate with its whims.)
it's barely a few seconds after fitz's message that klaus downs his scotch, gets up from his seat, and opens up a connection in response.
he's in his living area; his rooms are all wood and southern gothic comfort, the paintings and ornaments representing the many splotches of color. it's no surprise his concern is genuine. ] What's wrong?
video
Oh -- it's nothing. Jemma and I are moving forward with the project. It's a bit difficult to pinpoint out location without reliable celestial bodies, but we ought to be close to returning to where we were before initial lab incident.
There, ah... may be a small detour to be made, though.
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their semi-regular tea is also informative.)
this, however. this is new. klaus' concern morphs. he blinks and his jaw tightens. ] And what's that?
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Jemma was imprisoned before arriving here -- that place I mentioned to you before. There's still someone there, and he.
[His breath hitches at the pronoun.]
He's important to her.
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klaus sucks in a breath as his friend goes on. it's a soft reaction not of surprise, but in preparation for a sigh of understanding. it's the same, tedious story, told countless times. love, unrequited. he looks off-screen into space: fitz is hurt. he feels as if he's not the first in jemma's heart, if he ever was or could be. ]
I doubt as important as you. [ they are not empty words, spoken merely out of rote comfort: they are true. klaus is sure of it; jemma cares about fitz and has cared about him longer than anyone she might know now. ] How long was she there?
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I'd been working for six months before I came here. I believe that her conception of spacetime places her sometime later than that. She remembers me bringing her back, but I've not yet done that. I don't know how long she had to get to know him. There was no reliable method of timekeeping in her prison. It might have been years, for all we know.
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fitz deals in facts and figures. that's what klaus asked for, and that's what he get. that is what fitz strives to do, but facts are never the sum of their parts. jemma could have been there for years, as far as fitz knows. years in which she didn't love him but loved another. time well enough to forget the sweet lab partner she once knew. for all he knows, all the heartbreak he feels is tangential to jemma's longings, in the wake of this.
she was there for long enough.
klaus is not one to suffer uncertainties, and he's not about to allow fitz's, or fitz, to get in his own way. his question is impatient and defiant, an expectation plain in his gaze. ]
And?
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And -- ah. So retrieving him will need to take priority. But if we can directly locate that particular planet, then it oughtn't be difficult to streamline the process to funnel others beyond that. It shouldn't be a substantial delay, all things considered.
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the supposed delay means little to him; it's obvious. despite his momentary agitation at its existence, it's not a detour he can avoid, not without intentions to fundamentally alter and manipulate both jemma and fitz's priorities. and even if he will decide to eventually, it's not particularly pressing at the moment. in fact, the added stimuli might only aide both of them to his ends. no, the point he meant to prompt fitz to admit is the one truly weighing in his friend's mind, and in his heart.
what is truly making him heavy. what has been a heavy enough burden to ask for help in sharing it.
(klaus knows what it is like to be heartbroken. he knows what it is like to love, and lose, and love again. now more than ever, he knows the tragedy of time's finiteness, when you do love, and lose, and love again.
and, well. a happy worker is always a more productive one.)
a soft sigh, a short, contemplative pause later, and: ]
May I ask you: what exactly have you told Jemma of your feelings?
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My -- I'm sorry, my what? I -- Oh, I don't think I've -- we're just friends.
[YUP THAT'S IT JUST FRIENDSHIP WHY WOULD YOU EVEN THINK OTHERWISE.]
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he's definitely not fooling klaus, who, if anything, seems slightly amused at such an incredulous reaction
he rears back a little to take it in, and hardly pauses to respond. ]
Are you? So you don't love her? You weren't willing to move literal heavens and earths to find her; to save her life and be with her again? You're not in love with her. [ he's staring you down, fitz
deny it ok
just try ]
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Jemma knows how I feel. We've discussed it.
[In passing, before he drowned for her.]
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still, it doesn't necessarily mean it's the end. ]
Now? [ has he said them here, now? has he repeated them? has he made his intentions and desires clear to the woman who wants to save another man?
klaus' head lifts; his eyes find the screen again. if he hasn't, he should. ] Did she return those feelings, when you did?
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There wasn't time for her to answer when we talked. We were in danger, and it just... Came out.
[He smiles, though his eyes still droop with sadness.]
She's too kind to hurt me on purpose. I wouldn't want to put her in that sort of position.
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[ a grim honesty dealt for the sake of the truth: fitz is hurt, and he is only hurting because of himself.
klaus sucks in a breath, looks away, groping and searching for what wisdom he carries. what words of guidance and comfort he has; what pieces of himself might aide and not cut. ]
Love is... [ he trails off, looks to his friend, and tells the truth. ] It is a terrible thing. It will hurt you. [ it will certainly hurt fitz, as selflessly as he feels it. as cowardly and close as he holds it. ] To ignore it will only deepen and poison its roots.
Tell her. [ a certainty enters his gaze, his voice. ] Or you will regret it, and so will she.
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After I told her last, I was... [There are a lot of words to describe it, and Fitz hates all of them.] Injured. I became a burden, and she left for quite some time. We were able to reconcile, but I couldn't endanger our friendship again.
If she's happy, then that's enough. Recovering Will is what she needs most.
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Take my advice, or don't, [ he knows there's little he can do to force this kind of will, to heal this kind of damage. all he can ask is: ] but remember it.
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I think it's become quite clear that those friends did abandon me. Quite completely, considering they left me to be strangled and mutilated, and subsequently couldn't be bothered with as much as an obligatory floral arrangement while I recovered. I mistook coworkers for true friends, and I've learned to live with that mistake.
[Klaus intervened then to help Fitz recover from a raw, bleeding wound. And though he's recovered well enough to talk about it now, what once was pain has since scarred over. There is no more worry, but nor is there any trust towards them.]
But still... Thank you. For talking with me. And for understanding. I'm sorry for troubling you unannounced.
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fitz has been abandoned, yes. that does not mean he always will be.
klaus softens, something of a smile in his eyes, a lightness in his tone. ] Well, it's difficult to announce trouble.
[ that is to say: it was no trouble at all. ]
It was my pleasure, as your friend. [ he pauses. there is some encouragement and support to give. admiration, to depart. ] For what it's worth, it is the right thing: to help her.
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Thanks, Klaus. That means quite a bit, coming from you.
backdated to 12/25
It's two books, Little Men and Jo's Boys, tied together with a thick ribbon into a poofy bow, accompanied by a short note.]
I owe you a thank you for finding these for me. I enjoyed them.
Merry Christmas.
Let's hope it's a good one without any fears
It's a small box containing a necklace she had purchased from one of the merchants (one who took money, not memories, no worries there). It was a wooden pendant carved down in the shape of a wolf. She may not be the artist he is but she likes to think she has a good eye for these things.
There's a note along with it.
To my favorite big bad wolf, and my annoying big brother.
Always and forever,
Rebekah.]
I Came Around To Tear You Little World Apart
the first one:]
do you really think you can change?
[the second message:]
you're as selfish as you've always been.
[the third:]
you destroy everything you touch. you ruined your first child, you'll ruin the second, just like you ruined me and everything else. you can't love anything without destroying it.
[the fourth:]
to be loved by you is a burden, they would be better off without you. your siblings, your children, you precious blondes Camille and Caroline, everyone
[and finally, at the end of the week]
i wonder how your daughter would feel to know you're content to stay here and be happy without her.
I Came Around To Tear You Little World Apart
it only worsens by the end, each word needling under his skin despite all his better sense and defenses; each sentiment impressing upon him truths and his sibilant whispers that so often plague and haunt him and hound his steps.
for centuries, for now, for always.
(and that they are from rebekah, who knows his weaknesses, his faults, his heart—from any version of rebekah—
it is nothing less than intimate.)
there's a crack on the mirror, in the shape of a fist, stained with his blood, by the third. by the last, no amount of calculation and pacing stops him from picking up a pen. ]
I wonder how content you will be when I have your head on a pike.
Perhaps as content as you are now, all alone in a sad, fabricated world.
[ and with that, he rips the mirror off the wall and lets it shatter. ]
after the disaster
Not when she's walking away from the first victim of compulsion she's found in Wonderland since Klaus' return.]
We need to talk, Klaus. [She marches upstairs, not towards the second floor where their bedrooms are, but rather her office. This isn't a conversation for some place where they've cuddled or kissed.]
Now.
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mostly he's used such instances to plot and scheme and plan, so truly the only benefit of this has been his own increased worry and paranoia, but he digresses.
(despite it all, it is the only route that makes sense: take the time to regain strength and pool resources.)
therefore it's no surprise cami's short message is met with concern that pulls him to his feet. despite any reassurances to the contrary, lucifer is still a wildcard. ] What's happened?
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I just had a really interesting conversation with Leo Fitz. [Another look around, and Cami starts taking the stairs quicker, aware that she'll need the privacy for her half of this conversation soon.] About compulsion.
[Does she need to spell out the rest?]
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klaus' response is only somewhat delayed, but when he does reply his tone is conversational and much too sharp to be convincing. ] Yes, he has been interested in the phenomena of late. We're to assist someone called "Captain America," I believe. [ is he or isn't he being super casual about this and name-dropping someone cami knows to distract her from the inevitable, or—
no, that's pretty much it. ]
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Steve? [Good job Klaus. Now Cami has an entirely different reason to be unhappy! Excellent distraction technique.] Why on earth does he want you to compel Steve?
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You're telling me that Steve Rogers wants to be compelled. [Especially given what had happened to Bucky, Cami would've thought he'd be one of the ones most adamant against mind control.
Unless, like Fitz, Steve doesn't realize that's what this is.]
Klaus, what is this all about?
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klaus is doing this for leo; it's the reason he pauses and admits, ] I saw no reason not to acquiesce to his request.
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Especially since it didn't come from him, right? [But regardless, if Steve has agreed, knowingly, then Cami can't really say anything. Part of her may even be hopeful that against all odds, this somehow works.]
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he supposes out of anyone camille would understand, but it is not the worry or thought that lingers on his mind at present. after all, they are back to the original topic. ]
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Fitz said he wanted a full understanding before he began practical testing. [Steve.] He also seems to be under the impression that you're shy and reserved about your powers.
[He can see how Cami figured out Fitz had been compelled here.]
What did you tell him, Klaus? What did you compel him to believe?
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agitated and firm both, he answers, ] I didn't compel him to believe anything. [ not true, but not untrue: he never claimed to be shy nor reserved about his powers; on the contrary. ] I told him what I was.
[ a monster. he gave fitz quarter and safety from his own: the mirrors and saviors that did not save him. he gave fitz quarter from the monster he is.
shame crawls up his throat. (he did the same for her.)
he cannot swallow it down, no matter how much he has tried these months.
he knows what she knows; that was not the full truth. he bars apology from his voice. ]
I couldn't let him be afraid of me. [ to hate him. to not continue his work. ]
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Klaus had told her of the greater world in which they lived, then stolen her fears. Next came her memories, and then--]
That should be his choice to make. You know that. [For better or for worse. Fitz deserves the right to make up his own mind about who Klaus is.
As much as she suspects Klaus might dread what he could choose.]
You care about him, don't you?
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(he must.
or he doesn't, because he did it for his daughter.
and himself.
but it is camille saying these words and they reach too deep. they stir and pull out a raw and vulnerable truth. he does care.)
klaus turns to his own couch but instead walks with sudden purpose towards his drink cart.
there's a reason he stays where he is. there's more he's not saying. there's more he does not want to say, facing her. he never said he wasn't a coward. ] Of course I care; he's no mean friend. [ mean ally is what he means. perhaps not entirely. a pause, and the clinks of ice in a glass. ] He's my friend.
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[For most people, it would be. It is for Klaus on some level too, because Cami knows how protective he is of those he chooses to hold dear. He wouldn't abide anyone else manipulating Fitz in such a way, period.
But that same connection is itself reason enough for the paranoia that so often wraps itself around Klaus' heart. Hearing the ice clink inspires the temptation in Cami to get a drink of her own, but she doesn't. Not for the moment.]
But you're afraid of what that choice will be. The possibility exists that Fitz won't be able to see past the worst parts of you and choose to stay your friend.
[The New Year's Eve conflict with Lucifer no doubt has only made that worse as well. Thankfully, from every indication Fitz is at least human, and in turn incapable of doing similar damage.
Physically.]
It's not really a friendship if it's based on manipulation, Klaus. Relationships, real ones, are forged from trust in each other.
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what he's done. what he's wrought. he pushes the cart into the wall it stands beside instead. the violence causes the crystal to clink and the alcohol to slosh, but nothing breaks, nothing spills.
she is right. he knows better. he knows plenty, his words clipped, fermented in incitement. ] There is no trust where there is manipulation, and I took away that when I took away his fear.
[ they can't be friends. they are not friends. ] We're not friends, Camille. He has simply been... [ he cannot seem to keep the waver from his voice, pretending so poorly his indifference. there was a time when he was better at it. ] a means to an end.
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Yet not so sharp that it covers the depth of connection Klaus tries to hide.]
So was I. [A means to an end, a stenographer, a spy--and all the other things Klaus couldn't deny anymore than he can now. And yes, Cami had been livid when she learned the truth, enduring a night of unspeakable agony just so she could remember. But time has given her the chance to forgive him for that, and the ability to understand.
The opportunity to see Klaus grow.]
Don't do this. Not when you've come so far. [He's grown, taken risks, become so much better than he had been then. It's painful to see him pull back within his walls.] You're afraid he won't be able to forgive you, but you know that doesn't give you the right to make the choice for him.
You're better than this.
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she's wasn't, and she was. just as fitz was and never was. the anguish in him builds into weights that press down with guilt and remorse on his chest. he reaches for his glass as her pleas break and slip past the walls that have already been damaged; have for so long stood on a failing foundation. perhaps they lost their integrity long ago.
if they truly had that fortitude in the first place. she's right, but perhaps he's not better than this. tears hang in his eyes; klaus swallows thickly and speaks softly, gravely, for despite all the rawness of his emotion, he must weather what the reality of this is: ] And when he doesn't? [ because fitz very well might not forgive him. he might not understand, when he has not forgiven and understood the faults of so many. ] When my own cowardice and scheming costs me... [ he fights past the lump in his throat, the crescendo and climax of what he is reaching to— ] true friendship and the chance to... [ klaus stops, for he knows this will hurt her more than anything. it's not hope he wants to give. ] A chance to go home. All of us, to go home. When he doesn't forgive me, what then? Do I forsake my daughter to a passing friendship? Do I forsake you?
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The question is, where does the line fall between his paranoia and his perception of the other man?
All questions she means to ask, but that fall forgotten as he confesses a deeper truth. It has Cami leaning forward, her lips parted in unwanted surprise with the admission of the greater end Klaus has in mind. She’s known that he’s wanted to go home, but not that he’s been actively working towards it—not that he’s had Fitz doing as much, and not just for those members of Klaus’ family who live.
All of us. He means to defy death itself—her death—and she knows instantly that it is something she cannot let herself hope for.]
No. You don’t forsake anyone. [She swallows, closes her eyes to focus on the present as she so often does. She would not be distracted a second time.] Including him. You go about this the right way, and you remember you’re not alone.
[The words he spoke to her, softly, sweetly, when she’d been unable to hold back her tears and her heartache. Even if his goals are too lofty to be possible, Cami can at least have some faith. She grins to herself as she continues on; not so long ago, she never would have seen herself saying these words to him.] Case in point: you’ve got me. For better or worse, I’m kind of an expert in both talking to people and moving past being compelled by someone.
[By Klaus, in the name of his cowardice and scheming both.]
So choose to trust him, Klaus—and trust me.
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he does not want to do this. not for her pains and hopes, not for the selfish desire he holds for a friendship, not for the ease in which he can guard himself from the abhorrent and baleful stares he has always expected and incurred and weathered and feared.
he is not afraid of being alone, not solely, not most importantly. (he has always been alone; it is not a new nor impossible terror.)
he is afraid for his daughter, his little girl, all else that is good and right in his world—he is afraid of leaving her alone. he is afraid of failing her as he has failed not only marcel but all others who have counted on him, who have looked to him, who he should have loved better; done better for.
(he is a broken, lacking thing. his love has always been incomplete.)
he does not want to do this for his daughter. the tears welling in his eyes blur his vision and his jaw tightens against their falling. (he is not alone. he does have her. he knows, just as she knows, what he should do. what he has to do. to be worthy of his daughter and for his daughter both.) he shakes, the phone trembling in his hand with how hard he clutches it. his voice is full and heavy; he promises. ] I'm not leaving you. [ not here, in this world. not now: this conversation is not over. but: ] I have to handle this on my own. [ he pulls the phone from his ear and hangs up. ]
post-talking to cami }
I told Camille about Davina. She wanted to know about the future and I told her.
Thought you should be aware.
[She is sorry in advance.]
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his fingers are tight around his phone. his chest aches and it is for them all. (for camille. for he and freya, standing alone with these sins.) ]
Tell me where she is.
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They say confession is supposed to be freeing, but that isn't Freya's experience at the moment.]
I left her in the bar when she asked me to leave. I don't know if she's still there.
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[ what would elijah do? what would his big brother say? (he would seek to fix this, and that is what klaus will do, in his own way.) ] Keep heart, sister. [ and because she is not abandoned nor should she feel so: ] I'll find you after.
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I'll probably be in my room.
[She's not feeling much like people otherwise. But after a moment:]
Thank you.
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She knows everything.
[ a moment later: ] Are you all right?
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Demicng with damgb.
[You're welcome. But it's at least somewhat an indication of her mental state at the moment. She'll correct this in the morning after water, sleep, and other side effects of all that drinking have worked their way out of her system.]
Incredibly hungover, but otherwise I am fine. More or less.
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that answers that
or it doesn't, not fully, not until morning, though it's not as if klaus didn't hear her stumble home at an ungodly hour if that was the case. he's spent the long night drinking, though not sleeping at all. when he gets freya's follow up, he's sitting on an armchair in his bedroom, a glass of half-empty bourbon next to him.
his hesitation to reply comes not only from the obvious that he is not fine and no doubt the state of his relationship with camille might be something she would consider her fault, considering it is also obvious she is not wholly as fine as she might communicate. (she will be. it will be, no matter the consequences, but that doesn't soften the blows.) ]
I'm glad. [ a+ emoting 👌 ]
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It's masochistic, but she needs to know how Cami is, and whether or not she's damaged things irrevocably for all of them. She's already cost him Marcel, and she would hate to think that she may have cost him Cami too.]
I intend to remain lying down, but I'll be up for a little while if you'd like to join me?
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he made her a promise, however unspoken, when he told her about davina those months ago. klaus finishes what is in his glass in one swallow and is at her door a moment later. his knock is perfunctory; he twists the knob and steps inside directly after, glass and bottle in hand.
he stops at the sight of her, attempting to soften the trouble of his expression, if only for her comfort. it does not change what words he must say, but he does it instinctively all the same. klaus moves forward take a seat beside the bed. ] Well. I suppose this was all inevitable.
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[She sighs as she shifts to her side to face him, eyes bleary under the weight of her hangover. But she knows that while difficult, this was the right thing to do.]
It is better for her to hear it from us now than risk her being surprised by it by Davina, or worse yet - Marcel.
how'd this get lost in the scuffle ;o;
and then she would learn the rest of this nightmare.
klaus wants another drink, even as influenced as he is, but he does not move to fill his tumbler, only lifts his eyes to his sister.
it occurs to him also that this is cami's home now and she knows it, he knows it anew with terrible, anguished finality; she will never have another. and he knows—to be a part of it here will only cause her pain. ] I told her the rest. About Aurora. About what she'd become.
;;;; it's okay, we found it again
A cowardly technicality, but a technicality she exploited nonetheless.]
At least there are a few less secrets between all of us.
[though that's a cold comfort when it's likely Cami didn't take Klaus' news any better than she took Freya's.]
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he doesn't want to think about cami anymore. (nothing will change that he will.)
klaus tips the bottle against the lip of the glass, pours a splash and offers it to her. ] Not quite Elijah's cocktail, but... [ an offer; the flickering humor in that offer not faded for how drawn it is ] if you prefer.
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I think it will do the trick.
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nothing will change that he will think of camille. nothing will change that freya will. they have both lost her and more, in their own ways. but more than just heartache has occurred this night. he could not save camille. he cannot be by her side, not anymore. but he will do here what he couldn't at home. klaus has always benefited from action over mute resignation, even in thought. freya is cut from the same cloth, and he needs her in this.
he glances around the room. unsurprisingly, they are all fastidious about covering their mirrors. but mirrors can still hear.
he reaches for a notepad and a pen at her bedside table, flips to a blank page, and writes, ] I know how to do defeat my mirror. [ he shows it to her wordlessly. ]
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What do you need from me?
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he would place not only his life, but camille's in her hands. all those he holds dear. ]
Your trust.
[ he shows it to her, eyes rounded and lips pursed, but does not hand the pen and pad over, not yet. with a breath, he writes, ] I'm going to give Damon Salvatore a piece of white oak. I've acquired the knight.
From Camille. [ he swallows before adding that fact, knowing she will have questions about how he attained it. ]
No one would see this coming. [ not even him.
he needs to believe that. he needs it to work. ]
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Are you sure you can trust him?
[She'll only ask once, but she wants to be sure he's sure.]
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this, however. this is different. this is a true risk and one he does not make lightly. ] I need you to ensure he upholds his end of the bargain, if I cannot. [ if the worst happens. there are so many 'worsts' that could. ]
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She's certainly proven that well enough.
At least she knows that Damon has a clearer picture of what kind of power he will be crossing if he doesn't use the white oak for it's intended purpose.]
I will.
[Whatever that may entail.]
[audio]
His chest still feels carved out after his conversation with Fitz. Peter's always been a loner. He's starting to remember why.]
My name's Peter. Peter Parker.
I know Fitz told you about me.
[audio]
nor does he particularly want to have his own relationship, but that's tangential.
but. he would like to decide for himself what sort of man this peter parker is. it is in his best interest to know all the players. klaus opens the connection. ] So I've heard, [ he replies. ] Though he's told me little about you.
[audio]
he doesn't know what else Fitz could reveal to Klaus about that conversation. it's why he's trying to be open now, trying to show that all of it came from him, but he didn't do it because he was trying to- trying to start anything.]
[audio]
if it's the former, klaus is unimpressed and amused by his purity and naiveté. if it's the latter, well, klaus is also unimpressed and amused, but perhaps would find it a little more interesting.
though even if it's the former, klaus does wonder how pure those motives, even subconsciously, might have been. ] Of course, [ he intones, and one who doesn't know him might say he is being understanding and forgiving, even comforting. ] You wanted to protect your friend. [ because it occurred to him that he and fitz shared something to be protected from. klaus doesn't particularly like the implication. ]
can they touch you and come away still clean?
yes. she'd stolen it. )
can they touch you and come away still clean?
klaus looks up from his book (the hunchback of notre-dame, original french) as iskra jumps into his lap and drops the charcoal pencil. with an impressed and touched raise of his brow and a smile, he reaches to scratch her head. ] Is this your way of pulling me out of my head and into something productive?
[ yes klaus talks to iskra like she can respond shh ]
can they touch you and come away still clean?
iskra leans into his hand with blatant chirping to express her approval. her eyes are half-closed, blinking slowly to convey a considerable degree of trust, but she is not about to let herself get distracted, no matter how artful those clever mikaelson fingers are. you don't know what you're missing, caroline.
with a paw, she proceeds to nudge closed the book that he's reading.
yes, klaus. this is iskra's way of pulling you out of your head. and also sun tzu. )
can they touch you and come away still clean?
he wonders if she did carry back with her a bit of magic.
klaus laughs softly at her response and then picks up the pencil. ] So what should I do then? Would you like me to draw you? [ he opens the book again but this time to the blank pages beside the back cover. he sketches her head with quick, decisive lines.
then adds a crown with a few more. he shows it to her. ] How's this for likeness?
can they touch you and come away still clean?
this is why you're her favorite. if iskra were a peacock, she'd be flaunting all her feathers. as it is, her contented and near aggressive purring will have to suffice. her tail curls around his arm in a display of both affection and possession. her paw presses against his chest, and then moves back to the book.
what would a drawing of klaus look like if he were to draw himself? would there also be a crown? )
can they touch you and come away still clean?
perhaps for these reasons klaus has never been a lover of committing his own face to paper. he has, of course, painted portraits for display in mikaelson homes and just recently here, but rarely privately. every attempt has been met with frustration and failure, this compulsion to tell himself. he never could; perhaps because it was not a story worthy of telling. not a story he wanted to tell.
how apt to be asked to now, with reflections abound, after all he's endured and gained and lost these past many years.
when he processes what iskra asks, he pulls in a breath somehow both shallow and deep at the same time. ] Clever girl, [ he says finally, ] aren't you?
[ with a weak smile, klaus presses pencil to paper. he draws the outline of his face, then pauses before adding a quick sketch of his hair. he draws his eyes, deep set. his nose, rounded at the end, and then his mouth. it's an easy drawing; an honest enough depiction in study. a start.
he leans back to take it in. ] That's me.
can they touch you and come away still clean?
it has often been said that dogs are a man's best friend, but cats possess a unique kind of perception and understanding. to the surprise of many, they share traits that are inexplicably similar to human beings. iskra's anxieties, her displays of dominance and affection, her intermittent need for quiet and solitude: they make her an empathetic and well-suited companion to similar personalities... when she isn't up to something mischievous, of course.
iskra is in the process of giving klaus cheek rubs when they are rudely, rudely interrupted. )
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Nik. That little mongrel of yours threw up all over my favorite bedsheets.
[She hadn't expected to be welcomed with that when she got out of her bath, to say the least.]
Are you going to clean up after it? It's not my responsibility.
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though truth be told his sister's outburst does little to ruin the moment. it only inspires from klaus some mild amusement and even milder interest. his little sister's indignant tantrums are hardly cause for more. klaus' head lifts just so from iskra's cuddles; his hand stays rested at her neck. ] Sounds like a job for the closets to me, personally.
[ no1curr here basically ]
Or Elena.
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iskra has never looked more innocent by klaus' side, her startlingly blue eyes round and guileless. )
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Elena isn't here, and you're the one who decided it was fine keeping that thing here half the time without consulting the rest of us which means her messes are your responsibilities, especially when it involves my things.
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not because you didn't do it but
klaus' conversational response is not aimed towards rebekah, who honestly deserves to be addressed directly and with heartfelt apologies, and yet— ] It sounds as if someone's a bit peeved at not being liked. [ and the bedsheets maybe, but eh. klaus gives iskra a Look. ] Perhaps you should apologize. [ or don't it's fine. c: ]
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her tail twitches instead, rubbing klaus' cheek again as though they had never been interrupted ... )
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[Rebekah huffs rather indigently. She's not desperate for love and attention, she doesn't need acceptance from a cat.
maybe she does.]no subject
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[She may be flopping dramatically in one of the other chairs now, just to perform how much she definitely
totally
completely
does not care.]
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but no one's counting.
it probably doesn't help iskra's purring is adorable af. she keeps leaning into klaus' hand like the spoiled little thing she is. also, who is elenerrrrrr? she's never heard of an elenerrr. vikings are so weird. )
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[There's a pout and she crosses her arms insistently before adding:]
She started it.
[Rebekah, you're blaming a cat for bad relationship with it. Please grow up.]
a good icon
a good thread
the best
[REBEKAH YOU MURDERED HER.]
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genuinely amused and fully charmed at that pouting ok ]
Well you did rob her of her human life. [ and then not to gasp be the one to defend elena gilbert for a myriad of reasons, klaus addresses iskra. ] Though it was out of love for me, so perhaps you can forgive and forget. [ crooked smile and ear scratches here. ] One day.
action.
she'll remind herself after the fact that she should from now on, for various reasons. one in particular.
she doesn't knock, simply steps inside caroline's room with a familiarity that comes after years of growing up together. it doesn't take long to realize that a.) caroline isn't in the room, and b.) she is not alone in spite of this. it's almost instinct, the way elena's back straightens and her lips part. it would be dishonest to say freya's mirror hadn't brought back brutal memories involving the mikaelson family. it would be dishonest to say that deep down, elena does not still fear him.
it's another tether, petrova and mikaelson, except this time around, they were both unwilling prey to a much larger force. isn't that in itself terrifying? once upon a time, elena believed there was no greater force than the one behind his fangs and his intent. wonderland tends to change things. )
I was looking for— ( well. it's obvious who she was looking for. )
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klaus is lounging as if he belongs for all the world where he is: settled on caroline's settee, surrounded by and ensconced in her presence, from her copy of little men in his lap (it was a gift) to the teal pillow nestled against his side.
his face falls. perhaps it was only a matter of time, encountering elena gilbert and particularly in the backdrop of her best friend's abode, but he was not expecting it now. his lips part as her recalls the memory of her drained and pale against the sheets of freya's bed, a corpse that has not quite left their rooms.
(he thinks of the deep maroon beneath the carpet. he thinks of how he left it there.)
just as quickly as his expression slacks, he recovers. ] She's here, [ he replies, glancing back to his book as if he has not a care in the world.
maybe he adds this next bit to be purposefully provocative: ] Showering.
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maybe she deserves that, too.
her tongue feels too thick in her throat, finding that holding klaus' gaze is difficult. so she stares off into the hallway, but really all she registers is what she's been seeing for days. blood on walls, paw prints on the ground, and always, always that goddamn lullaby. )
So she's okay?
( it occurs to her just then that klaus would know better, and she's not sure how to feel about that, either. )
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(he knows what she feels. he can figure it out: uncertainty, awkwardness, longing. guilt.)
klaus presses his lips together at her question. ] She's all right. [ the words echo the conversation they had not long ago. she'll be all right. (he's not sure if that'll ever be true, but close enough is always something he's learned to live with.)
he reaches forward in quick, decisive movements to set up an extra teacup for her, knowing and refusing to know he's doing it to make her feel more comfortable. for caroline, he tells himself. it's not a lie. he pours her a cup; it's strong and bitter. he likes his with a heaping of sugar, but he leaves hers to do with what she likes.
silently, he gestures for her to sit. ]
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she finally sweeps her gaze upward, until it lands on him. she's all too aware of the raw power that courses through this man's veins. how easily he could snap her, and anyone he chooses, like a twig. and yet his hand was forced along with hers. it may be easier to say to herself that she does not care, but she does. she cares about all of this. it's possibly why there's only a moment of hesitation. just a moment, before she lowers herself down to sit.
just a bit of honey to her tea, and then she sits. )
... And Freya? ( purple hyacinths have been left at her door, and she didn't need ask. she knew who they were from. )
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now it is a quiet reckoning. they are more alike than they were before; they are more of the same and terribly different.)
klaus adds another dash of sugar to his tea. the intent of her question doesn't escape him either; he hears its careful notes, its concern. she doesn't need to ask this either, but she does. perhaps she believes it an olive branch because she cares to ask and know the answer. perhaps she's too traumatized to ask freya herself, but it's not he that needs to hear her concern. he sighs, heavy and audible. wordless, he looks up at her, his gaze steady, his look full of volumes. (he thinks of freya's buried remorse, the guilt hanging on her shoulders, and the exhaustive energy she's already expended.)
she's desperate to make it right. ]
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it's what she thought, but she couldn't not ask. some might find the question redundant, the damage done speaking for itself. but the devil is in the details. some people react to trauma and guilt differently. perhaps it shouldn't surprise her that freya is only motivated to work harder. but it also wouldn't surprise her to find out freya has also isolated herself, the way elena has isolated herself a bit, too. even from caroline. because caroline will look at her with anguish for all the things she didn't do, the choice she did not make.
the choice she couldn't have made, for what would have stopped a thousand-year-old witch, bottomless in her power?
this is nothing he'll speak of, she knows. much like she will not acknowledge it. if she gave it any thought, she'd think it brings them comfort to pretend it isn't there, swimming somewhere in the depths, out of the surface's reach: a terrible and dark understanding. so she sits, and they drink tea, the silence an odd comfort of its own. it's almost a relief she doesn't need to say anything, much like she wouldn't expect him to say anything, either.
but if anything is true in their world, it's that silence never lasts. there is always the next storm. )
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...well, she's had her own stalker for awhile, but today's is the worst message yet.
Whatever she'd used to cover the mirror has fallen off by the time she gets out of the shower. She doesn't notice the words that have been left for her until she gets out from behind the curtain, one towel wrapped around her body and another in her hand as she uses it to get most of the moisture out of her hair. She catches them out of the corner of her eye, reads them once, then reads them again.
She knew that her mirror had been on this side, but that meant she would have had to go mirrorside. The problem was, she didn't remember being there, hadn't put it all together.
Suddenly it was crystal clear, and she feels like her heart just dropped out of her chest.
She wants nothing more than to shatter the mirror, but she knows he's watching, must still be behind there waiting for her reaction. He's sure getting one, a mixture of revulsion and horror on her face, the sting of tears pricking the back of her eyes, but given the ramifications of what she's just realized, letting go of her towel to strike back at the glass became the last thing she wanted to do.
Elena and Klaus would both hear the sound of her backing up until her back hit the door, followed by her hand scrambling for the knob so that she can wrench it open. It hits the wall with a smack, the message elegantly scrawled and now exposed for them both to see the reason for her sudden commotion.
'O, a kiss. Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge'...
Thank you.
She screams one single word before she's slamming the door shut.]
Asshole!
[She's just going to be trying to keep ahold of her anger, because the alternative is something so much worse.]
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he's been listening better of late; purposely, instinctively. not only for her but for all else. for himself and those he loves. a part of him for the rage deep but not quelled inside of him, looking for a mark.
he hears these things and lifts his head. he stills and is up before she opens the door, by her side before she speaks. he sees the black, curling, chillingly familiar letters on the mirror before the door slams shut and shakes in its frame; he feels ice branching out through his veins, infecting his heart.
there is a gripping riot of terror and anger in his gut. his hand has long curled around her arm, the grip tightening to a vice. his eyes widen as he looks from her to the door and then he's striding through it, the abused frame hitting the wall yet again.
it shudders and stops on its hinges. he reads the message once. he reads it again. it hardly takes a genius, but he considers that's what his mirror wanted—the horror of realization. (he was not acting alone. they—caroline's counterpart and his own—were not acting alone.) the certainty of his timing. (after the dangers have passed. now, when he can see the results of his violation.) the fury compounds in his curling fists, stoppers his throat.
he could break the mirror. he's shattered countless.
it would not ease nor encompass the murderous rage possessing him now.
a terrible calm overtakes him. he knows this is what his reflection wants, what he's received until this point: power, reaction. klaus steps forward, eyes unmoving from his own. he reaches for the fallen sheet.
he covers the mirror.
elena had followed him on his heels. he turns towards her now, eyes downcast, the wheels of his mind turning. he considers the odds this is not the only assault. he considers he will not leave the woman they both love. after a quiet moment, he lifts his eyes to her. he entrusts her. he asks her. ] Check the other mirrors.
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a whole five inches, for those at home wondering.
elena doesn't see at first what has assailed them both. she doesn't see until klaus steps forward to cover the mirror, and then the words are each another gash on her throat. she takes in the sight of her lovely friend, vulnerable and covered in a towel. she processes the words that are scrawled on the mirror with the most vile of intentions. and then—and then nothing. this, here, is why elena could be comforted so little, despite those remaining closest to her doing their best to try. damon, billy, peter.
they've tried their best, if not with their love, then with fries, or other silly and welcome distractions. but she knew. she knew it was not the end, but only a beginning.
there is so little left, right now. she can't cry anymore. she can't even fear. when her eyes meet klaus', it's there again: that dulled and terrible understanding. it's the mirrors, or it's them, and instinct and burrowed desire dictate that it needs to be them. no, there are no tears, but there is anger. violation after violation after violation. it needs to stop.
it all happens in seconds, elena's reaction, but it feels like centuries to her. her weighted gaze darts from klaus to caroline. attempting to hold caroline's own gaze just long enough to ensure that she will be all right if elena steps away. only a year ago, this would have never happened: elena leaving one of her dearest friends in the arms of klaus mikaelson.
but life has its twists and turns, and here they are.
she assents her head, just the once.
swallows bile.
looks to the now covered mirror, and then turns away in search of the other pieces that the mirrors took. )
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She thought she was safe. But here in Wonderland, they're never safe. They're just trying to find the illusion of safety so they can sleep at night.
Except apparently, they can come at them then, too.
Her eyes meet Elena's briefly, some strange sort of understanding passing between them.
Now it's three for three; they've all been dealt horrible blows, had precious things stolen from each of them in quick succession, both physical and otherwise.
She watches her friend leave, watches the door close, and she feels her walls settle into place, the control she's exercised on so many occassions. She hides behind it because the mirrors can hear, and she doesn't want to give him a satisfaction greater than she's already given away.]
They knew you were here. They waited until we were asleep. I thought it was you.
[She's lucky it wasn't worse than it was, and that might be what bothers her the most. The only reason it wasn't was probably because he didn't have time.
Her blood runs cold and her cheeks run hot as she wraps her arms around herself, as if that's going to keep her all in one piece. It has to. She has to. There is no other choice.]
I feel like I'm going to be sick.
[Her voice is barely a whisper. He'll hear her. Maybe, for once, the mirrors won't.]
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the rage that had been boiling beneath his skin, emanating for his every pore, recedes. it drains from him in a single rush, unneeded and uncalled upon from the moment the door shuts, the moment they are alone and he witnesses the crest of her reaction. (he sees that anger, that hate, that guilt. he sees her fear, his own horror paralyzing him as he watches her for only that moment, only for a one-second space of that unravelling.
he wants to tear anyone or anything that could make her feel this way apart. he wants to take her in with these hands as if the will and tenderness of his love will make it all right.
it slices through him. revulsion for what could have transpired, for what did, for knowing a twisted version of a man with his face hurt her. to see her pained, to know it's for touching her life, to bear the same anger and terror of this invasion.
there was nothing they could do.
not yet.)
he goes to her. he gathers her into his arms, against his chest, the sound of her small, reedy whispers a stab to his heart. they did know. they waited. he— klaus pulls back, the taste of bile in the back of his throat, and smooths back her damp hair. ] What did he—? [ his voice is a breath between them; his rounded eyes search hers, his hand cradling her face. ] Did he—?
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He speaks and she answers.]
No. [The word bursts out of her, as if she can't say it fast enough. His hands are warm against her cheeks, her own fingers lift to thread through his, as if by consoling him she's doing the same for herself. Her head shakes ever so slightly back and forth, her voice calmer when she repeats:] ...no.
[Her hands trail down his, her fingers curl around his wrists, her thumb strokes his knuckles.]
I woke up. I thought it was on my own, but now I'm not so sure. [Her eyes dart toward the mirror that was both covered and behind a closed door, wondering if he was trying to listen to all of this, if there was any real place that they weren't capable of being watched.
She looks at him again.] He just kissed me a couple of times. Held me as I went back to sleep. Something seemed off, but when I woke up I just thought it was because I was half awake, like I imagined it.
[She knew it wasn't just a matter of distraction. He'd been stalking her for months by now. He could have just let her sleep.
He could have just killed her.]
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or was it more? what did they take?
it is this, regardless: a warning, a demonstration. the terror of it lodges in his throat, looking at her, touching her, each moment he does a respite as if each second will assure him she is here and she is in one piece. the relief of her denials is followed by the anxiety of his worries. it's followed by the unspent and foddering rage inside of him, working his jaw with the crush of its tide.
his fingers slip into her hair; they stay between the wet strands and her soothing touches.
he looks at her, his eyes darting away, his lips pursing as his thoughts race and circle and calculate: how best they tackle this. how best he protect her. she's precious; to him, that is what she is: strong despite the fragility his counterpart will exploit, kind and sharp in ways he can only cherish and awe, nestled in his heart in ways he does not desire to extract. (would it be better for her if he did? he wouldn't take that choice from her. it's too late for that. she's a target.) the next time—
(the idea chokes him.)
next time they might not be so lucky.
his eyes focus in all their intensity on her. he whispers. ] You can't stay here. I can't protect you. [ he didn't. ] There are only so many spells Freya can do. [ she been casting plenty, back in their rooms. even if she casted them here... ]
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Her shoulders tense at the intensity in his gaze, her own eyes locked on his as she processes the words coming out of his mouth. At first, she's confused. This is where she lives and Bonnie put all kinds of spells on her room. All of her things were here.
Except Bonnie was gone, and her magic could very well be gone too.
At first, she's about to ask him the most obvious question; where was she going to go? But then he's talking about Freya's spells and it hits her.]
Are you asking me to move into your place?
[That's...an awkward way of putting it, but seriously? This is not how she expected to be convinced to move in with someone for the first time.
Solely by dangerous necessity. With their siblings.]
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it isn't until she defines it in such plain terms that he realizes what else his professions might mean to her.
his eyes close, the slight wince of his features involuntary and for his own directness, for the toil he feels at the implication. (it's important to her.) he looks away, to the floor, and worries his lips. he considers: is he?
does that answer matter, if what he wants and what he needs are the same?
he looks back to her, decision in his eyes. ] Yes. [ if that's what she wants. if she wants a compromise, he could want that too. ]
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Or maybe, because she said it in that context, he's changing his mind. Little doubts always seem to worm their way into her mind, no matter how often she might be told otherwise. They're quieter these days, but they still exist, whispering at various opportunities.
And then, just when she's sure he's going to correct her, he does the opposite, and she isn't quite ready for it.]
Oh.
[She wonders if Rebekah and Freya will have anything to say about this if she agrees. Or more like when she agrees. It's not like they don't spend enough time together already, or live under the same roof.
Maybe she can convince herself this isn't as big of a deal as it is because she's sure making it feel like one.]
Alright, but only so long as you accept that I'm there to look after you too. And because I want to, not just because you think I need to. Got it?
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he wants to be near her. he wants to be with her.
he wants this in all the ways it is possible, the desire and longing taking hold of him from not one moment of knowing her but from all of them.
he wants her to say yes. he wants her to want what he's always wanted.
always dreamed.
there's no time to consider it, to analyze and understand the flutter of apprehension and longing inside of him. later, he might countenance what these nerves are about before casting them aside for the fullness of their future. for now the dousing of relief at her acquiescence is all he feels, and he would agree to anything. not blindly, no. it's more than fair that she be there for him too. she has been, no matter how dangerous, no matter how he fears for her. it's fairer more that she want to be.
he shifts on his feet, his breath sudden and ragged, lips pressing together and eyes rounded. ] All right, [ he agrees without pause, and pulls her into him.
his heart is full; his gut heavy. it is relief and happiness, on the heels of dread and horror that is ever present.
klaus closes his eyes and tips his cheek against hers, to feel her. the side of his nose slides against her jaw. he huddles her close and his shoulders relax. ]
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Good.
[He gives her no argument, just acceptance. He understands her need to control this situation, to be in charge of what she does even with some degree of necessity involved. She has to decide, not be told. She wants this to be because of them, not because of some outside force.
And it is, even if that outside force exists, even if it sped this decision along faster than it might have otherwise.
She breathes out, cool air ghosting against his face as the tension in her body releases and she leans into him.]
Thank you.
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he stays still and comforted against her, his nose nestled against her neck, savoring her scent and warmth and touch. his arms are firm around her, wrapping her up. klaus lingers there, knowing with certainty that here, in these quiet, private moments, they can find some whisper of elusive peace. (it is harsh outside of this embrace. there is war beyond them.)
he pulls back, just enough to cradle her face in his palm. ] It'll be all right, [ he tells her, as if his will and promise could make it so. sometimes uncertainties armored in both are what is needed, and he wants her to hear them.
and oh, does he want it to be so. his lashes flutter; his brows lift as he tempers the sharp edge of how he wants too for this to be so: ] You will be happy. [ this should be. he wants to make her happy. ]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
She hasn't properly heard from him in awhile, and when they finally cross paths, it's only in passing, and he doesn't even notice that she's there.
It's easy to miss things when you're as intoxicated as he must have been. It's a state she rarely sees him in, if ever, and she has to wonder why? Things have been complicated, to say the least, ever since Asgard. She hasn't quite known what to say, and despite their rekindled 'friendship,' their obvious flirtations and her sheer panic in the midst of her bloodlust left her frazzled and more unsure than ever.
The one thing she knows for sure is that when he's not around, she misses him.
She doesn't necessarily think his perceived mental state has to do with her, her ego isn't nearly big enough for that, but she knows the kinds of things he does when he's feeling, and she wouldn't be Caroline Forbes if she didn't decide to do something kind of impulsive about it.
She waits until it's late before she shows up at his door, knocking loudly. If he's drunk himself into a coma, he's going to need someone to take care of him. Even if he hasn't, he was there for her when she was a mess. Time to repay the favor.]
Klaus? It's me.
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
he lets it in, quietly sitting in the dark of his rooms with the cool touch of the necklace rebekah gave him in his palm. he lets that grief and pain and lack flood in, for there was no avoiding its endless tide regardless. his sister is gone. he will mourn her absence, he will miss her, and despite every instinct in him believing he will not be able to go on without her by his side, he will wake up one day, and it will be easier.
he knows this is true. he knows this is true, ashamed and unburdened in stoicism from that shame, knowing just a mere hour ago he had attempted to lance this wound differently. he closes his eyes as he thinks of the rage and malice and cruelty that filled him, this desperation and longing he would have wielded like a knife.
he is tired and he is worn but not beaten, and when he hears her footsteps outside his door, when he hears her voice, he is torn in a limbo between hope and uncertainty — the two war, for in this quiet, sorrowful moment, he knows that they have been since the moment she returned. since the moment they were here, on opposite sides of his door, and she needed to leave.
he pulls in a breath and rises, driven by the simple longing of wanting to see her, forever unable to deny that wanting, to deny her, and opens the door.
he does not look well, but he is calm. the drink he imbibed still lingers, but he has not touched the bottle since he returned. his clothes are still damp from the lake, clinging and sticking to his skin. rebekah's necklace still hangs from his grasp, the small wolf dangling from his closed fist. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
She can hear footsteps beyond the door, hears them closing closer before the door opens. She sees him standing there, knows that her suspicions were correct within the space of a breath; something is wrong. She can smell the liquor still on him, clinging to his wet clothes, and her expression morphs to something of despair.
There's not much that could leave him like this, she knows. The necklace she recognizes from the memories he gave her, and she can take a few guesses as to what's occurred, all of them terrible.
She steps toward the threshold, closer to him, then steps closer still. Her arms slip around him as she rises onto her toes, feeling the dampness spread across the front of her blouse as she pulls him in, but she doesn't care.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
she is warm, and he has never felt more needful of warmth now. he has never felt more humbled by it or more in submission of its power; despite the despair, despite his anguish, despite the aching and uncertainties he has felt in clementine's betrayed regard, the horror in jessie's, the lost love and belief in rebekah's, his eyes close. after that suspended moment his palms press into her lower back, one above the other. he leans his cheek to hers as if he cannot feel her close enough, and rubs his hands in slow half circles, switching them along her spine. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
The way he holds her, presses them cheek to cheek, breathes against her skin, all of it signals that he needed this, needed her to be here.
She'd needed him in her own way, too.
Her arms are around his neck, one palm laying across the back of his neck, her thumb running over the bottom line of his hair.]
I'm sorry.
[It's not an apology, but something else. It doesn't matter what happened, she wishes it hadn't. She wishes Wonderland hadn't done something else to him, to them. She'd fix it if she could.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
he wants to hold her. he wants to feel her holding him. he wants to be reminded of the goodness in life, in him, in her, in this.
she reminds him. with her touch, her words, her vow. she lets him breathe with that reminder.
he is sorry too. tear prick his eyes. they burn. one of his hands moves up her back to cradle the nape of her neck. to cling. ) Rebekah's gone.
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
It won't help ease this pain. His sister isn't here, it isn't okay, and Caroline is neither a replacement nor is her presence in Wonderland a guarantee.
Anything she says could end up a lie, and none of them will make the hurt go away.
She squeezes him tighter instead, lets him cling, providing a place where he feels safe enough to let himself feel what he needs to. She's not someone who would claim this reaction to be a weakness, and maybe there's some solace in that too.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
he has not kept them quiet from her. he wonders now if she wants to hear those hushed, thick whispers in the dark. if he can trust she wants his heart as she once did. it's hers; it's hers: that's how it beats, and he wants always to offer it.) perhaps those words will come. (that offering will come, vulnerable and longing in his eyes.) perhaps he will summon them or let them fall in snapped desperation soon, but for now all he wants — all he needs —
she holds him tighter and he feels that gaping emptiness weigh in him. he thinks of a life without his sister. he thinks with horror that one day they might all be gone. (his truest fear, come to life again and again. hope. elijah. hayley.) clementine. freya. caroline, the woman he holds so fiercely in his arms. they will fade away as easily as he met them here, and there will be nothing but this emptiness.
his arms are not empty now. there is solace in that. there is strength. he dips his head, presses his face into the curve of her neck. his breath is shaky but he breathes her in, his fingers crushing the soft curls in his grasp. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
It's ever present, how temporary all of this is, and it scares her. Not because she might lose something, but because she might regret the things she doesn't say and do, because she'll never get this time back, and the day will come when it will be like it never happened.
She's been wasting it. Rebekah's departure proves that even more.
Her own breath stills, her words quiet when she speaks, a question that she isn't sure is right but she also isn't sure she cares.]
...Do you want me to stay?
[It's not just about feeling bad about leaving him like this, no matter how much time would pass before she did so. It's about the fact that she wants to be here, but it's about his grief now. He'd given her the space she'd asked for when their situations were reversed; this time, it's up to him.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
he feels it and he loses himself in it, despite uncertainty, despite heartache, despite fear. a shiver runs down his neck, feeling the journey of her touch; the tension in his shoulders unwind at her fingertips against his scalp.
her question stills him. klaus pulls back, his touch drifting down from her hair to her spine. he pulls back enough to look at her, to seek to understand, his heart large and hopeful in his chest.
his eyes search hers, his own wide and awed, filled with the longing and fear he has not voiced. he blinks and attempts to temper the transparency, the answer echoing inside of him and possessing him. what he worries, what he wonders, what he nearly asks is, does she? does she want to stay?
(he is terrified of being alone, yes. but he can weather his loneliness. the grief and the emptiness. he has time and time again. what matters to him is what she desires; he has always known what he wants.)
decision cements in him. faith and fear that she will do what she chooses. he can only make himself known. ) Yes.
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
He knows this. He's dealt with it from her more than enough times.
He pulls back to look at her, and her expression is vulnerable, as if she's afraid he'll say no. It only hurt more to know that she turned him away when he likely felt the way she does now.]
I just...I watched you practically die and I can't stop thinking about it.
[She feels like she needs to explain, to prove that she's not just doing this for him.]
If you left tomorrow, I'd regret it if I'd kept doing what I'm doing.
[She needs to make her decisions based on the now and not what might happen. She can live with that, no matter what happens later.]
So if you want to be, then I'm here. I don't want to waste time anymore.
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
her confession strikes true, and the dealt blow of it is clear on his face: he did not consider her worry for him. he does not consider anyone's worry for him, from perceived indifference to the lack of necessity for it. he is immortal, but that is not why this moves him.
it moves him because she cares. (she cares like so few do.) it moves him to stunned silence, his breath held in exquisite anticipation as the rest of her confession falls from her lips, because it means she wants. she wants more. she wants again. this is a blow, because it takes him a moment of incomprehension to understand, to believe —
he shifts on his feet once in his uncertainty.
then there is nothing left to say. his hand reaches to cradle her face; his lips fit with tender and firm passion to hers. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
She could lose anyone, at any time.
At first, that made staying away seem like the safer option, but Caroline needed people. She needed friends and love and company to be happy. Isolating herself would only make her angrier, and she couldn't fathom the thought of doing it just to save herself some heartache in the future.
That would happen. It was inevitable. Nothing could have saved her mother and nothing was going to prevent what might happen in the future, regardless of how they tried to fight whatever might come their way.
She was selfish. She hadn't wanted to have this conversation now, when his wounds were so fresh from his loss, but she hadn't been able to help herself now that she was here, wrapped up and feeling a warmth she'd resisted for too long because she'd been afraid.
The press of his hand against her cheek is less surprising that the sudden pressure of his lips against hers, but it feels as good as it always has, and she finds herself unable to fight the urge to stop. She doesn't want to, even if hiding pain in comfort might not be the best course of action. If he wants, then so does she, and she proves it in the way she responds, pulse racing and lips turning up against his mouth.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
he wants her.
he needs this, as he's needed it all these months. as he's yearned and longed for, as he's weathered in absence. if that is selfishness then so be it, but he doesn't consider selfishness for a moment.
all he considers is her lips, turned to his. the wild, tender need spiraling out of control, feeling her racing heartbeat so close to his. her body, pliant and perfect as he presses her close by the cut of her waist. he turns her inside and reaches blindly to shut the door behind them. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
Her lips grin again as he turns her into the room, hears the door shut rapidly a moment later, her body curving into his and her arms slipping further around his neck to keep her balance. Those same lips part gently, the whole movement so familiar to her that suddenly it seems like very little time has passed at all.
He tastes exactly like she remembers.
Her arms loosen around him, hands dragging over shoulders and then down between them to reach for the hem of her shirt. Her lips part from his reluctantly, though only so she can drag the thin fabric over her head and toss it aside.
If this right here isn't the biggest fuck you to Wonderland right now, I don't know what is.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull;
his heart is pounding and pounding harder still as his eyes open slowly to see her smile and bare her skin.
it's the joy in her grin that electrifies him. that brings him to life. that reflects his own elation, so stark and bittersweet, mingling with the low of devastation crowding his heart. he takes it. he embraces it. he rushes forward, pushing her to the edge of the bed. his hands grasp the waist of her skirt and he tears it in half.
he grabs behind her thighs and lifts her up, coaxing her legs around him, as they've been dozens of times before. his eyes are full of heat, of wickedness, of love and promise as his palms slide up from her thighs to her back. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; THIS IS PROBABLY ABOUT TO GET NSFW
Her hands fist into the fabric laying against his back, slipping it up until she can grasp the bottom of his shirt and pull it over his head, her skin aching with the need to feel his against it.
There's a strange exhilaration in her eyes, as if her confession took some immense weight off her shoulders. She's as relieved to be here in this moment as he is, any fears or concerns dashed by the action of making her choices and knowing they're the right ones for her.
Her hand slides over the back of his neck, pulling him into her, the intensity of her kiss speaking volumes about how much she's been holding back, how it's been welling up inside her, how it was only a matter of time before it spilled out.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW INCOMING
she should really expect destruction at this point. order two of everything from the closets?she sheds his shirt. it's discarded with all haste; he needs the feel of her skin just as she. he needs the softness of her and the solidity of her against him. his hands span her waist, the light in his eyes ignited by the same in hers: it's content. passion. that same uncoiling relief. when she pulls him into her, her sweet mouth finding his, he meets her with a moan.
his fingers dig into her skin. he savor and revels and cherishes that desire of hers, pushing and pulling at him. he falls into it with abandon, his kiss just as hungry, the corners of his lips turned up in a smile that fades only as the pleasure overcomes all other sensations but bursts of joy and want.
his hands clutch and caress her. he groans into the heat of her kiss and spin them around, sitting at the edge of the bed and tugging her hips into his, her into his lap. his heart races; he pulls from her mouth to press his lips and tongue to the hollow of her neck. his palms finds the curve of her shoulder, the strap of her bra to fist in his hand and draw into down. his lips and teeth and tongue find the peak of her breast beneath fabric. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW INCOMING
Just because she expects it doesn't mean she has to like it, sir. But let's be real, she's clearly not that pressed.His fingers press and leave their marks. She sucks air through her teeth even through her kiss, the pressure of his hands against her skin feels like home. Another quick spin and she's straddling him, sinking onto his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. Her palms carve a path up his chest as his lips part from hers, then run up the sides of his neck and into his hair as his teeth and tongue do their work.
Her hips shift against his, her head gently falls back with a contented sigh, long blonde locks brushing over her shoulder blades.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
a breathy hum rumbles in his chest as her hips implore friction against his. (that's what he wants; he wants that.) he turns his head, bites the soft mound of her other breast and pulls her negligée down with coaxing force; it slips away beneath his mouth, already open and wet above her nipple.
she feels like home. she also feels like water to his parched throat; he's desperate for her. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
She doesn't think he'll resist.
Her arms reach behind her, undoing the clasp on her bra and discarding it before he leans forward, her now bare torso brushing against his. One hand falls flat against the mattress above his shoulder, the other slipping between them to tug impatiently at his belt.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
he buries her fingers in her hair, savoring the softness of her cheek and the shape of her face cradled in his palm before delighting in the silk of those locks he reveres so much. his skin sings for hers; he arcs slightly at the brush of her body, heats and melts at the slide of her hand. klaus does nothing but aid her endeavor, helping her undo his belt and shuck his jeans down his hips. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
Good enough.
She grins wickedly as she leans in again, reclaiming his mouth as she rolls to the side, calf slipping around his hip and dragging him with her until they're laying side by side. Her heel presses into his lower back, pulling him closer. Her arms encircle his neck as her torso presses firmly against his.
Each of her movements is demanding, insatiable, as if she's trying to physically destroy any remaining distance placed between them by Wonderland's meddling.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
and he groans, face flushing hot, heart racing at the friction and pleasure of her, from the wet, tender heat of their kiss to his hard arousal pressed between them. his arm, wedged beneath her, squeezes her impossibly closer, needy as his hips roll. his other hand maps a path up her thigh, from her hip to the curve of her spine to the nape of her neck. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
[His name spills from her mouth as she inhales a quick breath against his mouth, the touch of his hand drifting over the length of her body sending a ripple down her spine. He's so close, but it's not enough; she wants more, she needs it.
Her leg shifts even further up, over his hip bone, before an impatient hand slips between them, her abdomen tensing to create just enough room to reach lower, fingers wrapping around to stroke him a few times before she guides him between her parted thighs, pressing the tip against her entrance.
She draws her mouth away from his, opens her eyes to look at him. Her breath shudders once in anticipation, her gaze holding his with hooded eyes holding a mixture of emotion and lust.]
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
she leads him to the wet, promising heat of her and he shudders and heats. his hand presses to her hip; his other takes her wrist to guide it around his neck. his eyes are open too, depthless and ardent, tender and lustful both. he presses them together, slow and seamless: sinking her onto him as much as he meets her. this is what she wanted. what he wants. he wraps her up close, forehead to forehead, chest to chest, and gives to her impatience just as he draws their desire out. )
bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
Her forehead presses harder against his as her lips press together then, stifling a groan that she firmly silences as she presses her mouth to his. The kiss is needy but doesn't last long before she's breaking her mouth away, her breathing heavy despite their relative stillness.]
I missed you.
[She missed this, a fact that she had tried to hide from as if it were wrong to seek this comfort in the midst of her grief. She wanted to miss this for the right reasons, not just because she was alone.
She does. She did. He should know.]
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his eyes open slow after their kiss. she breathes, i missed you and he shivers again with awe and with need. he holds her tighter, tangling his fingers impossibly deeper in her hair, his fist tugging gently at the root. his body presses to her in a slow surge, his breath quiet and ragged against hers.
she missed him. he knows. he knows this is right; he sees it in her eyes. he feels his own, filling his heart. he suffered that lack just as she: feeling that empty space, that empty quiet, that piece of rightness taken away. his lips bush her cheek; his eyes stay on hers. ) Every moment, without you, ( he whispers. it's a promise. an oath. )
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She decides she'd rather cling to the first.
Her thigh and calf tense at his hip, in some futile attempt to somehow draw him closer as she exhales another desperate sigh, contenting herself with leaning in to kiss that mouth that says the things that hit her deep inside her chest, fill her heart and lungs to bursting. Her hands grasp at his back, fingers pressing into his skin as she clings to him, head tilting as her lips part, hungrier this time.]
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he doesn't believe he's shared in or experienced anything more beautiful or heart-aching, but he embraces the former and releases the latter just as she.
he is tense with pleasure. the stillness and slight shifts of their bodies, the touch and hunger of her mouth, the tightening of her leg around him pressing him to the brink. he does not fall over. at the last moment he finds a reserve of calm. he kisses her with fierce, tender strength edged with heat; he kisses her until he cannot kiss her anymore. until his blood is pulsing like thunder and he is aching inside of her. he smooths her hair back. his eyes open. he looks at her in the stillness of the moment, before her begins to rock into her. )
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Her body constricts around him, seeking friction. She wants to feel every inch of his skin, which she explores with roaming hands, palms smoothing over his shoulders, up the back of his neck, down his spine.
She rolls onto her back then, pulling him with her, longing for the press of his weight above. Her legs encircle his waist, ankles hooking at his lower back as her hips rise to meet him, to let him bury himself as deeply as he pleases.]
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it's not enough. it never is, and when she beckons him atop her, her legs parting around him, the depths in which he slides into her is sweet, blinding relief. he groans, breathless, the endearment of sweetheart a rumble in his throat. he does bury himself as deeply as he pleases; he could hardly assuage nor censor himself. he covers her with his body, the flush high on his cheeks as he rocks ceaselessly into her. and he whispers against her lips, his fingertips running from her hair down to her shoulder, up to her pulse —
and he whispers. he whispers everythings: about the beauty of her like this, about what she wants, what she likes, about how he wants her, about how she is everything filling the spaces of a thousand years — )
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He sees them, she knows he does, but he loves them as much as the rest of her.
She holds him tightly to her, heart racing inside her chest, her cheeks flushed with need. Her lips press together, her teeth bite into her bottom lip, nearly drawing blood as she tilts her hips to get what she needs, letting herself peak as he continues to whisper to her.
After the first few blissful moments, words cease to make sense, and she silences him by pressing her mouth firmly against his, stealing the air from his lungs as her lips part against his.]
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she doesn't only want him. she knows him, and wants him.
she knows this. she wants this. he surrenders.
when she comes he feels it in the fever of her body slotted against his, the bite of her nails in his skin. she undoes him. he drives his hips relentlessly down into hers, presses her deep into the mattress, groaning into her kiss as the cresting waves of his release follow hers. his breath is heavy; his hands run up and down her side. one moment floods and blends into the next; the surge of his body slows but does not halt. the sweat cools and builds on his skin; he grabs at her and rolls beneath her, one hand cradling her neck, the other smoothing down her chest and around her hips.
hybrid stamina)bleary eyed and beautiful but your blade is not dull; NSFW
Her breath comes quickly, keeping up with the quick beat of her hear more so than any actual fatigue. She could do this for hours, lose herself in him until she couldn't tell where he ended and she began, and she wouldn't find cause to complain.
If anything, she'd think of it as making up for lost time.
Her forehead presses against his as she continues to catch her breath, eyelashes flicking open as she looks at him with eyes that see nothing else in the moment before they close again, head tilting so that she can fit her lips against his with feverish pressure.]
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he would do this all night. he will do this all night until all that's left is the desire to hold her close and sleep. until there is nothing but the scent of her skin and the knowledge of her body and heart in his dreams. his exhale is a soft moan that her kiss consumes. his hand roams through her hair, over her shoulder, down her back. he rocks beneath her, dragging his lips from hers to seek the beat of her pulse.
his tongue is warm over the rapid rhythm and the sound of his veins blackening is loud in the relative quiet. his growl is a rumble and his fangs nearly nip her skin. he desires her, but he does not want to taste her blood yet. he only wants to hear it thrum as they both ache. )
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The surge of her blood just beneath the skin mixes with the stirring of her vocal chords as she moans his name. The fingers of one hand dig into the flesh of his chest, the other slips through her hair to pull it over her opposite shoulders.
Her body sinks down on his, calves sliding against his outer thighs, a cool breath sucked in between grit teeth, before she hisses out another needy sound.]
Yes.
[It's not a request or a plea, but it's close.]
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she asks and he relents. she wants and he takes. his teeth sink into her skin, the slow and heavy burst of her blood maddening. it soaks his tongue and floods his mouth and sends him spiraling into a primality that consumes him. his arms wrap around her tight, one at her waist and the other around her shoulders, and he rocks up into her, the sounds rolling from his chest as animalistic as they are exultant.
he is blinded by the pleasure, by the bloodlust, by her, and when he pulls away he feels the blood between them, sees it red on her neck and jaw before he seeks to kiss it away. )
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She exhales a hot, heavy breath, crimson splashed across his face as he briefly pulls back from her skin long enough for her to see it through half-lidded eyes, and then his mouth is against her skin again, his mouth and his tongue warm and comforting as they move against the wounds he's made.
The true debilitation of his bite wouldn't kick in till later, so she just revels in the gentle burn of the marks he's left on her, not so dissimilar from the feeling of liquor as it slides down her throat. He rocks up inside her and she presses back as she sits up slightly, her hand coming up to her collarbone. Her fingers draw away, sticky with her own blood, and she lifts those fingers to her lips, tasting it for herself in a lustful haze as her veins stir below her eyes.]
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he groans brokenly. no sooner does she have her fill does he reach for her, his hand a blur in his instinctual impulse. his fingers wrap around the roots of her hair, her name a staccato moan, an oath and a plea, as he lifts his shoulders from the bed to meet her lips in a bloody kiss. )
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They control each other so that they both can give it away.
Her teeth clench against his kiss, her own baring behind her lips, jaw clenching as she grips him tightly, holds him against her. He body rocks down on his, giving herself cause to gasp, and her nails sink into whatever purchase they can find, rational thought a distant thing and impossible to grasp.]
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he wants to be made to submit. he wants to lose himself in that oblivion; he wants the safety and fear and vulnerability that comes with it. (he wanted to feel her want in the beginning. he wanted that reassurance and wonder and delection. now he knows it. now he finds himself sinking into it, earnest and wanting to rule and be ruled by it.) after all this time he wants it now, again; he needs her.
he feels the tension in her jaw as she bears down on him; he gasps too, voice strangled, as her nails score his shoulder and his chest. he takes the opportunity, forcing his tongue into her mouth, seeking to caress her tongue, to taste her blood intermingling against their senses, to run that caress down the length one sharp fang. )
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She wants. She needs.
So she'll take it.
Her left hand reaches across his face, palming his cheek to press the opposite into the sheets. She wants to lay claim to him the way he did her, in every way they know, so she strikes like viper, burying her mouth against his throat, inhaling deeply even as she rends his skin and clamps her mouth against that which flows in her wake.
She groans as it hits her tongue, so different from the taste of her own.
She missed it.]
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his blood spills and flows from him with such vitality he feels weak and suddenly sluggish, or perhaps that's just her, the tips of her breasts against his chest, her tummy against his, his hips rocking close and ceaseless, with a mindless slowness up into her. a lone finger dips into the curve of her spine and drags up; he shudders as she drinks. )
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She finally lowers her gaze back down, the hand at the side of his face tracing down his throat, smearing the lingering blood there even as his wounds heal under her palm, before she sits up, lifting her fingers to her mouth to lick away the remnants.
It's messy, but sometimes so are they, and she can't bring herself to care.
Besides, there was always the shower.
The darkness in her eyes slips away, and she wipes futilely at her mouth with the back of her hand even as her lips spread into a satisfied grin.]
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there is a smile alight in his eyes, reflected by hers. he sits up and pulls her chest close to his with a soft hum, blood wet and slightly sticky between them. he kisses her, mouth open and hungry, fingers drawing down her collarbone, down, down, to gently pinch and tug at the pebbled peak of her breast.
she feels like heaven. she looks just as stunning as he pulls back, his voice but a whisper over her lips. ) I want to taste every inch of you. I'll have you coming until you beg me to stop.
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That's quite the lofty goal, but...
[She trails off briefly, one arm slinging around his neck, the grip of her hand tight on the back of his neck. The other hand plants itself against his chest as she rolls her hips once, grinning wider.]
...I have to wonder if you'll be the one to beg first.
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one of his hands presses into the small of her back.
he pulls away and inwardly considers there's no reason they both can't have their cake and eat it too. ) If that's a challenge, ( he says, voice low and rough, ) I beg you to give it your all.
audio.
Mr. Mikaelson, this is Claire Fraser. I wanted to extend my thanks now that the event is over. You saved my life. I'm not only thanking you for myself but my husband as well. And I apologize if I...said anything off-color about your method of saving me.
audio.
truth be told, he's been content to put the entire encounter from his mind. wonderland has seen to it that there's plenty to turn his focus, but he also hasn't quite been able to forget. (there was one trauma he was able to prevent, even if only for now.) for this reason, her repeated appreciation means something. it meant something, to her.
he pulls in a breath, braces himself, and seeks words. )
You were dying. I did only what I knew I could. ( that sounds unnecessarily detached even to him, but he can't seem to countenance anything approaching an expression of 'you're welcome.' perhaps because that savior is not who he is.
still. his voice softens some. ) I suppose I should thank you. For not running for the hills. ( she could've. many have. and worse. )
audio.
[ She doesn't understand how a vampire/werewolf comes to be and she has no idea what kind of life even leads to that or what you do once you become those things, but what she does know is that he was under no obligation to use his blood for her. ]
audio.
audio.
audio.
he'd want to do no less, if the positions were reversed.) ) I appreciate your confidence. ( he pauses. this sort of gesture is not typical of him and means all the more because of it. ) Know you have a friend, if ever you're in need.
audio.
Should you ever need my assistance, that kindness goes both ways. [ She won't keep him and after a beat, begins her farewell. ] Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Mikaelson.
audio.
Audio
She's just a little girl, Klaus. You're better than this.
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#this
he almost doesn't even dignify this with an answer )
She's a centuries-old relic of the place holding us prisoner, who either does know or could impart leagues more than she lets on. And quite frankly, I could do with a little less judgement and a little more common sense from you. ( he may or may not be scathingly referring to how you caused a scene at his girlfriend's party since we're bringing proper conduct up js )
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She's been imprisoned here, tortured. If she's been traumatized, can you really hold it against her? Maybe she knows things but is afraid to say them. She's been victimized. She needs compassion, not more things to keep her awake at night.
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Oh no don't tell Fitz he's right. He's been sanctimonious enough without people enabling it]Tough love only works when there's love involved. [ Like when Agent May is absolutely terrifying and gives him nightmares. Because she loves them. If she's capable of love inside her robotic chassis. ] She has no reason to trust us. How many people like us have failed to save her before? If she's not developing, she could be mentally challenged, or under some kind of course, or... [ he doesn't have a third possibility ready, and trails off instead. ]
The... the point is that she's not the one with any power here. And I know who you are. And I know you're working to better yourself. You don't need to lash out.
no subject
clementine > alice tbh
when he speaks, his voice is tight and angry, searing and cold )
Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I am willing to do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of those I do love, and I will not prostrate to your misbegotten, naive sentimentality because it will help you sleep at night. If you know who I am, then you know exactly what I am willing to do, and if you don't, then that's no one's fault but your own.
( click )
audio. backdated to the 10th. ish.
( clementine noticed when klaus was absent (and it scared her. in the same breath she hoped he got to return to his daughter. she also didn't want to lose that relationship in her life. it's not fair- it's not fair because he does have a daughter, and he seems like he'd be a very good father to her, and she deserves to have that). she checked into his room to find out his stuff was still there, but- but that's not always a guarantee she's learned. a week passed she figured out he came back, but she also knows adults well enough to understand. they need time to themselves. they only let out certain emotions alone or among others of their own age.
it can be hard being around kids, especially when one's separated from their own kid. so she gives him time to recover, to get back into the groove of everything.
it's not until a week later that she sends a message. )
Hey.
You're back. Are you... okay?
audio
( he hasn't forgotten her, but she would be right to consider he needed space. he hasn't forgotten her, but amidst the five years past and the loss of his brother, he has wanted to keep so many things at arm's length. shame prickles over him at the sound of her voice, because he did. he did, but it's not her responsibility to suffer his silence —
she has. it's not fair. it's not fair because he does have a daughter at home, he has many things at home, and clementine does not have a father. (at the moment, he hardly feels strong or worthy enough to be anyone's father.)
his exhale is quiet, shaky. after a beat, he says, ) I'm all right.
( he hesitates, a suffocating feeling weighing down his voice: it's worry, guilt, love. ) I trust you haven't been up to too much trouble in my absence?
audio
they have to learn how to be.
and her heart sort of gives a little stab of pain at the realization, at the weight. she doesn't want him to go through painful shit, but she also knows wanting doesn't change anything. )
Didn't you hear? ( she smirks because she's joking to make it easier on him. ) Got together a group, threw all the Queens off their thrones. We're all in charge now. Big trouble but the good kind.
audio
here still is this bright, beautiful little girl who cares for him, who he cares for.
he tempers his tears, injects a sober playfulness into his tone. ) That is edifying, though I am disappointed I wasn't included. I assume you're a princess? ( pause. no; ) A queen? How you will organize your new regime?
audio
she makes a bit of a face then at the mention of her being queen. wonderland's sort of messed that up even in a joke. )
Not a princess, not a queen. I'm tired of queens. Maybe I'll be a president or supreme leader. There'd be a council. People would get to vote unless they voted something really stupid, and then I'd say hell no.
People would get to choose when they came and when they left. They could bring people here or take people to their own worlds.
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a family. )
audio
clementine shakes her head. she doesn't do imagination often, because her realism gets in the way. ) There's still people needing to die and lose their memories to keep this whole place running. ( carver said she was like him for a reason, because she is. she'd make those choices to keep this place running. ) I could make those choices too, but it wouldn't make this place a sanctuary ever, huh?
christmas, 2017