[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. ]
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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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]