[ 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. ]
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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. ]
no subject
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. )
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. )
no subject
...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.]
no subject
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. )
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]