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[poppycock]

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[therapize]

[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.]

So choose to trust him, Klaus—and trust me.

[poppycock]

[ 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. ]