open ; welcome to the inner workings of my mind

[persevere]

Who: Caroline Forbes + You + Closed Starters
Where: Everywhere
When: July 6th to the end of the month
Rating: This will get gory, most likely.
Summary: Caroline returns to Wonderland, but she's not quite herself these days...
The Story:

Deux Lux

[Caroline Forbes is here most nights, drinking the night away and dancing on any flat surface she can find no matter the height. She never drinks herself into oblivion because she wants to be at her best, on guard for any of her 'friends' that might feel the need to step in.

She doesn't want help. Anyone with half a brain could see she's just fine.

She's more than willing to dance with anyone who's willing, just don't let her pull you off to that dark corner or you might end up with a few puncture wounds and missing any recollection of the last couple of hours.]

Lake

[She actually carted an inflatable lounge chair out here, and anyone in her path would have seen a blonde blur as she doesn't even bother to hide the fact that she's different. The sun is out and she's in her bikini, hair tied into braided pigtails, sporting a pair of dark shades as she lazily kicks around in the water, catching some rays.

Sometimes you can catch her sunbathing on the edge of the water, too, laying casually out on a towel. Vampire or no, she still likes catching some rays.]

Mikaelson Rooms

[Those who are aware of her living arrangements or any of the others that live there as well can find her lounging in various common areas, usually with a drink in hand, and can be summoned to answer anyone who might knock at the door. She's almost always bored, biding her time with liquor and playing with her phone, stalking messages in search of juicy gossip and drama.

Or maybe she's looking for a snack. It's probably just fine, though.]

Choose Your Own Adventure

Feel free to set up anything anywhere. I'm very flexible.

Comments

[interpersonal]

( elena glances at klaus with that grievous understanding in her conflicted gaze.

they do not like to be cornered. they do not like being left with so few choices, none of them palatable. she needs to talk to damon. it's the one ace up her sleeve, for the time being: information. she has to know what worked and what made things worse. in absence of stefan, of liz, what can she possibly do to fill that gaping hole?

everything hangs in the balance. caroline's humanity, their own safety in wonderland, the threat the mirrors still pose ... angles she hadn't thought of until now because she hadn't needed to. she didn't remember anything about this place while she was home, if that is indeed where they went, and it would be just their luck that an already heart-rendering situation is made that much more complicated by previous circumstance. it hurts, to see caroline like this.

her spirit, warped. what once used to be vibrant emotion, squashed. caroline is asking two of the most tenacious people in their world to simply let it go. it's an alternative elena contemplates in earnest, though she will keep her own close watch. deep down, she knows their efforts will not compare to this simple truth: there will come a day when caroline no longer remembers what it feels like. the sun on her face. the warmth of a real embrace. she'll want this. her joy, and yes, even her pain.

elena believes the time she spent without her humanity was a huge mistake — but in that same deep place she holds other truths, elena also knows she'd needed it. she was losing her fragile grip on sanity. she was losing her mind with grief. her body was too small to contain it. she'd needed it all to stop. what is the right choice? what is truly the unconscionable thing? forcing her best friend to feel something that cripples her? allowing her to dull the pain as any human being would with their own brand of medication, knowing other people might be hurt?

at the end of the day, she isn't much better than damon. caroline like this hurts. dead or lost to them forever is always worse.

she can only nod her assent, not trusting herself to speak any further. )

[persevere]

[Before she flipped her switch, she'd convinced herself that she would be different, that she could handle this. Whether or not she misjudged remained to be seen, but Caroline Forbes had not exactly been in her right mind when she'd made this decision. She had been overwhelmed with grief, with the prospect of a future her mother wouldn't be in. She'd known she would lose her someday, but she hadn't been ready.

Not by a longshot.

Perhaps, one day, she'd be able to lean on Elena the way she's supposed to, to bond over the fact that they're both orphans now, that their family is one they choose now. Maybe she'd let Klaus hold her, soothe away her pain, replace it with someone else. To do that, she had to let them back in.

She was alone right now. Her mother's funeral had beaten that home, regardless of what her friends had done for her that day. She'd thought that if she just got through the funeral, she'd be fine, but Damon had made it all too clear that it would only get worse. She couldn't do worse.

She hadn't counted on this. She hadn't remembered. It was going to be a fight, eventually. The way she held onto Klaus' gaze made that obvious, that she was just as willing to get ugly as he was, that Elena was likely going to have to bear some of the inevitable fallout.

Until then, she'd put on her best smile, one that didn't reach her eyes the way it should, but anyone who didn't really know her would never think twice. It's the smile that she wears as she claps her hands together and starts to stand.]

Great! [As if they've just decided on what movie they were going to watch or something.] Now that that's done, I'm going to head upstairs and change. This dress smells like a funeral home.

[By the way, Klaus, she means she's going to their place. She'd agreed that nothing would seem different, so it appears she still lives with you. Good luck with that.]

You can always come with me, if you want.

[The way she says it is blatantly flirtatious. I'm sure it's fine.]

[poppycock]

[ he sees as much as he knows elena's assent from the corner of his eye. he counts on it, on her, for this: their alliance, and not only the one they made the day he arrived here. (the one they made in blood, in understanding, in bond—) it's a strength, knowing he has elena on this side, because he knows that in doing so, despite any and all their veering methods, they will not lose. the ensuing agonies and torments caroline will suffer cannot be avoided (he knows, with the weight of despair in his chest, the likelihood that they won't) but they will make it right, in the end. they care for the same person.

but there is no resolved no buoyed feeling that can stop him from flinching at caroline's easy and empty cheer. (he sees that mirrored resolve in her eyes, for the record, and he does not receive it lightly. he feels that cold rage viscerally, down his bones and along his skin; he feels it call and in answer to his.) he blinks at her, rears his head back the smallest inch as she stands. he blinks at her issued plans and the implication in their mutual destination.

it's that and her flirtation he finds the most curious. (the most scoring.) his lips part and then he closes them. (what better way to keep an eye on her? what intenser and more unrelenting heartache can there be? it's what she intends. she intends something.) there's something violent in his dimples, something flat in his eyes, when he smiles. he steps to the side, and gestures for the door. ] By all means, lead the way. [ only when she passes does he move those eyes to elena, the bitter veil in them dropped: they reassure. they say he will take care of her. ]

[persevere]

[Her pleased grin gets shot Elena's way as she passes by toward the door, pushing it open with an easy twist and then shove of her hand, her head tilting to the side to crack the last of the tension from having her neck broken out of her joints.

She doesn't look to watch him follow her. She can hear his footsteps well enough as she starts down the hallway, her perfectly curled hair bouncing against her shoulder blades.

Caroline knows where she's going; her presence here both feels far away and almost like yesterday. It's all rather confusing in her brain, honestly, so she doesn't bother to think about it too much.]

How long was I gone, anyway?

[poppycock]

[ his eyes linger on those bouncing curls. white-gold, silk-to-the-touch. he considers — he remembers — his fingers tangled in them, buried deep. he thinks of her smile, sweet and coy, against his throat. he thinks of being wrapped up in sheets and heat and limbs with her. he thinks of her laughter. her kindness. her sadnesses and darknesses. he thinks and longs for all of her. he follows, two steps behind her, and wants for what he can't reach.

that ache in his heart deepens. he thinks of the woman she was in his arms, the woman she was and is and will be. he thinks of the pain that awaits her. he thinks of how far away and how close all of her is, every iteration, just out of reach of his fingertips. he thinks he might get burned, reaching. good, he thinks. he would burn, in service to her. he has weathered and survived flames, and can think of no better sacrifice. (he doesn't get to have the piece of her that loves him back. she's dangerous as she is now.

so is he.) ] About a week, [ is his answer, given freely. he doesn't need to ask how long she's been absent: he knows, and he wouldn't give her the power of his curiosity besides. ]

[persevere]

[It was never her intention to be dangerous, not like this. That doesn't mean it isn't the truth. It would have been safer back home, the entire world open to her if need be, she could run if she had to, even though she wouldn't.

Here, there was nowhere to go, and Klaus was far more dangerous than anyone else could have been. He was supposed to be in New Orleans, not pushing at the buttons she's trying to hide.]

Huh.

[No questions, just a single syllable of mild interest, but even that is feigned. She wanted context; she didn't really care what they'd been doing in that time. The only thing she knew for certain is that Elena had been gone too. She wasn't human anymore; she could smell it.

They reach the stairs and she starts to climb them in silence, her hand reaching to the pins that hold her hair in place, half up and out of her face. She flicks each of the pins away with her fingers as she pulls them free, listening to them sound like tiny bells as they hit the stairs. The rest of her hair pools around her shoulders and collarbone.]

Did you move any of my stuff?

[poppycock]

[ he wouldn't assume her interest in any activities in the interim; on the contrary he keeps purposefully quiet about them. there's no need to give her ample weapons in her already competent arsenal. what use would it be, to detail his endless longing and excruciating worry? to tell tales of how he avoided their bed like a haunted man, unable to escape the scent of her even outside their rooms? she's on his skin.

it would fall on her deaf ears. his weakness and vulnerability laid out for her to dismiss or use won't be the key to provoking her and he does so abhor meaningless sentiment.

he says nothing of the trail she leaves, but watches the carelessness with a noting and discerning eye. he follows her just as silently, watching the drop and sway of her hair.

when they near the top of the stairs, he steps beside her. he opens the door for her, ever the gentleman. he knows what he would say, in another version of this conversation. he knows what he'll say now, the words chosen carefully, the hint of his smile and lift of his brows teasing and cool where there might have been warmth all at once. ] And provoke your ire?

[persevere]

[She smiles sweetly at him over her shoulder, her expression confident, bordering on smug. Her confidence isn't feigned; she simply doesn't care what anyone thinks. Not even him.]

We wouldn't want that.

[Already she's thinking of all the things she could do if (or when) he tries to push at her. She's ready for it now, knows full well that if he'll snap her neck at not even a simple provocation, that he'll try more eventually. Perhaps he'll attempt subtlety, but she'll be watching for it now, ready to strike back.

She could smear his name, but that wouldn't stop him. And while she knew he could bring her down, would easily overpower her, he couldn't be everywhere at once, and he couldn't watch all of his friends all the time.

They couldn't all be on vervain, either. Not enough people knew about it. And if they were, well, there was always an unfortunate accident.

No need for any of that, though. Not yet.

Caroline lets him open the door for her, steps through the threshold without a word of thanks, heading straight his room, for the closet inside. Getting out of this dress was her number one priority.]

[poppycock]

[ she's welcome to think so well of herself, to plan ahead a step or two, to anticipate his intentions. (how obvious, and trite.) he's certain she's a deft hand at it; he might even be impressed by her little victories. it suits him to be predictable, to have her on edge and watching, to think with full confidence she knows what he's doing, and by extension, her own schemes and contingencies. he already gave her that. it's hardly strategic. (she could smear his name. it wouldn't work. she could go after his friends. she might even succeed. but if she believes this tightrope act is one she'd ever win, she's surely mistaken.)

under different circumstances, he might revel in having an interesting adversary.

but he's a defter hand than she, and he is playing with a full set. emotions may be manipulated, may be brought to weakness, but empathy is as much tool as it is a softness in the right hands, and he knows what she's afraid of — grief. love. he is not.

he follows her inside, slowing to a stop in the middle of their bedroom. it's just as she left it, if not for the few items he didn't bother to put away in her absence: a rocks glass here, a book there. he picks up a sketching pencil to consider its point as she undresses, facing away from the closet. ] Dimming the switch is a bit of a young vampire's game; I don't believe I nor my family have ever partook. [ well, perhaps kol. but what would he need to? they were already monsters. ]

[persevere]

[He will most certainly outwit her; she is no expert at manipulation, no matter how willing she might be now. So much of what she's already done has been in the name of distracting him, when he was enemy number one. And things are different here; he's likely to see right through her.

He's right; she is afraid, distantly. She has every right to be afraid.

It's not him she's afraid of.

She reaches behind her back to pull down the zipper of her dress, slipping out of it before she ever pulls anything from behind the closet door. She selects two choices, both dresses with short skirts, one a bright red, the other a seafoam green color. She spins with one hanger in each hand, presenting them to his back.]

Well, you killed your parents, not to mention they were kind of the worst, so why would you need to? [She clears her throat.] Which one doesn't scream 'I became an orphan this week'?

[poppycock]

[ she shouldn't be. she shouldn't be afraid of him, for what he wants and longs for her is nothing else but love, happiness, fulfillment. but there are balances to those things and as much as it wrenches him inside to consider that suffering, he knows it is unavoidable. (and this is, quite frankly: her attempts to avoid it are futile. inconvenient. all the more disastrous, in the end.)

he can't protect her from suffering, nor would he want to. she will weather what makes her who she is. they all do. but perhaps he can show her she doesn't have to do it alone.

klaus watches from the corner of his eye, then turns to face her as she speaks, laying the pencil down. he keeps his gaze where it is polite; he needs to stay detached in this way and not give her the satisfaction. (his regard is drawn regardless. she's beautiful. what an unsuitable, simple word, unworthy of her. it strikes him, makes him long, knowing all the ways he is not seeing all of her.)

she's right. he did kill his parents. he had every reason to do so: for their treachery, deceit, betrayal, abuse and hatred. he does not hold regret for his bloody hands in their deaths. he would do it over again, and with alacrity. though she doesn't know about ansel: about his real father. she doesn't know he also carries that blood on his hands. he has not find space in his heart to regret that slaughter either, but —

he walks forward. slow, with measured steps. ] Just because I killed my parents, doesn't mean I didn't mourn what they were. [ there was a time, when he loved his mother. when he was a boy, and they were a family. ] What they could have been. [ it doesn't mean she won't mourn the same. he mourns what his life could have been, if he were the son of someone else. of a different man. a different father. if he lived a different life. ] I met my true father, you know. [ he has lost, similar to she. he has lost moments, love, nurturing, peace. he does not elucidate nor correct her; there is no reason to: he killed ansel as well. for his daughter. out of fear.

he reaches to take the green dress from her. ] The red, obviously.

[persevere]

I didn't, actually. You must have left that part out.

[Everyone lost. She knew she wasn't special, not when it came to suffering. That didn't mean that she could stand it, that she wasn't drowning without anything to help her keep her head afloat.

It's not like he was there for her. If he was offering sympathy, trying to connect with her, show her he knew how it felt, it fell on deaf ears.]

Good. That's the one I wanted anyway.

[She turns away again, passing off the green as she does so that she can slip the red on over her head, the top fitted and the skirt loose and flowy, the color as bright as the freshest blood.

Figures.

She glances at him over her shoulder.]

I wonder what else you neglected to mention.

[poppycock]

[ he doesn't expect the words he says to penetrate past the indifference she has married to survive, but he says them for perhaps they will linger. if nothing else, she will remember them, one day soon, and they will mean something to her.

he watches as she turns away with intent eyes, longing with an ache. he steals what he can and cannot help but decide to, lifting his hand to brush his knuckles down the cascade of her curls where she can't feel it, where she can't see. his eyes but connect with hers for a fleeting moment before he turns away, with that same dangerous ache fed and starved. klaus walks aimlessly towards the bed to flip through a sketchbook. that is what he is: aimless. lost, finding a path. ] I have neglected plenty. [ not by design, but by simple math. ] A thousand years is a long time, after all.

[ but he knows that is not what she meant: he knew about her mother. her father, before her. he knows about her children. her life, full. there is hope there, past the pain. there is light. ] So is your future.

[persevere]

How would you know? What are you doing? Stalking me from New Orleans?

[She turns her body back toward him as he flicks through his sketchbook, throws out words that don't mean anything. She knows this won't kill her. She wouldn't let it.

That's precisely why she's in this situation, so she wouldn't tear her own heart out to make the pain stop. She might have been able to survive it, but at what cost?

If she was selfish then so be it. She'd been plenty selfless since the Salvatore's rolled into town, only to get left behind, pushed away over and over again.]

[poppycock]

[ no, she wouldn't let it, but still she asks, as if to test herself. accustom herself. pull away in a dance. he knows the moves; he's dancing with her. he doesn't fault her this selfishness. it only concerns him, considering it will do her no good. he's hardly one to talk about selfishness, after all. (but he will, fight her.)

a wry smile twists his lips; he pauses in his absent perusal of the sketchbook and looks up, considering. ] 'Stalking' is such a crude word. [ in many definitions of the term. for one, he practically has it down to an art. ] I prefer the term... [ he trails off, considers, settles: ] 'watching over.'

[persevere]

To-may-to, To-mah-to.

[Made more (less?) humorous by his accent.

What she knows is this; he's still ahead of her, as is Damon Salvatore. They know where this leads, what happens after, the end result. They could tell her, if they thought it would help. Or they could keep it from her if it's only more terrible than their lives have already become.

Either way, she doesn't want to know.]

I'll just take that as a yes.

[poppycock]

[ more. empathically more. adorable, too.

klaus merely smiles, lips curling into his dimples, and turns his head to her. ] Take it however you like. You're the one calling the shots. [ oh, how bright and deceptively he says so, as if she's not. it might be something of a challenge. ]

[persevere]

No, I'm simply asking you not to actively try to ruin my life.

[She fluffs up her hair as she moves to the end of the bed, having a seat on the edge.]

It's not like I'm forcing you to shoot your dog or something.

[poppycock]

[ he would beg to differ on plenty of those details, but her glib comparison is appreciated. his eyes appraise her chosen outfit, move down her legs to her simple pumps. in a blur he disappears to the closet and returns just as it slams shut, something leagues more fitting in hand. he's at his knee in front of her — servile, non-threatening, a liar.

his eyes stay on hers, just as dangerous and flirtatious. his palm cups the back of her ankle and slides up her calf; he carefully takes her shoe off. ] Am I? [ he wonders aloud, entirely for show. he picks up a piece of her new pair to slide onto her heel. ] Seems like you're doing that to yourself. You hardly need my help.

[persevere]

[Those are...excellent shoes. But he did always have good taste.

Her chin lifts as she looks down at him, eyebrows climbing slightly toward her hairline. She doesn't know exactly what he's doing, but it sure is something.

She doesn't really want the challenge, but she'll rise to it, if she has to. (She'll lose).]

It wouldn't kill you to at least have a little faith in me. Do you really think I can't do it?

[poppycock]

[ it's not a question of his faith or belief in her; quite the contrary. he reaches for her other leg to slide her remaining heel off just as carefully, just as slowly. he feels her eyes. he feels her scrutiny. her caution. like warm pinpricks over his shoulders, he feels the weight and parry of her regard. ] I believe you can do whatever you desire, [ he says, and he means it. it's hardly a ploy: honesty. (it is, in these hands.) his fingers stroke up under her knee; his thumb brushes the seam. ] You're capable and smart; dangerous and lovely. [ his voice is low, tender, a sweet and sultry murmur. he slides on the new heel and slips his hand to curl around her ankle, his gaze steady on hers. his hands linger where they are; warm on her skin.

still he murmurs to her. he feels the weight of her sadness — his own — both, on his chest. ] I think in the wake of your grief it​ wa​s easier for you to drown in it. I think you're afraid, knowing that even when you wake from this nightmare, you will have to face it.

[persevere]

Don't.

[The word comes out, harsh and heavy on her tongue. She can already feel the ache in her chest, the way it spreads and consumes her lungs, fills them with fire. Quickly, she shoves it down, stomps on it til there's nothing but ashes beneath. Only a taste and it feels like she'll burn alive if she even thinks about letting it rage.

She lifts her foot, pulling her ankle from his grasp. She sets the outsole firmly against his chest, and pushes him away from her.]

If you're going to touch me, at least make it worth my time. But you don't get to have an opinion. You weren't even there.

[poppycock]

[ it's not a victory, knowing the words he utters make a mark: but it is a strategy, to see where they do. (it's more than a strategy, but he is not naive enough to consider it a plea. it's more than a strategy, for even if she does not listen, they are words he needs to say. ones she needs to hear, whether she likes it or not.)

he lets her foot push him. he sways back from the pressure, but for hardly the moment it takes her to warn him off. she may claim not to want the challenge, but she is playing with a fire just as dangerous as he, and he will not be quartered. he lifts his arm to brush her foot off his chest. he takes her in his hands, one curled into her hair at the root, his knee between her legs, pining her beneath him. in no time at all they are back against the bed. he pulls slowly and none-so-gently at her hair so she can feel the ache. ] I may not've been there, but I know you, Caroline. [ he knows her here. he knew her then. his lips are inches from hers. he pauses, his eyes filling with something else, something more, something he felt with her in his arms and waters pattering to the floor around them. ] And I'm here for you now.

[persevere]

Only until you don't have to be anymore.

[That's the way it always is, isn't it? Give her a few good lines about how they'll always be there, until they're not. Then it's a line of excuses, whether it's revenge or finding themselves or it's not the right time. Or they die.

Everyone leaves. What does now matter?

She's taken now into her own hands.]

We both know you'll be out of here at the first opportunity, no matter what kind of mess you're leaving behind, so you can save your bullshit for someone who might actually believe it. [She tilts her chin up, bottom lip brushing against his upper.] So if you're gonna screw me, then get on with it. Otherwise, get the hell off of me.

[poppycock]

[ he knows what she is doing. from the first word to the last: from the depthless drop of the dark in her eyes to the stirring and electric brush of her lips. the cruelty still does its service. it does its service because she is right as much as he desires her to be wrong. he's never had to doubt his devotion to her; he knows how far it extends — he knows how she has desired, longed for, agonized for better.

it's the truth (you'll be out of here at the first opportunity, no matter what kind of mess you're leaving behind) that causes his lips to part; the iron focus of his gaze to relent, hardly noticeably at all, but noticeable all the same. she doesn't need to mention his daughter, nor the understanding and intimacies they shared, over this.

(he could argue: he would choose to be here for her, with her. he always would, across time and place and universe. when he could. if he could. he wants to be and is hers, with every atom of his being. he might tell her: that he would do anything to save all who he loves from this place: to save her. he wants and would with a keenness that keeps him whole. she already knows. that's not why she says it.)

she wants to hurt him. (she could, if he'd allow it.) she is hurting herself. (he cannot stop her from that.)

he cannot pull away. he cannot afford to lose, not against her (he does not want to lose) for as selfish and as practical as his motives are, what he desires more than anything is to see her claw her way out of this darkness. to defeat it. he tilts his head down, bowing into her, nudging and sliding his nose down the length of hers. he misses her, he wants her, and he does not want to let her go, his knuckles white, her hair crushed in his grip. they all have their parts to play. the look in his eyes is undeterred; it's renewed. it's wanting.

he leaves before he can begin to tremble. ]