entrancelogs | + Your imagination can't hurt you! +

Elena's curiosity grinds to a halt.

... No. There's no way.

But Caroline — what was the last thing Caroline remembers from home? Right, the sacrifice. No, it's not possible. He wouldn't ... ?

Gulp. "Did he give you a name?"

"He told me I should call him 'Nick.' No last name or anything."

She practically giggles.

"I think he's just trying to be mysterious."

Do you hear that?

That's the sound of Elena's blood going cold.

How could she have possibly forgotten Caroline wouldn't know what he looks like? Elena grasps Caroline's hands, face a sober contrast to her cute giggling. "No, he was trying to get you not to hate him at first glance. Niklaus. Caroline, you met Klaus."

Edited (ugh GRAMMAR) 2016-11-23 23:05 (UTC)

Hold on. Give her a moment.

"Oh my god." Okay, maybe a few more moments. "I think I might actually get sick."

Horror gives way to embarrassment, which quickly morphs into anger, each of the emotions gracing her features in quick succession before she pulls her hands away from Elena's and reaches for the pile of books on her end table before plastering a fake smile on her face.

"I'm sorry, there's something I need to go do real quick, alright?"

"But — "

Oh.

She's gone.

"The ice cream..."

Elena looks down at it with a pouty sort of expression. This isn't going to end well, is it?

Nope. Probably not. Spoilers.

Their last encounter provided Caroline with his the floor location of his room, at least, and her enhanced hearing helps her pick up the sound of his voice as he's ending a phone call.

Good. She's pissed enough that she wants his full attention, and if he really wanted to kill her, he could have just done it when they met the first time. There's some solid logic right there. But, honestly? She's just sick of people screwing with her.

"Knock knock!"

The words ring out in the hallways before she steps up to his door and...kicks it open. This is fine.

To say he wasn't expecting a notable and eventual confrontation with Caroline would be a lie. In point of fact, he was expecting one of her group to fill her in sooner or later. He deceived her, after all, and despite whatever was genuine during that memorable meeting, it was bound to provoke her ire.

(He meant to. He meant to make her angry, for her sake; she already is. She already hates him. He meant to plant that seed of doubt, for his own selfish purposes.

To simply spend time with her.)

What Klaus was not expecting was the dramatic destruction of his property. Though his only response, from where he's standing in his sitting room, a glass in one hand and his phone in the other, is the lifting of his brows. He gestures inside, the nonchalance an unfortunate result of his weariness from the day's traumas. "Well, do come in."

Edited 2016-11-26 18:17 (UTC)

That...is not the reaction she was expecting.

He doesn't move. He doesn't even look mad or...really anything. Resigned, defeated, tired. To be fair, she might not have even had quite this explosive of a reaction had she not just dealt with Damon's horror mindscape and all the accompanying complicated feelings that came from that whole encounter, but it's easier to take everything out on freaking Klaus of all people.

Or it would be if he seemed to have any intention of doing anything except sit there and take it.

The books that she was originally going to chuck at his head get dumped on the floor instead as she crosses the threshold, stepping over them in heeled boots.

"What is wrong with you!?"

It's the only thing she can even think of to say. Clearly he's a psycho, unhinged and dangerous, so there's plenty wrong with him. But manipulating her into thinking he could be her friend? That's just lower than low. ~~Especially since she feels like she lost something.~~

He would stand it. Of course he would, to a point: she has every right to do so, and he's sure each and every insult and criticism would be both creative and accurate, save one.

Between one breath of her anger and the next, perhaps that heaviness she's noticed matters a little less, for she does hesitate. There is so much she doesn't know: between them, about him, and not all of it confined to that small space of time, those pockets in which they knew each other; trusted themselves and each other enough to do so.

What he feels for Caroline is a link, a rope which ties him to what it is to care unheeded and to want without shame, and even now he feels it, whether she is cognizant of it or not. He exhales and glances away, the sound heavy even compared to the strength of her accusation. There is a tremble to it; a spark of agitation at his own inability darkens his eyes. It's fallible, the forcefulness of his reply. It falters. "While I'm certain you have a list not unlike many I've heard before-"

He steps forward to sets his phone and drink on the table if only to take the time to gather himself. To search for the righteousness he cannot fake nor does he wants to. He breathes shakily again, his eyes lifting; it is honest and beseeching, the look in his gaze. His words, an admission. "From you."

Edited 2016-11-26 19:18 (UTC)

Caroline swallows past a seemingly impossible knot in her throat. She doesn't like the way he's looking at her, the way he seems to want some kind of recognition from her beyond anger and hate, and it makes her distinctly uncomfortable. She shifts back and forth on her feet, realizing belatedly that maybe should shouldn't have come here at all. Katherine Pierce and her direct threats were easier than this.

Finally, she finds her voice, though it lacks the strong conviction that should lace every word.

"Let me guess, you're ahead of me too? How many more things are you going to add to that list?"

She crosses her arms over her chest, watching him expectantly, but there's a cautious tremble in her eyes, as if she's afraid he's going to do something even more unexpected and having no idea what it might be.

Edited 2016-11-26 21:06 (UTC)

There is a knot in his throat too. Impassable and debilitating, stealing his breath in the quiet. He doesn't know what he expects, not from her, not from when she's from, not when he lacks the advantage of being known by her, but it's still a release when she does react: not with disgust and rejection, but with something else. Something touched and uncertain; something that soothes the terror and tension in him.

He breathes again and glances away, his fingers trembling as he reaches to touch the top of the armchair nearest to him. Perhaps he needs the solidity of it beneath his fingers; perhaps he must do something with them. When he looks back at her, there's a lightness that wasn't there before, a shadow of the playfulness she had met before she knew who he was. "Well, aside from unlikeable and annoying... and perfect..." She did say that, once. He remembers, just as he remembers her goodbye, honest and rough and tender. He stops, lashes fluttering.

The lilting humor in his voice dies; the smile in his eyes does as well. The affection lingers. "You did call me a friend. Once."

It seems her worries were completely founded, as that is not something she can even fathom, let alone accept. The list of his crimes against her and her loved ones was already long and she hasn't even met him face to face until getting pulled here.

And then, the very first thing he does upon meeting her, was lie. Caroline thinks back to their conversation in the tea room and the library, recalls it with the context that he knew exactly who he was talking to and what he was doing the entire time, and her stomach rolls inside of her.

Her chin lifts as she looks down at him, hands balled into fists. "And why should I believe anything you say to me?

Yes, it would disgust her now, their first meeting. Klaus' eyes darken at her challenge, for as much as it would, he also knows there was much more than disgust that lingered during and after that day. He might have deceived and lied, but he meant every word. "I don't assume you would." Which is more honest, ironically, than answering her question: he's given her no reason to believe him, to trust him. No reason besides his genuine confessions now, the plainness of his attentions and interest then.

And she's given away more than enough to know she does sense the truth: in her hesitations now. "But I think you know it's true." Hasn't it always been, no matter how fervently she denied him? (And hasn't she, denied him? There is a waver in his pride: Caroline made her choices clear, despite it all.) He is not certain, but he says it, because he suspects it well enough, and there is something hurt and plaintive in him that needs her to believe him: "And I'm certain Elena can confirm at least part of it."

She did disappear, didn't she? She knows more than she lets on.

Edited 2016-11-28 03:59 (UTC)

He's not wrong. Thinking back to their meeting, it felt real, this weird connection she'd had with this stranger, the easy way they spoke and how welcomed she felt.

But she couldn't let herself believe in that. It was a lie, something he tricked her into believing. She wasn't that kind of friend, who would make nice with the person who literally killed several of the people close to her, who tried to sacrifice her as well for a creepy, selfish ritual.

She doesn't want to think she's capable of that. Unfortunately, her hesitance gives away the fact that she's fighting it.

"What I think is that I'm sick and tired of people trying to manipulate me into feeling whatever it is that they think I should feel."

Matt, Tyler, Damon, Klaus. The list seemed to never end, even if some of it might have been well-intentioned because it sure didn't feel like it.

He cannot stop or weather the volatile emotions running through him now: they are hurt, and longing, and demanding. She is right: he did manipulate her, out of selfishness and wanting. Both rattle in him, ugly and unavoidable, and there is terrible desperation in how her words compel him to move forward, to stalk closer with an abrupt step. "Well then, let me relieve you of that burden."

If she wants the truth, he will give it to her. He will prove it to her with a cruel bluntness that serves as much as it scores. As much as it pains. Every word drips with both. "Yes, I killed, maimed, and tortured your friends. I did it viciously and without remorse. I enslaved those you love and when they dared cross me I slaughtered those they held dearest. You hated me." His eyes round; the vulnerability in his eyes is real at that truth; it was true, and he loved her regardless. In spite of it. Perhaps because of those jagged edges that wouldn't accept less.

"In another life perhaps it would have been different." His voice gathers strength. He is in front of her now, inches away. "But I cared for you then and I care for you now, and if you don't believe that then you are only manipulating yourself."

Edited 2016-11-29 14:48 (UTC)

She flinches as he steps further into her personal space, but she doesn't move, clenching her teeth behind her lips as she looks up at him. She's afraid of him, she should be afraid of him, but she's not about to stand down, even if she should.

Even if he's saying things she should definitely not be listening to.

"You wouldn't even know that if you'd gotten your way and sacrificed me for your stupid spell."

She swallows painfully, her throat dry and her hands shaking, but she doesn't want to be the first one to back up. She doesn't want to give him that satisfaction. She speaks between her bared teeth, each word laced with sarcasm.

"I hope it was worth it."

Her words hit him. They do more than hit, they strip him of the armor he has worn so often it has become a part of his skin; his mask, his face. She strips him of his righteousness and bares him; his shoulders shake under the force of what is true: she doesn't need to know him to see who he is.

He is the monster in her story, and his victory was her tragedy. (It is his too, in this moment, knowing how easily he could have and would have snuffed her out. He held her life in his hands. More than once, he did, but only once he didn't choose to save her.)

He wouldn't do it differently; if anything, he would willingly do it all again to rid the world of his father. For his daughter, for himself, for his family. But that does not mean her suffering was worth it, not for a moment. He is silent, his expression fallen and anguished. Only after a moment does he shift, lean back, and finds the words to say. "You were."

Her face feels suddenly too hot and freezing cold in the same moment. The way he looks at her is too raw compared to the suave and charming man she met in the library or the egotistical, sadistic one she met in the body of Alaric Saltzman.

This seems like another person entirely, his emotions lay bare in his face as he silently pleads with her to understand something she hasn't experienced.

She doesn't want to believe him, will lie to herself about it afterwards, but in the moment she knows that he's being completely truthful despite the fact that it hurts him to do so. She believes it, even though it seems entirely out of character for the hybrid she knows as Klaus Mikaelson.

And she hates herself for even thinking that her future self might really care about him, because what would that make her?

It takes her far too long to come to her senses, to realize that she should probably say something, should probably get out of there, and instead her mouth opens a closes a time or two, a visible representation of her state of mine, floundering and unsure that she understands anything at all.

"Don't look at me like that."

The words come out soft and rough, barely audible beneath the sound of her heart about to fly out of her chest.

Caring for him would make her no less than she's ever been. Perhaps it would make her more, for being what he is, because she's right: she shouldn't care to see what is good or desirable in him. Though his is a tragically, inordinately biased opinion, it's still one he believes is true. It doesn't matter what it makes her to him, because he does not see her nor anyone in such rigid degradations. When Klaus looks at Caroline, he sees more than trappings and expectations.

He sees the world at her feet; the world in her hands.

He sees possibility, so close to his.

She sees more, looking at him. She sees more now, everything and his senses condensed to the breath between them, to the heat and confusion and uncertainty thick and electric and heady in the space that separates him from her, that separates them.

She believes him, but it's the command she dictates that moves him forward to linger, his gaze steady and sure now. Dark and depthless, his gaze takes hers; he fills the ground she refuses to give. He will look at her like this, and she won't escape him. She can deny the truth in her own heart, but she will not refuse his.

A moment, counted heartbeats later, he passes by her, picks up one of the books she so violently discarded.

Her air catches in her throat as she chokes on her own breath, shocked into stillness by the intensity of his gaze. She finds herself unable to look away no matter how much she wishes she could.

It's going to be a long time before she can get his expression out of her mind. No one has ever looked at her like that, the way she's wished, in the past, that someone would.

It scares the shit out of her.

And then it's over and he's moving past her, leaving her cold and unsure of what even just happened, her throat dry and aching. She stands there for another few long moments, hearing his motions behind her as the covers close between his fingers.

"How could I have called you a friend if I hated you so much?"

Caroline doesn't even turn to look at him as she speaks. She barely hears her own voice, strange and foreign in her ears, as if it belongs to someone else.

He picks each book they'd chosen together off the floor, dusts off their covers, fixes and closes their pages. It is an anguished, simple, and searching comfort, picking up the pieces of his heart and putting them back together. He needs the occupation in this room without air, with something and someone found and missing; he sets the neat pile aside on the foyer's table.

He doesn't turn to look at her either. He breathes, thinking she knows the answer, however terrifying it may be. Words will not elucidate the truth for her, and they are not ones with which he particularly wishes to part. He is tired, wounded, and reticent: he knows with sudden clarity he cannot make her understand, anymore than he could then. And what would it do him here? Here, in this place where no one belongs? Where there is Camille, and Freya, and Rebekah? "Because you knew we are alike." His voice is soft and certain. Even through the veil of these complexities, he cannot lie to her. Because he sees, now. Because he owes her this, even if she does not know. "Because you knew, even before I did, that I was capable of more."

That means more than he can say. There are no words that can show her that gratitude, that can speak to that meaning.

Edited 2016-12-10 19:53 (UTC)

It's exactly what she was afraid of, perhaps even worse than she imagined. She doesn't want to be like him, to be capable of that kind of horror, to become the monster her mother was afraid she would be.

And yet despite what she's become and the things she's done, she's more comfortable with herself than she ever was. She's not perfect and she's made mistakes, but for the first time in her life, doing either was okay.

But she can't forget what he's done to her, to her friends. And she can't ignore the very fact that he's going to do more, seeing as he's told her as much. She wants desperately not to believe him, but the fact that he's literally telling her that Elena knows something about all this doesn't make that very easy. Why would he lie when she can simply go get the truth in a moment?

"You're going to have to prove it."

Because she can't just take that at face value, no matter how convincing he might be.

Of course. Of course she would demand no less. He remembers that night and figures eights on a ballroom floor, the shines of diamonds on her wrist, and that resolve carried so gracefully on her shoulders. He remembers the hoarseness of her voice, the flutter of her lashes, and the words that would have been her last, had he not moved with inevitable hope to save her.

Klaus smiles, because it is all he could have ever wanted then. It's more than he might deserve now. And it's a reminder, of all that she means to him, and all that she is. He turns to face her, wistful and drawn and unmistakably affected. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

She pauses as he turns to look at her, her eyes tracing his expression for a moment before she gathers up that same resolve he's apparently so used to, lifting her chin as she speaks one single word.

"Good."

It isn't good, because that means he'll probably try to prove it to her. Klaus seems like that kind of person that always follows through with his promises...or his threats, whatever the case may be. She's pretty sure it's the former, though, if the look on his face is anything to go by. She's not sure how to deal with that thought at all.

But she wants to have the last word, so she doesn't linger further, nor does she want to give him time to say anything more as she's walking out the door. So she doesn't walk; instead, she's a blur of movement, disappearing within the breath of a second.

...The books that he collected and set in a pile, though? Those are gone. Maybe she'll read them, after all.

+ Your imagination can't hurt you! +

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