OTA ; Don't Stop, Make it Pop, DJ Blow My Speakers Up

[walkingheroin]

Who: Lucifer Morningstar and OTA
Where: Deux Lux, Floor 6, Room 66
When: Anytime in March
Rating: TBD, probably PG-13 or so
Summary: Lucifer does what he does almost every other night - he has a party. Shenanigans and conversation ensue. This is essentially a catch-all for March for him. Let me know if you want something specific.
The Story:

[Once the drama of New Years dies down and he's drunk the entirely of his bar two or more times, Lucifer finally reopens his club to the public, seemingly no worse for the wear. He's chatted with a few specific people, reflected (marginally) on himself a bit, and has come to several conclusions.

All of which he'll be keeping to himself for the most part.

That said, he seems a bit brighter than even when he first arrived, as if there's a bit of weight off his shoulders, and he's almost less of a businessman and more of a guest in his own place as the nights continue on. He drinks along with everyone else, dances when he pleases, and plays the piano often, lending his singing voice more than occasionally.

Still, a few things weight on his mind that he'll need to take care of, but on the whole, he's quite chipper and easily approaching....or as approachable as the Devil can be.

That said, he's not seen a whole lot outside of his nightclub or his penthouse up the stairs, which means he might be a little more reclusive still than he first appears...]

Comments

[persevere]

[Caroline's mouth falls open slightly at that, her chest seizing briefly before she manages to find her breath again, shaking her head as if shaking cobwebs from her brain.

Without thinking about it, she reaches out, grabs his hand and squeezes, pausing his steps and waiting for him to turn towards her.

In her tipsiness, she doesn't have time to realize that this might change everything, for better or for worse, and she's not sure which way would be which. There's a pause where she just stares at him briefly, the slightest furrow to her brow, as if she's trying to read his mind and failing miserably.]

...Why are you doing this?

[poppycock]

[ the firm and forward grasp of her hand suddenly in his sends a jolt up and through him: elation, thrill, and trepidation all. the ghost of the tender delight he has felt remains in the light in his eyes and in the touch of his smile as she stops them; he turns towards her without thought and with an accepting eagerness. but that ghost fades when he sees the searching and grave expression on her face.

his heart calms or it does only at his insistence. his expression mirrors hers, falling into an uncertain, inquisitive visage. he's not blind, nor deaf, nor dumb; she has acted differently tonight. so perhaps has he, loose and reckless with compliments and interest. despite that, he's not quite certain what she means.

what is clear is neither does she. ] What am I doing that confuses you?

[persevere]

[His response does little to calm the beating her her chest. If anything, it picks up speed, her cheeks burning hot as he teeth tug on her bottom lip. She doesn't know what she wants regardless of the answers to her questions and briefly, she debates trying to drop the entire subject, but the look on his face makes her believe that he's not going to let that slide.

She breathes out, the grip on his hand tightening out of reflex as she tries to steady the slight wobble in both her emotional and physical balance.]

I just...you're flirting with me, right? I'm not like...imagining that?

[She's pretty damn sure she isn't. He's being kind of obvious, and she's doing the same in kind.]

I mean, you said we're friends in the future or whatever. Is that just kind of our thing? We drink and flirt?

[There's an unspoken or tacked onto the end there, because she doesn't sound so sure. But she also doesn't want to get the wrong idea, and she sure isn't going to let some boy screw with her head again. She just wants to know what to expect.

She's gotten hurt enough.]

[poppycock]

[ the rush of her heart is deafening. it's all he hears, secluded in this stairwell: a relentless beat that stutters and stops and starts his own with vengeance and dread and relish. his hand squeezes hers to steady her and the gesture is as involuntarily and it is eye-opening. (he has only ever desired and longed to be this for her: steady and loving and here.)

he has done her wrong in his selfishness to enjoy her; it hits him in a painful blow that takes his breath, just how sincerely this could all mean something to her, as it could easily to him. she's not the caroline he knows, wise to his past ruthlessnesses, in love with a boy he despises and she protects, just as she rightfully protected herself. it chokes him for a moment, all she does not know, and that past is least of those concerns.

there's here and now. there's his future. there's the fresh bruises on his heart; the paralyzing remorse of that, that she does not know. his lips part and he pulls in a shaky breath as he looks down and to the side, searching for words that do not come. it twists him up inside with anguish and uncertainty, how innocent and liable her questions are and how complicated his answers are too.

his fingers tighten around hers again; they shift, his palm touching hers as he climbs the few steps to be beside her, his eyes full. all there is to start with is the truth, no matter how he hesitates to part with it. it would be easier to let it go, he thinks; it would be easier for her if he did. would it be fair? to him, he wonders, or to her? ] No.

Not entirely.

[persevere]

Okay?

[That...doesn't really answer her question. It's a start, at least, but she's not sure where to go from here if he's not going to immediately offer up answers. Perhaps the answer isn't simple. Then again, it already wasn't simple. Not with what limited history they already have, and as much as Caroline is blind to it, Klaus must have stuck around for some amount of time, long enough to do whatever else it is he did in town and somehow...become her friend.

She's been hesitant to ask anyone about the future. All Damon says is how horrible it all becomes and he won't elaborate further. She only knows a little; Stefan loses his memories at some point along the way, and Klaus well...

...he leaves.]

I mean...I know you end up in New Orleans. And I know you have...a kid, somehow. [She doesn't really get that either but...one thing at a time.] And Elena mentioned someone that you're...involved with. Sort of?

[Who wasn't necessarily his child's mother, but who knew what the deal was there, either.]

You can see why I'd be confused, right?

[She attempts to say it with an almost humorous lilt, but it comes out flat and bordering on anxious. Her stomach is in knots as her lips press together, as if she almost wishes she never spoke up in the first place.

Confusion or no, her hand shifts in his easily, her eyes lifting as he moves in closer and looms slightly over her, her breath catching in her throat as she waits for him to speak.]

[poppycock]

[ that she knows where he ends up and that she knows about his daughter: these things don't surprise him. it's common enough knowledge that freya was comforted enough to part with elena and bonnie; even if she hadn't, damon is clearly from some distant point in the future where he would know. he still blinks at the words on her lips, something so precious and personal to him known and spoken so freely. it's the mention of camille that unsettles him. his head tips back infinitesimally; his jaw works. he does not know where elena heard about him and her but it matters little. what matters is that caroline knows and it reveals yet another reason for what he must do.

he does see why she would be confused. he sees too that it has rattled her, that all of this has rattled her. he wonders with a catch in his own throat and a pleasant, painful burn in his gut if she would so readily stand with him here, hand wrapped around his, if she knew all of it. ] I can see you have reason to be confused about many things. [ he attempts a smile of reassurance; it hardly lifts the corners of his lips. ] Come on. [ he steps back and endeavors to lead her with him. ] I'll tell you all you need to know, starting with Camille. [ he says so gravely but sincerely, his expression drawn. ] Who I'm not involved with, for the record. Not anymore.

[persevere]

Oh.

[The single syllable falls from her lips like a raindrop on the surface of a still lake, accompanied by a single blink of her eyelashes, as if that were the last thing she expected to hear.

And then she realizes she's not being very sympathetic, and she frowns.]

I'm sorry.

[Her intention had never been to bring down the mood, but she just didn't want to be....that girl. She still didn't know if she could trust him either, but she was trying to, even if that might be dangerous.

Her lips press together again, harder this time, her teeth pressing gently into her skin as she nods, letting him lead her down the stairs without letting go of his hand.]

[poppycock]

[ he wouldn't ask for her sympathy. he says it as a matter of fact, so she knows the truth. so she knows in this part where he stands. he's certainly not joyous about it; the confession lines his expression with the haggard tiredness he has felt since. sympathy, truth be told, it's the last thing he would expect of her—literally, the last reaction he expects, and his lips pulls into a genuine, albeit drawn smile that dimples his cheeks and crinkles the skin at his eyes.

he has no intention to bring the mood down unnecessarily (though he's certain it will get there) nor does he see any reason to linger any further on the topic. he waits until their shoulders align before he continues. ] When we met—officially, I mean—you weren't, um. Too pleased. [ understatement. ] And I wasn't very nice. But I liked you. [ understatement, again. he glances over to her. ] Is this what you want? To know all of it?

[persevere]

[She knows he's not asking for it, but she's not heartless. If he was with something, and it ended recently, it's going to hurt no matter who you were. From what she'd experienced with him, he didn't feel things halfway, and she just assumed that he would be as intense about other things that mattered to him as he was about her.

She didn't consider herself particularly special.]

Gee, I can't imagine why.

[It's an attempt at banter, because they've been through all that before. He hurt Elena, tried to sacrifice her and Tyler, but he'd...had his reasons. Whoever he had been back then, she couldn't tell if that's the person he was now. He didn't feel like the kind of monster who would murder an innocent like Elena Gilbert in cold blood, but how well did she know him really.

And she would never forget that she too killed an innocent in cold blood. Her hands aren't clean either.]

Of course I want to know. Everyone knows more than me and it drives me crazy but, at the same time? What if I'm not supposed to know. What if knowing is just going to screw everything up and make me miserable?

[She looks conflicted, and sad, and eager all at once.]

But I also know that if we keep doing...whatever this is, I need you to be honest with me. [She breathes out, nodding once as if making that decision before she turns to look at him.] Can we sit first, though?

[She has a feeling she probably should.]

[poppycock]

[ he does. he considers her special, and particularly for who she is, but she is also that to him. she is right; he does not feel anything halfway and that includes love. it includes pain, when they often go hand-in-hand. he has felt both and feels both now. it's the blessing and the curse of what they are: he loves camille just as strongly and intensely as he has loved caroline, but that doesn't make either of them any less to him. any less special at all.

it's precisely that he wants her to know, what he feels she should feel: that she is worth more. it's what he's felt from the beginning.

it's what he feels now, his mouth forming a rueful smile at her banter. it's what he feels as she answers his question, the workings of her mind and her worries pulling him in with admiration and worry that touches him in those tender spots he can sometimes forget he has; that he had forgot he had. he remembers those pieces for her, with her: compassion, desire, life.

it might make her miserable; she's right. but she would know, as she deserves to. he lets her think out loud without interruption. his eyes move to her, his heart lifting into his throat with damnable hope and too-quick passion at the undefinable way she regards whatever is happening between them, giving it breath with her words. his own is caught; it takes him a moment to temper his eagerness. ] Of course. [ they're nearly onto the another floor. with no other ideas, he gestures down the hall. ] The tea room, perhaps? [ they all would be deserted by now. ]

It might, you know, [ he intones, after a beat. ] I certainly don't have many... [ he searches for the apt word. ] happy stories to tell. [ he's the villain in most of hers. his lashes flutter; he means this. ] But I promise. I'll be honest.

[persevere]

[She knows what it's like to feel things so strongly that they threaten to overwhelm her. Any vampire knows what that's like, with their heightened emotional reactions to everything around them. She wonders if it's even worse being an Original. That, combined with his werewolf side, no wonder he was a little unstable. She'd seen Tyler's mood swings, and they hadn't entirely been in his control.

It wasn't an excuse, but it was a reason.]

Sure.

[She just needs a chair, somewhere where she won't have to worry about someone overhearing as they walk down the hallway, so that she doesn't have to stand on unsteady legs as he potentially deals her whatever blows may be coming her way.]

I can handle it. [She says it calmly, because she believes it. It would be a different kind of misery, not knowing. The kind that led her to ask in the first place.] Then I promise to still want to get that horse with you when we're done. Deal?

[poppycock]

[ he believes she can handle it as well; she has already, when he is from. she has handled and weathered much more. he cannot help the quiet affection he feels for her in her assurance. he said once she was strong and she is: she's brave.

she's brave and strong to offer him a kindness, to assume that she might still. klaus fumbles to find words in the wake of it. ] I won't hold you to it, but... [ he offers her a smile. ] Deal.

[ he opens the door for her when they arrive at the tea room; unsurprisingly it is empty of people. it's his favorite, with the armchairs and fireplace; the one in which they first met. at least, the one she met him. it's fitting, perhaps, that this is where they would end up here and now, for this.

a ball of nerves collects in his gut. he lingers behind for a moment. ] Do you want anything?

[persevere]

[She doesn't realize what room they're using until she walks in, notices the chair, and the corner of her mouth twitches up in response, unable to stop it.

How appropriate.]

Water. [It's an easy answer.] I should probably drink some water.

[As much as another drink sounds tempting right now, she'd rather not make her head messier than it already was.]

[poppycock]

[ water would be prudent, though he's quite tempted to have a drink himself. he retrieves nothing for himself in the end, bringing over the glass for her. he gestures to the armchairs. ] Shall we? [ there's a fire still crackling to his minute notice; perhaps it's another interesting quirk of wonderland or just their good fortune of someone's laziness.

either way, he feeds it another log before sitting across from her. if it seems he's dallying about, it might be because he is. there's a difference, after all, between confessing to her months ago that he has done terrible things to her and her loved ones; that he has maimed and tortured and killed those she holds dear, than telling her the details of who and how and why.

he may have been taking those moments, but he won't be a coward. his eyes flicker to hers and stay. he rubs his palms on his thighs. the moment he's settled, his expression sobered, he speaks. ] I suppose in addition to not knowing much about [ he pauses; the word feels large in his mouth ] us, you don't know much about me. I'd like you to. [ the words feel stilted, awkward, despite their sincerity. perhaps because of it: they are words that strip him. ] Though honestly no other you would know it. But perhaps it might help. For you to understand. Why. [ why he did all the things he did to her. and he does, dearly, want her to understand.

he doesn't want her to hate him. ]

[persevere]

Thank you.

[She cradles the cup between her hands as she walks over to have a seat in the same chair she sat in when they met, when he'd decided to withhold his identity from her. It seemed he'd changed his mind since then, considering it had been his idea to have this conversation, even if it was caused by her own questions.

Things had changed. She'd been changing too, little by little. She imagines he's changed quite a bit, then, since he...broke his curse.

She watches him with somewhat hesitant eyes, suddenly longing for their previously so easy and simple conversation, and wondering if they'd ever get back there. But this was important; if they didn't do this, he would always have an advantage over her, and she couldn't really trust with that in place. Whatever they had would be...cheaper that way.]

Alright. [She takes a sip of water before she puts the cup down on the table next to her, sitting up a little straighter as she levels a calm gaze at him.] I'm listening.

[Not just hearing, but listening.]

[poppycock]

[ he can tell that she is: that she's listening. that she's willing to know, to give this and him a chance. it silences him for a moment; despite his anxiety at the prospect of sharing himself—and to depths he certainly hadn't with lucifer (he nearly smiles at the irony of finding himself in the same seat so soon after; it's a night of confessions)—klaus is still in his seat, his posture carefully relaxed. the only window into his apprehension lies in the errant movement of his fingertips, curled over his knees.

and his eyes; he glances towards the flame. perhaps it is because he's already recounted this tale not a few hours before. he knows it is because it's her, and what better way for her to understand him—to know him and trust him in ways he fears and longs to be known and trusted—than to let her in. in ways he should have before.

his breath is shaky as he pulls it in to speak. ]

It might be easier to show you.

[ slowly, he leans forward, palm up, eyes first on his offered hand and then on her. ] Through my memories.

[persevere]

[It's one of the aspects of what they are that Caroline doesn't have a lot of experience with yet. She knows how it works, knows she's capable of doing it herself, but for as nosy as she is, she's not one to necessarily intrude so intimately on her own. Pestering someone for gossip was one this. This?

This was another matter entirely.

She remains perfectly still as he leans toward her, stretching out his hand, the only movement being her eyes as they fall to his palm and then back up.

She doesn't hesitate. It does sound easier, at least from a technical stand point. Perhaps on an emotional one too; it's one thing to hear a story, and another to experience it and actually be able to put yourself in someone else's shoes.

But these were Klaus Mikaelson's shoes, well worn and no doubt bloody, and maybe she should be more afraid than she is as she nods, reaching forward to slip her hand in his.]

Okay. Show me.

[He wants her to know him, and she finds herself wanting to as well. Maybe it's because she wants to know what would lead someone to live the life he's had, why he could do such terrible things, to understand what could make someone who seemed to have good in them to be the cause of so much pain. Maybe that will help her come to terms with the fact that she cares about someone she should hate.

Or maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe she wants to know because he wants to tell her, and she doubts it's something her offers to just anyone.]

[poppycock]

[ he has wanted to be known more than once in the centuries of his life. he has wanted to share himself with tentative, eager longing, terrified and small and angry and hated all. he has whispered his secrets and grabbed at those who have asked explanation to force it upon them. (he told aurora with a new, tender heart. he shared those violent pieces of himself with camille with the same desperation.

he offers this to caroline in all the same ways, and not at all. he offers himself with the hope that he can trust this with her, with vulnerability and fear.)

his hand closes around hers. his thumb brushes over the hills of of her fingers and he draws them closer to envelop with his other hand. his eyes are steady and lost in hers, lips parted as he pulls her into his mind.

he does not offer this to many, but it is he who is humbled that she accepts.

first, there's laughter. warm, familiar bodies and little hands pulling and playing under the sun. there's the smell of fresh fall. he's showing her his life before it all: that blessed always and forever before it was twisted into a promise and a curse. there is love. there is hope. there is terror in his heart and he's hiding among those trees, hiding from a father who hates him, but he is not alone.

thunder rumbles. lightning strikes. he shows her rebekah. he shows her how much love was in his heart, how much he loved his sister, how much he has always wanted to protect her. i will always stay with you, rebekah. no matter what. he shows her elijah, older now as they trade banter and blows. his brother, who he has always counted on and looked up to and then the harsh hands of his father, sinking swords in he and rebekah's hearts. the anguish is far away but it is enduring, the shame and terror at mikael's hands pushing him back before he forces blood down his sister's throat.

it is enduring, the agony of shifting into a wolf for the first time, pain and confusion and horror that ripples and wracks through his body, but it is nothing like the heartbreak of elijah helping his father string him up. please, he says. please don't do this to me.

klaus pauses. he pauses long enough, his shoulders shaking, to take a breath. to find the will to go on. to show her his anger. his rage. the endless bellow of pain and fear that has been nestled inside of his heart for centuries. he shows her in flashes his mother's blood, the body parts of villagers he woke up to find strewn about him that first night. the horror and remorse. what have i become? is the question he asks elijah and his brother's hands are gentle now, grounding, but mikael's voice is never far behind. he's a beast.

he pulls back, because he can't go on from there. he cannot bear the depth of that shame anymore than he can share it at length, spiraling down into memories of bruises and worthlessness. he straightens, his hands lingering in hers. he finds his eyes are wet and his cheeks are too. he watches her, and he waits, heart in his throat. ]

[persevere]

[At first, the memories are almost happy. It's filled with the simplicity and naivety of childhood, something that she managed to hold onto much longer than your average girl, thanks to a calm life in what she thought was a rather boring small town.

But Caroline also understands what it's like to be rejected by a parent, to be afraid of them. Her mother had turned her away when she'd been turned, called her a monster, said she was gone, and she'd heard the words. Her own mother had deceived her, gotten Matt's help, even tried to kill her. (She was lucky enough to still not know what she'd suffer at the hands of her Dad.)

She knew that pain, and she'd only felt it for a short time in comparison. Klaus had apparently dealt with it the entire time he'd grown up, hated by the person that was supposed to be one of the few he could trust, in a time where everything was dangerous and uncertain.

And then to be murdered, changed, strung up by that same person.

It only devolves from there, and she feels her insides crumpling up as his do, like a fragile sheet of paper, as he dwells in his misery so that she can understand what brought him to become this person that would hurt her and her friends without even knowing her. He hadn't had anyone to help him, the way she'd been able to be there for Tyler during his first transformation, and the results had been horrific and unintentional.

She chokes back a sob as he pulls away from her. Her hands shake in his grip, and it occurs to her that she shouldn't be the one falling apart, that she's the one that's supposed to be strong here, but she can't. It's worse than anything she could have possibly concocted in her imagination, and as she looks up, eyes rimmed with redness and tears, she sees him so clearly that it doesn't matter what he's done since then. He's the result of a child repeatedly broken and having to find a way to crudely glue the pieces back together over and over again.

To live through that and whatever other horrors she'd yet to even see and still manage to be kind to anyone? To know how to care for anything? He can't possibly be the evil monster that she once thought to be.

But she'd already known that, hadn't she?]

I'm....so sorry.

[She rises ever so slightly from her chair, just enough to settle on her knees in front of him, her hands clutching his so tightly she's sure that she would be breaking his fingers if he weren't as strong as her.

And then she's releasing them, slipping her arms around his torso instead, cheek pressing against his chest as her she tightens the grip of her embrace.]

[poppycock]

[ there are many words that have defined him: by blood, by choice, by name. he is a beast by mikael's reckoning, a bastard by his mother's infidelities and treacheries, an abomination by birth; he is a monster. in that he has been defined by all three, chosen and created by the blood he has spilled and the blood on his hands. that is what he has chosen; what he fears and relishes that all who might look upon him will see: a monster. darkness. a blight on this world which could only be feared and hated and frightfully obeyed.

there have been hands that have shaped him. he has embraced that which has cut him to the core. (those hands have not only been mikael's or esther's; they've been his own.)

why should she be any different? why should she look upon him now, stripped to that core, and see anything but what his father saw; what his mother molded into being? what he himself has wrought, time and time again? she told him once: that because his father didn't love him he didn't believe anyone else would either. the fear and hope of that is full in his throat, loosening with awe at the tears in her eyes and the strong, unrelenting grip of her hands.

she could reject him. by all rights she should. but klaus is not selfless or good enough to wish she would.

he doesn't expect it, though perhaps he should: how she falls to her knees in front of him and embraces him, takes him in, accepts him. he shakes under the intimacy, his arms lifting with his mute shock. he wonders if this is real, if it could still be real after this night is over, after this conversation is done. if he deserves it with all he has not said yet. still, his hands are hesitant at first, rising to rest along the curve of her back. he's hesitant, and then not at all as the shock fades and in its place is only dread and wonder and a quiet gratitude. his arms curl around her and hold her closer to him with strength, fingers curled into her top, into locks of her hair. his head bows to rest beside hers, his breath shallow and soft. ]

[persevere]

[To Caroline, he had been the hidden monster in the darkness, the guy who stole Ric's body to creep on Elena and then set into motion this horrible plan that was going to sacrifice them to cure his curse. Stories like that never really did match up to the real thing, and the man she held in her arms now, practically trembling there, couldn't possibly be the villain of the story.

He was a victim. Just as they all were. He'd done terrible, horrible things, and no doubt she would eventually learn them all, but if it had been her that lived his life? That grew up in a world devoid of love and safety? She's not sure she would have been any different.]

The world gave you nothing but hate. Why would you think you should give something else back?

[She says it softly, as if trying to soothe him. Her thumb moves over his back, her head tilts towards his.]

But you do. You try and you care when you didn't have any reason to think that you should. Maybe not then, but you do now. I've seen it.

[She draws back slightly, hands moving up to lay across either side of his throat so he'll look at her. Caroline is sure she looks like a mess, they both are by this point, but that doesn't matter.]

You are not a monster. You wouldn't be telling me all of this if you didn't want to be something else.

[poppycock]

[ tears hang in his eyes, full and heavy and unshed. they blur his vision. they blur the image of her before him, speaking words that make him shake and feel and hang on with every hope and wish and solace inside of him. she sees him. she sees him, and it devastates and strengthens him all at one. it shakes him, just as dearly as it soothes: the brush of her touch, the kindness and anchor of her hands holding him.

perhaps she is right. he knows that she is. he wants her to be, his hands clinging to her, his grasp finding her shoulder. his voice is hoarse, low, thick and fierce with all he needs to say, all he must get out. ] There are things I have done. To you. There are things I would still do. [ he might not be that fabled monster, the horror in scary stories told to children, but he would still be monstrous. she must know that. ]

[persevere]

I know.

[She says it sadly, because she knows it's true. He wouldn't feel the need to explain all this to her if there wasn't more. She knows that, as much as she doesn't want to think about it. It would be easier to keep things as they are, to move forward as if her future may never happen and his past is a figment of his imagination, but that wouldn't be healthy, nor would it last.]

Just...tell me one thing first. [She swallows past a knot in her throat, watching him with careful eyes, at a loss of what she wants his answer to be to a very important question.] After all the things you did to me, to my friends, to the people that I love...afterward, before you left, what did I do about it? What were we?

[Were they friends? Did he become her enemy and this was his way of trying to somehow fix it? In the end, that's what matters most, because if she can forgive the things that are coming, if from where he's standing she already has, then maybe she doesn't need to know every little gory detail.]

[poppycock]

[ he will tell her anything, and this request is no great sacrifice. the lines of his drawn expression soften; he sobers. the light in his eyes now is not from the tears gathered there but from the smile that ghosts upon his lips, both bittersweet and longing. it fades, for his answer is the truth and it has never been a wholly happy one for him, but it is no less than she deserves.

there are few words that can explain. he finds them all. ] Almost. More. [ he pauses, gazing into her eyes. ] Lovers. [ once and not again, but once. under sun and stars, that's what they were, for one brief, suspended moment.

but that's not all she asks. he did leave. he left her, and she should know why. ] I left because you wanted me to. You wanted to live your life. [ she wanted to take the paths she would take. she wanted them without him. he believed in her. he admired her that, even as it twisted him up inside. ]

[persevere]

[Tears stain her cheeks, though they no longer fall, and she has the urge to wipe away the evidence that they were there, and she does so with one hand, using her fingers to brush them away, light traces of mascara smearing across her skin. She sucks in a calming breath then, nodding when he's finished speaking.

It's both exactly what she thought she was going to hear and dreading. Because sex complicates everything, even when it isn't real. Let alone when only one of them remembers it.]

Well, by the sounds of it, that didn't turn out so great.

[Her life, she means, with him not in it. Damon has very little to say about her future that sounds anything resembling good. She can tell it's bad, confronted him a little about it, even. But he won't spill.

Her lips press together.]

I have a confession to make. [Since it's honesty hour.] I had one of those crazy Wonderland dreams...about you. I had the same nightmare, every night, over and over. I was trapped, and someone was hurting me, and the only person who ever came to save me was you.

[It almost sounds like one really crazy, kind of scary metaphor.]