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

[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.]

[poppycock]

[ it doesn't have to be complicated. he believes that, all their past and futures considered, their present enduring. he loves her, yes; he has loved her, but he is an expert at putting aside the expectations of his heart and of his very soul: he could care for her here, in any way she wants. he could and he would, just as he has—for her, he would want to, so long as it meant she would be happy. he would be happy, to know even the faintest touch of her life.

he has, and that love and belief in her and her life is why the wry and downtrodden notes of her voice and the sad sewing her words twists him up inside. his lips part and klaus' gaze drops away; he wants to tell her, to argue her: for he knows. he knows enough, of her terrors and traumas, of her hopes and dreams and triumphs. he shouldn't tell her those things, but he knows he cannot leave her to believe so little of what awaits her. what could await her.

his gaze lifts as she continues, eyes rounded at the possibilities and the truth hits him in the gut. he hears it, that small thread of indefinable hope in her words. it moves him and pulls at him; it humbles and scares. (he can't be that man. he never has been; he's not a savior. but he would: he would save her. he would save her, for her, with her, with the belief of her.) he lifts his hand to touch strands of her golden hair with his fingertips beside her cheek. her tears have long dried up and so have his; he sees her clearly. ] You have a good life, Caroline. An immortal one. [ it's a promise, and the truth. it's a life full of possibility and hope. ] Whatever pain you endure, there is happiness waiting for you around every corner, and you are more than capable of weathering those storms. [ he pauses, his jaw setting as he looks into her eyes, his hand stilling. ] If I saved you, then that's what I would do, for you.

[persevere]

[Emotions are always complicated, she would argue. Perhaps not the feelings themselves, but what to do with them, how to deal with them, how they affect everyone around them. If how either of them felt at the root were all that mattered, this conversation wouldn't have ever needed to exist.

But life isn't like that. Life is messy, a puzzle that Caroline constantly tries to fit together, only to realize the pieces are jumbled up or sometimes completely missing.

She wonders if this is how Elena felt when she realized she had feelings for Damon that went further than just a strange attraction she couldn't quite get rid of. Caroline feels like a hypocrite in that moment, but she also now recognizes each conversation she had with her best friend about this as being twice as important as they had previously.

She doesn't need to be saved. She wants to stand on her own two feet and save herself.]

First, I'd have to let you. [Her head tilts just ever so slightly toward his touch, the slightest air of humor returning to her voice.] Besides, it was more like you let me save myself. [He hadn't hurt her captor, he'd offered them up to her so that she could do it herself. She didn't need a savior. She needed something else.] You made me stronger than I was on my own.

[poppycock]

[ she would be wise to argue that, for therein lies his flaw: he sees what he wants to see, even in acknowledging the truth. he feels what he wants to feel. and he takes what he wants to take. whatever contented silence he would adopt would be half-pretend. he made her a promise once, that their lives would intersect again. however long it took, he would be a possibility on the horizon. he would be hers one day, and she would be his.

love isn't like the careful compartmentalization he wishes it could be, but if he's learned anything in a millennia, he's learned to wait. to bide. to hope and to fight.

he smiles, the warm curve of his lips small and soft at the tease of her response. he has no argument there, though his eyes do watch the tilt of her head with something akin to heat. it fades at the weight of the rest of her explanation, at the meaningful weight of it. he also cannot argue it sounds like something he'd do and with pride and relish.

but he can hardly believe that he could mean that much for her. it silences him, constricting his throat. it overcomes him, like something he could never imagine to wish to hear; something he would not know he'd want and never have.

his hand reaches for hers; it drapes over one still beside his neck and holds it. he holds it tight, pressing it against his chest, over his heart. he opens his mouth, as if to speak, but no words come. there are none he has that can communicate the bittersweet fullness he feels. he searches her eyes. all he can offer is this: ] Let me show you the rest.

[persevere]

[Her own throat constricts as his hand wraps around hers, placing it against his chest, and she can feel his heart pulsing below her palm. Her mouth is dry and her head is spinning and she simultaneously wants to curl up in his arms and never leave and hide under the covers of her bed and scream.

They weren't kidding when they said being a vampire heightens everything. She feels like she's about to burst from everything she's holding inside her.

Caroline knows that it's probably going to get harder before it gets easier, but she nods, rising from the floor and moving to sit in the chair next to him, sliding it over so that she's close enough to lean her head against his shoulder. She takes a cleansing breath, squeezing the hand that's still in his, and then finally speaks.]

Alright. I'm ready.

[poppycock]

[ casual intimacy has never come easy to him. it doesn't now, particularly with her, when so many of their interactions have been thick and drawn and defined by the negative space between them. he has always wanted to be closer, to touch her, and in doing so he has always been careful, cautious, calculated. she has never recoiled in disgust but stayed stiff with hostility, and her desire to lean into him now, to seek him out, unsettles and confounds him.

it's all he can do but adjust, uncertain at first but then calming. he breathes once, twice, after her head rests at his shoulder. after a quiet moment he props his chin against her hair; then his cheek. he breathes her in, sunshine and flowers and citrus, and weaves his fingers into the hair at her neck and strokes his palm down her shoulder.

it will be worse before it gets better. the fear still breathes inside of him but it is muted now, soothed by her consummate touches and words; her compassion. but it will be worse. klaus closes his eyes as if to savor the moment, and then the memories flood.

tyler. blood at his mouth, screams rattling his throat, mouth agape and filled with fangs, his eyes yellowed in the visage of a hybrid. there's indifference to his pain and suffering, owing to the power of what he'll become, and of what he'll become for klaus' purposes. (he's lonely and violent and scared and angry. he has never been more that then, than before. caroline's voice, begging for mercy in the background, sounds, but he doesn't hear it. he doesn't care.)

it's her birthday. her room is full of all yellows and shadows, and caroline is limp, pasty white, and fading. he did this and he is not sorry. he is never sorry for what he has—what he wants—to do. are you going to kill me? she asks, a thread of fear in her voice. no, he will not, and something stirs in him sitting beside her on that bed. something human and far away. there's a whole world out there waiting for you... is what he tells her and he feels it. he feels his eternity just as surely as he feels hers. he feels her fear and her disdain for him and her desire for it. all you have to do is ask and i don't want to die. her teeth are pinpricks on his skin; his blood is given freely. he likes the feel of it taken by her mouth; he likes that she chose it. he likes that she chose life. (like he did. like all he has ever wanted to do.)

he leaves her a bracelet. it's the one she rips off her wrist that night they danced in circles at a ball, when he couldn't take his eyes off her, wanting so dearly the graze of her notice and regard that the feeling got caught in his throat. there's indignation, but it's because she is right: lively and fearless and right, rolling her eyes and dealing her cutting barbs. —you compel people, sire them, try to buy them off. you don't connect with people because you don't even try to understand them. he's careful drawing the lines of her cheek afterwards, wondering what it would feel like beneath his fingertips as he shades the delicate slope, what her hair would feel like under the same, already knowing what her sharp tongue and mind can do. when he signs the note, he is grateful. he finds he means it: thank you for your honesty.

it comes in flashes, that night at the grill, how stunning she looks. i'd rather die of thirst and get to know me and i'm too smart to be seduced by you and that's why i like you. his fingers curled with fright and panic and anger at her arms when he feels the loss of his brother. it's a rouse; he knows it's a rouse at the end and he burns her pictures, but it makes no difference. he cuts in during the twenties dance, her eyes full of passion and ire that hook him in, the tension thick and his heart bruising at her words. i'm leaving town tomorrow. perhaps one day, in a year or a century, you'll turn up at my door— and that heat in her eyes, that thought, that moment she scoffs away. small town boy, small town life, he accuses of her, jealous and hurt and sure and not at all at once, it won't be enough for you.

he's speaking to stefan of loneliness at christmas, the air crisp and biting. he's speaking of victims and the letters he collects and death. there's blood on his hands that night, thick and vicious and flowing. there's rage, the same he showed her before, boiling and selfish and scared and insurmountable. he kills them all, every last one, because that is what he does, laying waste to the treacherous army of what he's begot—and why wouldn't he? why shouldn't he, in the end? it's what mikael predicted, what he deserves, what he held onto with vicious hands. carol lockwood's neck is thin under his grasp. he speaks to her of poetic symmetry, to take all tyler has away from him. she fights but there's nothing but ice inside of him and her last breath is a quiet, desperate gasp; he feels power and desolation as she slips away. (tyler took all he had.)

he watches his brother die in flames, hot and consuming. he smells the burnt flesh long after, trapped in a room to stare at kol, nothing but a charred husk on the floor. he endures tyler's taunts and her own, tyler's thirst for vengeance, but he has his own. he is a live-wire and a vicious one; he does not hesitate to sink his teeth in when caroline comes close: to make them all pay. her blood is exultant and rich on his tongue but the terror on tyler's face is richer. he tries not to linger on the sickness in his gut when she can't even look at him—tries not to linger on the sad calculation in her eyes while she's dying, or the words like lead in his gut that she murmurs. i know that you're in love with me. i've caught myself wishing that i could forget all the horrible things you have done. anyone capable of love is capable of being saved.

i guess i'll never know. he can't look at her, his voice ground out from his throat like rocks against the coming tide. it's inevitable, that she sees through him, even now, even now as she is dying by his hands and ruthlessness: she knows he is weaker than her for fearing to admit it. his terror is stunned, stunted, calling her name—because he knows and she knows that letting her go was never a possibility. he presses his open wrist to her mouth and holds her until he can breathe again.

we're the same, he tells her later. you prefer the girl you are now to the girl you once were. strong, ageless, fearless. he knows this, a stone still weighing down his heart; she asks for his compassion and he gives it the only way he knows how, watching the horror on her face at its hunger and mercy. it was all for you, he tells her. (it was. it is, but she won't realize he tried.)

defiance flashes in her eyes at the salvatore boarding house. she can hate him, is what she says. she can and will hate him for tyler, but there's a flash of heat between them later, the anticipation of touch that follows the focus of wanting and waiting. it takes his heart despite his better senses. you've never felt the attraction that comes when someone who's capable of doing terrible things for some reason cares only about you? he wants her to say it, wants her to feel it. he knows that she does and not at all. i did once, when i thought he was worth it is her response, dealt with a scathing harshness he deals back with cruelty later, after her hands have shed blood and there is dirt under his fingernails from burying her dead. why don't you find someone less terrible you can relate to? he regrets how her face crumples, and he can't.

she's the only one he can trust, the ghost of white oak lodged in his back. he feels her hands cradling his face; he sees the emptiness in silas' eyes after the affection stills him. she does come. real and solid, with reluctance and then a stubborn fire that riles and annoys and humbles him. i should have walked away from you ages ago! the sudden feeling of relief; you brought me back and her hands enveloped by his. i'm not exactly scouring the world for him, he says softly to her later, and he isn't. he isn't, for her. friends? there's a lump of expectation in his throat when she smiles.

all i can think about is how much i want to show it to you, he says to her on the phone, surrounded by trumpets and art and music. he's looking into hayley's eyes, wide and afraid and hopeful in a mausoleum in new orleans. he's hearing his child's heartbeat for the first time. it's a reckoning, a reverent moment that possess him, a sound that stuns him as if he's never felt his own heart beat before. he has now, owing to this precious thing, this undeniable thing, this most important thing. his child. his hope.

they are standing together on a warm night and he's promising her the world in ways he has never promised her before. he's your first love. i intend to be your last. however long it takes, he vows. the sun is warm and rejection chokes his throat. you'll never again have to look me in the eye and cover our connection with hostility or revulsion. you'll never have to loathe the darkest parts of yourself that care for me, in spite of all i've done. i will be gone and you will be free. i just... want you to be honest with me. his voice trembles. i'm in college. i'm building a life for myself. i have plans and a future and things that i want and none of those things involve you. okay. none of them.

yes, i do cover our connection with hostility, because yes, i hate myself for the truth. so if you promise to walk away... like you said, and never come back, then yes... i will be honest with you. i will be honest with you about what i want. he feels her breath against his breath; he sees the light in her eyes. her lips are a whisper against his—

he breaks away with a quiet gasp. ]

[persevere]

[Her eyes softly close just as his memories swarm into her head, as her chest fills with his thoughts and the sensation of what he was feeling in the moment of each of them. It makes sense that he would feel things as strongly as she does, maybe even more so considering what he is, but to have it crashing against her own makes it difficult to process everything properly, to sort what she feels and what he does...

...except it becomes clear rather quickly that that is because it all feels similar, that they were connecting on a level beyond the surface, that they were nearly the same, only counter-acting each other at different points in time.

Each of his crimes against her are played out in startling detail. She can hear her own voice, sometimes angry, sometimes weak, sometimes begging for mercy. Caroline can hear the voices of her friends, suffering at his hands. And he can hear his own misery, echoing in his head as the visions flutter through her brain one by one, in contrast with the apathy he felt in the beginning.

His apathy turned into something else, very quickly. Hers was slower, but that was because she started with hate.

He hurt her, and he saved her, and he lied to her and told her vicious truths. She hurt him, taunted him, tried to understand him, and manipulated him in equal measure. So many people died in the crossfire of both of their lives, and with every one of them all stacked up in such near proximity, it's hard to tell which of them deserved their pain more.

He left, and he wanted her to come to him. Then he came back, and left because she asked him to. She listens to her own voice explain how she felt, hears her own mouth claim that she hates herself for the truth, and it reminds her so much of how she has done such similar things here, without these memories. Tried to push back against something that might be impossible to ignore, that had gotten so deep under her skin that it would never entirely go away.

And she doesn't hate herself. Not here. And it's hard to be as horrified by his actions when she hasn't lived them, when she hasn't endured every little detail in perfect clarity, when the whole experience is colored by Klaus' own internal turmoil over the whole thing. No doubt she thought he only cared about himself as he did these things.

But she knows why now. Seeing it through his eyes? She was no better. He'd said that they were the same, and he was right in so many ways.

Caroline knows where this leads. She can see it in his memories without actually having to witness it, she can hear it in her own voice, and she knows how she feels right now, being in this moment.

And then he breaks it, the visions sucked away from her in the space of a moment, and it feels like being torn away from something very important. Perhaps that's because it's a moment in his life that he feels that way about?

She sucks in a shuddering breath of air, the sound mirroring his gasp, and she realizes as her eyes open that her grip on him is white-knuckle and tight, that her heart is beating faster than it ever has, that she has no idea what she's supposed to do now. Caroline is distinctly aware of how intimate that whole experience actually was, how sharing all this with her couldn't have possibly been anything resembling easy, and it takes her the span of many long moments to remember how to breathe.]

...oh my god.

[poppycock]

[ every moment with her is one he has never wanted to be pulled from: that night especially. only in quiet moments he has not counted does he remember how she tasted, how she felt, and the look hanging in her eyes as they said goodbye. it's the reason he pulls away—not only to spare her the intimacy of moments she need not be privy to, but to spare himself and her the rawness of his longing. of the depth of it. the relief and exploration, the joy and finding. some things should be his and his alone, and he wants this to be: being with her, saying goodbye.

he feels that same decimation of disconnect, weighing down on his chest and choking him as he comes back, as he opens his eyes to the shadows of the room, the crackling of the fire, and of her in his arms. him in hers. uncertainty fills him; fear, lesser than before but no less potent. he knows the load he has given her and he knows the fright of its contents. he knows she needs time; he would pull away and give them both space if not for her death grip anchoring them together—he's thankful for it. selfishly, inordinately grateful for it, for it means he does not retreat and she does not recoil.

the silence is long. he leans back only slightly, enough to look down at her, his hand moving up her shoulder. she utters her soft oath and after a moment, he murmurs back, ] Are you all right? [ are you going to be all right? is what he means. ]

[persevere]

[As her sense of self starts to come back to her, she feels the ache in her hands as the clutch at him, the tension in her muscles, the clench of her jaw, the stinging in the back of her eyes.

She had been deeply affected by Klaus' own story, but she could also mentally separate herself from it. She could sympathize, but it wasn't hers. None of it belonged to her. It made her heart ache in all its horror, but this...

This was her. Her friends. Her family. And if she was reading all this correctly, her first love. It was nightmarish, the things they had done to themselves, to each other, and yet still, for some reason, they came together when the entire world seemed to be against it. Even she had been against it.]

...I don't know.

[Her voice is small and distant. It's so much to take in all at once, and her eyes don't quite focus on anything for a while, staring off but not seeing.

Finally, though, she turns her head slowly to look at him, her eyes wide and almost frightened, though of what, not even she could say. A few things do occur to her, though one in particular she has to say aloud or it'll never leave her alone.]

...I don't think I actually wanted you to leave.

[It hadn't been about what she wanted. It had been about what she thought she needed, about the other people in her life, about doing what she'd promised for herself that she might not get if he stayed. It had been about giving herself the one thing she'd actually wanted at that moment in time while giving it up for everything else in the same breath.

If she had to take a guess, anyway, but she knew herself pretty well.]

How long has it been since then? For you?

[poppycock]

[ she's not angry, disgusted, disdainful. if she had felt or feels a part of any of these things they are not enough to move her to go, and it takes klaus the length of a searching moment to realize, to accept, to feel the ease of at least that. what he does not feel with the benefit of ease is the affrighted look in her eyes, as wide and rounded as his. he meets her gaze head-on, equally stunned by her confession: it takes his voice and his breath, his lips parting, the blue of his eyes bright and full of longing.

he cannot tell her if it is true or not. a part of him... knows, hopes, wanted it and let it go for some possible and bittersweet future in which she would want him. would want to want him. it's precisely why it grips him, wrings him, and not only because it awakens aches and desires within him. (he tempers both; it's not fair of her, no matter what he knows is not a malicious intention. she may not mean it; it may not be true, and so he puts those flares of emotion aside to consider later.)

because there's also what is true, without doubts. there's also the path his life took after her. his daughter. his family. all that has happened from that moment to now, no matter the pain and agony and misery. (he had to leave. now, he knows he wanted to. not to leave her, but—

he would not give up nor regret any of choices that led him to this. how—and how could he—say that here and now?) he pulls in a shallow breath and lets it out shakily, looks away to the side. his fingers flex around hers involuntarily and he fidgets slightly, groping for words that will not tactlessly hurt her. ] Nearly three years, [ he answers, looking back to her. ]

[persevere]

[She doesn't mean to be cruel. In the moment, she doesn't mean to be anything. She's just simply trying to exist in this space between the past and the future and all it entails. How is she supposed to come to terms with something that hasn't even happened yet?

She doesn't even know where to start. There's so much more here than just the two of them, and she really should have expected that. Even so, there's so much she hasn't seen, things barely understood on the edges of their story, and she's not sure how to feel about any of it except tiny broken fragments of hope scattered amongst the loss and the pain.]

Three years...

[She repeats him softly, as if three years sounds like a lifetime. Enough could certainly happen in that amount of time when it came to their lives to count as one.

He pulls back one of her hands to wipe at her eyes, because it's suddenly getting difficult to see again. She breathes out a heavy breath as she tries to push the majority of her emotions down into a box to deal with a little at a time. He offered her the truth, and she'd accepted it, and it wouldn't be fair if she didn't focus on the parts that were about him. About them.

Caroline finally meets his gaze then, solidly, her expression hesitant, yet determined.]

Okay, then I'll ask you again. Why are you doing this?

[What does he want from her? What is she supposed to be? Some reminder of someone he used to know, a friend that he can playfully banter with, or something else?

Because simply guessing is only going to get her hurt, in one way or another.]

[poppycock]

[ he knows she is confused. he knows she would not intend to be cruel and he does not receive the confession as such; on the contrary. she's trying to understand, he knows. she's trying to make sense of herself and of all he has shown her and he knows there is little he can do, could do, to assist. it's why he is silent, weathering his own emotions, and why he embraces the fealty for more quiet: for her and for himself.

his gaze moves through the space around them and back to her. (he has rarely felt time. three years could and has meant very little to him, but that is not the case here. knowing her, his time in mystic falls, breaking his curse and seeing his family again. leaving for new orleans and all that he has gained and lost after; those years have meant more to him than entire centuries. they have changed him just as surely as they will change her.

they've allowed them both the allowance to grow.)

he squeezes her hand in an earnest attempt to lend her understanding before she pulls away. those years are just as large and meanignful inside of him; his fingers flex at her shoulder at her tears.

he's silent still as her eyes meet his, as her question and the force of her takes away his capacity for words: he does not know. he does not know why he is here, why he has found it in himself to share this with her, or why he would choose to do so. he does not know, besides the undeniable and inscrutable truth of what he has never forgot: how he feels about her.

klaus blinks; his jaw sets, his voice thickened with the certainty of his feelings. ] Because I care about you. Because I want to be. Because when I think about my future, I think about you. [ the confession leaves him and tightens his throat with its truth. with his fear of it, his surprise of it opening his eyes—not because he didn't know it, deep in his bones, but because he can feel it given life; he can feel it give him breath. he pulls it in, lashes fluttering. ] I hope... [ he swallows. what he hopes is without words; he hopes. he has hoped about many things: his family, his daughter, his life—and her. ] I hope.