A/N: This is a two-shot I wrote a while ago. It's been gathering dust inside my computer, and since I've not been able to write anything for my full-length stories (I'm in Virginia for Thanksgiving/my father's birthday. Sorry!) I thought I'd offer the first part of this tale as an early Thanksgiving gift. Or curse, because it may or may not be awful.
Even if it is, I hope you enjoy it to the best of your ability and please don't be afraid to tell me what you thought when you're done. But remember to be kind, as I am easily offended and will probably end up burning down my house in a blind rage if somebody says something mean.
This part is rated T, but when I update the second part the rating will bump up to an M.
DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING!
Have fun!
It's killing me,
Yeah, the things that you can do,
That no one else can do to me at all.
Killing Me | The Kooks
The Dentist and The Tooth-Fairy
Part One
She won't stop fiddling with the different sets of drilling tools in my office. I want to snap at her, but she's my sister and she would only end up either crying or throwing one of the expensive tools at my face. I keep my mouth shut, waiting for her to finish telling me this intriguing story about a guy—of course it's a guy—she just met at the coffee-house down the street.
"He complimented my accent. Isn't that sweet?" She asks in disbelief, as if she's never before gotten a stranger's approval of her British accent.
I know this is false. Rebekah, my youngest sibling and only sister in the family, has received attention for her accent since we moved here twelve years ago.
She's bubbly, blonde, and slim. Blue-eyed, pale-skinned, red-lipped.
Men fall at her feet.
"Sweet, Bekah. Yes," I mumble, skating my hand over my face.
She has to leave soon. I've got to sort through patient files, a job I loathe, but if using it as an excuse gets Bekah out of my office, I'll exploit it.
Rebekah moves to studying the dentures I aligned along the windowsill a few weeks ago after I started receiving more elderly patients. She picks up a set and chomps them down, making a clacking noise that does nothing to ease my annoyance.
I love my sister, I do. But she just so happens to be the worst company. Loud, obnoxious, and she always goes through my things. Except instead of 'my things' consisting of legos and books like they did when we were children, they are now expensive dentistry utensils.
"He gave me his number," she says proudly, flashing a notecard in front of my bleary eyes. I see numbers waft in and out of focus, and a silly message that no doubt reads, "Rebekah, call me."
"Fascinating, Bekah."
It isn't fascinating. She gets a phone number a day, and that's on a slow day when perhaps her hair doesn't shine as bright as usual. "But, as fascinating as it is, I must ask you to leave."
The minute those words leave my mouth, Bekah pouts her Let-Me-Stay-With-You pout. I frown at her, shaking my head.
"But Nik! It's Hallowe'en! You shouldn't even be here!" She squeals, and I'm suddenly glad I've closed the office today. Rebekah is capable of producing very loud, screeching noises. My patients would run screaming from the building, terrified Godzilla was attacking, if they heard an upset Bekah.
"Oh, go annoy Elijah. He probably needs your help at the bakery anyway. He's in the process of baking all of those Hallowe'en cupcakes. I can't use you here," I say, though I know the reason she enjoys visiting me at my dentistry so often is because I never ask her to do anything. Our older brother Elijah runs a bakery and could always use an extra pair of hands. Especially on a "holiday" such as today's.
Bekah's pout deepens. "I want to spend time with you, though."
Lies.
Running my hands through my curls, I sink deeper into my desk chair and clench my eyes shut. "You are trying my patience, little sister. Don't make me call security again."
That seems to do the trick. Bekah still claims the worst, most embarrassing day of her life was the time I ordered security to drag her out of the building. I love my family more than anything, but sometimes I can't stand them.
Huffing, Rebekah walks to where she sat her purse on my desktop and sticks her tongue out at me in a show of pure maturity. She is twenty-three, for Christ's sake. And a fucking baby. Always has been, thanks to our mother's coddling.
"I hate you," she seethes as she stomps to the door. "God, you need a girlfriend, Nik."
I do nothing but smile at her and ask, "Could you get Camille? She needs to help me organise these files."
I hired Camille five years ago when I started Mikaelson Dentistry. She was the best candidate that applied for the job of being my assistant. Luckily, she is so well-trained that I can use her for anything and everything I need in and around the office. Camille makes up my entire dental auxiliary team.
Unfortunately, she is more exasperating than Rebekah.
I, Niklaus Mikaelson, middle child of Mikael Mikaelson (my grandparents parents were less than creative when naming him) and Esther Mikaelson, brother to Elijah and Rebekah Mikaelson, am not a people person. I never have been.
My parents, who are rich bastards, took me to event after event as an adolescent. There, I learned to hate the world and all of its inhabitants.
Everybody is fake. They flash their cash or their bodies to get what they want. They never let anybody in. They float around as if they own the universe, but never do anything to help it. Everyone looks out for only themselves.
Now, I am no different. I have wealth—an abundance of it—and I use it to my advantage when trying to get a women in bed with me. I shut the world out and lock myself inside my head.
At least I know what I do is wrong, though. Most people pretend they're saints.
Either way, I have never made a great effort to be nice to those around me. It's too difficult. Always smiling when you don't mean it.
Elijah has always labeled me a cynic. Someone too obsessed with the negativity in the world that I can't find the positive. But I think of myself as a realist. It's everyone else who's jaded. They try finding good where there is only bad.
I see the world for what is: hell.
Camille, unlike me, is an idealist. She's a romantic, truly—and it makes me sick.
Her boyfriend fucked her, got her pregnant, and left her, yet she still tries searching for the bright side.
Like how her four-year old daughter recently lost her first tooth, and Klaus, isn't that just so exciting?
"She's demanding I give her twenty dollars," Camille complains, still busy filing away paperwork. We sit on the floor next to the large wall of filing cabinets in the main office.
"Well, not me. The 'tooth-fairy,'" she clarifies, shooting me a pearly grin.
I don't necessarily enjoy Camille's company for one very good reason: she has convinced herself she likes me. And her infatuation is painfully obvious. Bekah never seems capable of keeping her comments on the matter to herself.
"Oh, but Klaus she's so sweet. Why don't you go out with her?" She says, like I've never actually looked at Camille and considered her.
I have. But the answer is still no.
For starters, she's got a daughter.
Children haven't ever piqued my interest. Elijah's got a two-year old and I can barely stand him. I never babysit, and I avoid holding him whenever I can.
Secondly, there's something about Camille, something I can't place, that irks me.
Perhaps it's her voice, which tends to squeak like Rebekah's. Or maybe it's the way she touches me all the fucking time. A graze on my arm here, a scrape against my calf there.
Camille flirts endlessly—tossing her hair this way and that, unbuttoning her blouse more and more until I swear I can see her bellybutton. Stretching so that a line of skin appears above her trousers.
She's desperate, I know this. She's been alone for so long, and I'm always here. I support her by giving her a paycheque every other week. I ask her how her night was when I'm sure nobody else has. We work late nights in close proximity. I know what perfume she wears, just as she knows what shaving cream I use.
There are explanations for her attraction to me. I'm not bad-looking and I have money. There would be certain advantages to dating me.
But I'm also emotionally unavailable. I am not what Camille needs. And she is not what I want.
"Twenty dollars is a lot, isn't it? Too much, I mean," Camille questions, eyes planted on me.
I don't look up from my file, but I nod. "For a five-year old? Yes," I say.
"She told me her best friend got twenty dollars from the tooth-fairy. That's why she's so fixed on that number," Camille explains, though I didn't ask.
I frown at the file in my hands. The tooth-fairy?
"How much did your parents put under your pillow, Klaus?" Camille asks.
Frowning deeper, I push the urge to laugh down my throat. "They never put anything under my pillow, Camille."
Camille blinks, shocked. I don't know why this is her reaction. A fairy that collects children's teeth and gives them money? As a dentist, that particular myth never sat right with me.
"Nothing?" She gasps, as if I've missed out on some great childhood pastime by never receiving a gift for losing my teeth.
I shake my head, amused by her reaction. "Nothing."
Sure enough, a hand encapsulates my upper arm. I freeze.
"That's so sad," Camille whimpers.
"Not really," I manage to get out through my clenched teeth. I have never been a big fan of unsolicited touching. It makes me feel helpless and trapped. Two things I take no pleasure in feeling.
Camille lets go of my arm and I immediately shuffle away, hoping she didn't catch the movement.
"Will you do the whole tooth-fairy thing with your children?" Camille closes a manilla folder and puts it away, her eyes burning a hole between my eyebrows.
This time, I do laugh. Hearty and free.
Children? Me? Does this woman—who claims to know me—not truly know me at all?
"No, I don't think I will," I splutter, saliva flying over the papers in my hand. I swipe at them with the sleeve of my blue, wrinkled Oxford shirt.
God, I feel like I've been at work too long. I look out the large window in front of us. The sun descended into the ocean an hour ago, taking with it the last remnants of warmth. Autumn is definitely upon us.
I rub my eyes and chance a look at Camille. Her blue gaze is planted on me. I give her the briefest smile and say, "It's probably time we pack this up and go home."
"Oh, no," she says, too quickly. "My mom's got Rachel tonight. I'm free as a bird."
I've come to know the phrase "My mom's got Rachel tonight" means "I'm secretly begging you to take me out tonight."
I inwardly groan, forcing a cough when the noise bubbles up my throat and nearly escapes out my mouth. "You need your rest," I say sternly. "Go on, I'll clean all the papers up. You'll need all the time you can get to think of a reasonable amount of money to give Rachel."
Camille smiles at my words and nods. "Okay, I'll go. Don't spend too long here after I leave, alright? You've slept here before and I recall you complaining about your neck for most of the following day."
"I'll go home," I tell her, already relaxing at the thought of my large, empty bed. "Goodnight, Camille."
Standing up, Camille brushes her jeans off and smiles sadly. "Goodnight, Klaus."
When she leaves—after spending many moments staring forlornly at me as I continued filing—I scramble to my feet and make my way to my office. In here, it's clean. Organised. The room smells of that strange apple-scented air-freshener Rebekah got me once she decided my office smelled too much like a dentistry.
I sit at my desk, folding my legs over one another on the wooden tabletop. I slip my feet out of my shoes. They clang against the floor. Tugging at my tie, I slip it off and unbutton my shirt.
Finally, I can breathe.
I lean back in my chair and my eyes drift close, the homeyness of my office and the gentle ruffle of leaves outside the window sending me into unwanted slumber.
When I wake, it isn't because I want to. It's because something is making an atrocious noise.
I open my eyes one by one to find my phone buzzing and beeping on top of my desk. Staring at it for a few seconds, I pick it up. Rebekah's name flashes on the screen, as does a photograph she took of herself on the phone when I first got it.
Sliding my finger across the bottom of the screen, I hold the phone to my ear. "Little sister. What can I do for you?"
"You need to come to this party, Nikky. Please come!" She begs, her words slurred and breathless.
Drunk Bekah is not much fun to deal with. I glare into the phone and hope she can sense my annoyance.
"I'm working," I fib, rubbing a bit of sleep from the corner of my eye. I think of hanging up, but concern for my sister's wellbeing takes control and I find myself asking, "Do you have a ride home?"
Bekah giggles drunkenly. I hear loud shouts and horrid music in the background. God, I hope she's okay. Elijah would kill me if something were to happen to her.
"I do, I do," she tells me. "Don't you worry. Just come find me. I'm having so much fun, and you, my dear brother, need to have fun too."
"Just . . . tell me where you are, Bekah," I order harshly. Might as well go pick her up myself. Her friends are not the most trustworthy bunch.
"I'm at that new club. The Grill or something. It's just across the road from you. I'm a cat this year. You'll find me easily."
Twisting my chair, I look out the window. "I see it," I say, focusing on the building pumping with lights, people, and music. There's a large line outside. Freezing women and men stand huddled together, all of them dressed like lunatics. I glower at the blacked-out windows. "Stay where you are and I'll come get you."
I slip on my white dentist's coat and hurry outside into the cold, Hallowe'en night.
"Sir, you can't come in here." A bouncer—a large, do-not-mess-with-me bouncer with a bald head and thick arms—holds out his arm to stop me from entering the club. He jerks his head. "There's a line."
Sighing, I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. I stuff a few bills at him and frown. "Can I go in now?"
The bouncer nods his head solemnly, dropping his arm and motioning for me to enter. I do, and suddenly I'm surrounded by sweaty bodies, God-awful music, and alcohol-scented air. This is where my sister has a good time, apparently.
Everybody's dressed in some ridiculous costume or another. I spot a John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, and someone dressed as a unicorn.
Hallowe'en has never been a big deal to me, for no other reason than it isn't celebrated much in England. However, Bekah was only eleven when we packed all of our belongings and traveled across the pond. Unfortunately, this means she quickly became obsessed with the American culture, which includes going absolutely crazy on October 31st.
Under the harsh lights of the club, I try spotting anyone that looks remotely like a cat with blonde hair. After a few moments, I spot someone resembling my sister staggering on the dance floor, black leather wound tightly around her body. Holding in a groan, I fumble into the sweaty crowd. I push and shove my way to the girl, breathing a sigh of relief when I notice it is, in fact, Rebekah.
"You came!" She squeals when I tug her shoulder. She flings her arms around my neck, knocking me backwards.
"Bekah," I grunt, her grip surprisingly strong. "Bekah, get off of me." I untangle myself from her and hold her at arm's length. I glance over her quickly to ensure that she's safe. When I'm satisfied with what I see, I begin pulling her away.
"Oi," she cries, and I finally get a whiff of her breath. Alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. "Get off me! You were supposed to come so we could have fun together!"
I stop moving. We're at the edge of the dance floor, being jostled this way and that by drunk college kids.
"Bekah, we're leaving. You're not well."
"I'm drunk, Nik. I want to stay."
Before I can forcefully drag her outside, a warm, sweaty hand claps my shoulder. I stumble forward, mostly out of surprise.
"Get your hands off of her!" Somebody, somebody with a sweet, welcoming, angry voice growls.
I whip my head around and find a woman—a . . . mythical creature?—glaring at me. At me! Giving her a quick once over, I see wings sprouting behind her shoulders. They shimmer a pinky gold, similar to her gold-dusted ballet flats. Wrapped like tape around her skin is a sparkling pink dress overwhelmed by sequins that cuts off right before hitting her (somehow) magnificent knees.
I feel the urge to block my eyes, she's shining so bright.
"I said, get your hands off of her," she repeats, forceful. Her blonde hair sticks to her forehead and bare shoulders. She looks exhausted, and yet I fear she could easily win in a fight.
"Relax, she's my sister," I shout. The music in here is too loud. I feel like I'm going deaf.
Bekah moves in front of me. "He's my brother, Caroline. Don't worry about it. Caroline, meet Klaus. Klaroline . . . wait, that's not right . . . Klaus, meet Caroline. There, I got it." Rebekah laughs triumphantly, but I'm not even sure what she's just said.
The woman—Caroline, I believe—takes a step back. I notice her breasts pressed against her dress, ready to spill out. I wonder idly if she can actually breathe in that thing.
She grabs her hips with her hands and glares at me.
"Who are you supposed to be, then, Klaus?" She asks, her voice curling with disapproval. She obviously heard Rebekah with no trouble.
"I'm not supposed to be anyone . . ." I respond, confused.
Caroline looks at me. She's got blue eyes that pop in the flashy lighting of the club. I realise belatedly that she's actually quite beautiful. Her pale skin—similar to ivory or fresh paper—glows, and her juicy lips burn a rosy pink.
I want to kiss her, I think to myself.
"A doctor?" She guesses, eyeing my coat.
I laugh, finally understanding her question. "I'm a dentist," I explain. "But a real one. I'm not dressed up. Just here to take my drunken sister home." I place my hands on Bekah's shoulders. God, her skin is damp.
"I'm her ride home," Caroline informs me.
I sense trouble ahead.
Bekah nods slowly. Drunkenly. "She is," my dear, dear sister slurs.
"How sober are you?" I ask Caroline, staring at her, checking for signs of intoxication.
Her sculpted eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously! I haven't had one drink tonight. That's why I'm the ride home."
"What? Do you want to stick a breathalyser in my mouth?" She asks when I raise my own set of eyebrows suspiciously.
That definitely wasn't the right thing to say to me. It's been roughly two months since I've had sex. That's a record for me since I lost my virginity at seventeen. The idea of sticking something in Caroline's mouth—though I hardly know her—awakens some carnal part of me that's been hidden for eight weeks.
Of course, she is rather pretty. And the magical being getup isn't helping my imagination. It's no surprise that in the back of my mind I see that dress torn to shreds on my apartment floor, her alabaster skin sliding against mine.
"I don't want to go," Bekah says, swaying. I grip her tighter.
"I need to get her home," I tell Caroline, worry for my sister sinking in my belly, just barely replacing my lust.
Caroline runs a hand through her sticky hair and shuffles next to me. "Let's get her home then," she says, turning Bekah around and hoisting one of my sister's arms around her shoulders. Caroline looks up at me, smiling at my half-open mouth. "Are you going to help me?"
Shaking my head, I mirror Caroline's actions and we walk Bekah to Caroline's car. Thankfully, she only parked a few feet down the road from The Grill. With some effort, we manage to shove Bekah somewhat comfortably in the vehicle. She presses her head against the cool glass of the window once the door closes.
Slapping her hands together, Caroline leans against the car and folds her arms beneath her chest. Wrong move once again. "Thanks for helping me get her out here. I hadn't realised how drunk she was."
I shrug, glad my coat offers some camouflage against the hard-on shoved against my trousers. "She's my sister."
"I know, but still. It's nice to know you care about her." Caroline pauses. "How did you get here so fast anyway?"
"I told you, I'm a dentist."
Caroline grins. "That doesn't explain much."
Stifling a grin of my own, I point across the road to my building. "I work over there. Mikaelson Dentistry."
"Ah," Caroline murmurs, stroking her chin with a slender finger.
I itch to touch her. To graze my own fingertip along the smoothness that must be her skin.
It's been too long, Nik. Calm down.
"Well . . ." she says, pushing off the car. "I better get her home."
"About that," I say as Caroline moves to the driver's side. She stops and waits for me to continue. "Is there anyway you could get her to my apartment? I'll meet you there in a few minutes."
"Why do you want her there?"
I nearly—but not quite—roll my eyes. "She still lives with my—"
"—Parents, I know," Caroline interrupts.
"Right," I say, wondering how long Caroline and my sister have been friends. And why it has taken so long for us to be introduced. Maybe Bekah fears a repeat of Genevieve. Not my proudest moment, sleeping with Bekah's best friend only to leave the redhead high and dry. "I don't want them to see her like this. They'll have a fit."
Caroline's gorgeous face morphs into understanding. "She has mentioned how strict they are. Okay then, where do you live?"
"Thanks," Caroline whispers as I hand her a cup of steaming tea. Puckering her lips, she blows on the liquid. I watch steam dance around my dimly lit apartment.
"Is she asleep?" Caroline asks.
I nod, peering at my guest bedroom door. "Yes."
After returning to my flat, I gave in and asked Caroline to stay for a little bit. Not because I want to sleep her. Okay, I do, but not tonight. Maybe not ever. For Bekah's sake.
Tonight, I want to talk to her. Ask her questions. Learn what makes her tick.
I'm assuming she's a wonderfully sweet girl, and I assume that is why I haven't met her before. But I've never just talked to female (excluding Camille) and I figure there's no harm in just talking to Caroline. She did, after all, help me save my little sister.
"You can sit down," I say, collapsing onto my large, grey sofa. I pat the cushion next to me, holding back a smile when Caroline shrugs carelessly and sits at the opposite end.
We drink our tea in silence for what seems like an extremely long time. I don't mind silences, unless they're overtly uncomfortable, but this silence, while not uncomfortable, is unwanted. I specifically invited her to stick around so I could poke her brain. All I know about her at the moment is how she takes her tea and how she drinks said tea.
One sip every thirty seconds. Like clockwork.
"So," Caroline breathes. I startle at the silky sound of her voice, nearly spilling my tea all over my, once again, bulging lap. "How old are you?"
"Thirty," I answer automatically.
Caroline purses her lips thoughtfully. "I'm twenty-five."
Christ, I'm old. "I'd just started my dentistry when I was twenty-five," I inform her.
"Really? So young?"
She sounds genuinely impressed, but I don't let it get to my head.
"I zoomed through school and had enough money from my parents to get a business started. It fell into place quite nicely."
Caroline laughs in agreement, sucking another sip of tea through her pouting lips. "I wish I had that kind of determination. Or skill."
"What do you do?" I ask, glad for the easy segue.
"I'm a first grade teacher."
"That doesn't sound so bad."
Caroline glances at me. "I double majored in history and education, wanting to become a high school level history teacher. But, the elementary school was the only place that would hire me."
I whistle through my teeth. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, please. It isn't your fault. The high school positions were all full. I like little kids. It's not all bad."
What the fuck am I doing? I'm asking a woman questions about her life. And I'm sincerely interested in her answers.
I think I've finally gone crazy. Bekah always did say I was right on the cusp of spiralling into insanity. Too many hours at work, not enough sleep.
Not enough sex.
I don't care about people. It's how I survive.
Separate myself from the world so the world can't hurt me.
It's worked for thirty years, why is it all of a sudden not enough?
"Bekah says you're a lonely old sod," Caroline mentions, pulling me from my quarter-life crisis. I frown, which leads Caroline to giggle. "I'm only saying that because you don't seem like a lonely old sod."
I blow out a breath and drape my over the back of the sofa. "Bekah always was the most eloquent of us Mikaelson's," I say dryly, eliciting another giggle from the blonde sitting. So. Very. Close. To. Me.
Curling her legs beneath her, Caroline turns her whole body in my direction. I peer at her out of the corner of my eye. She's taken her wings off, but her dress is still tempting me. It slides further up her thighs, but she doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe she just doesn't care.
"You do seem sad, though," Caroline observes, and I immediately feel overexposed. Like I'm lying naked, tied to a bed, all of my secrets and scars on display. "What's got you so sad, Klaus?"
For a moment—less than a second, really—I contemplate asking if she's drunk. If she lied to me earlier and is actually wasted beyond belief, somehow able to hold herself upright. In that second I itch to throw away the question she's just asked. I beg myself to move closer until we touch, until I can breathe in her sweaty, perfume-ridden scent. Until I can lose myself once again in another human being.
I close my eyes.
Taking a deep breath, I count to ten and exhale, opening my eyes slowly. Caroline sits motionless inches away from me, her gaze wide and face contorted with concern.
"I'm sorry," she says quickly, almost as if she's ashamed she asked me such an intimate question.
I shake my head. "Don't be," I tell her.
To be honest, I'm somewhat terrified that she's got me all figured out. What's got me so sad? I didn't know I was sad. I've got a good life. A good job, a great family. The only thorn in my side is Camille, but I've been dealing with her for four years and she's practically a nonissue.
Am I sad?
"I also took a lot of psychology courses during college," Caroline admits, her head bowed. Her fingers pick at a loose sequin on her dress. I fight the need to clasp her hand. To calm her. "You have most of the telltale signs of depression."
"Do I?" I ask, shocked.
"Most of them," Caroline reiterates. "I've known Rebekah for three years, and one thing she always talks about is you. How you're reckless and angry and uncaring. How you work too much and don't spend enough time enjoying life. You don't sleep enough, you don't try anymore. She's worried about you." Caroline adds the last part softly, as if it's some great secret. And maybe it is. Bekah's never said any of this to me
I really do feel overexposed.
"I don't know if I'd say you're clinically depressed, though," Caroline says absently. She's moved to another sequin. My sofa will be glittering pink when this girl leaves. "Just . . . lost. In need of some love, or something."
I say nothing.
I mean, what does one say in response to such an observation?
Thank you?
Caroline groans and smacks her forehead. "I'm sorry, Klaus," she says. "I don't mean to pry. I didn't know what you looked like before tonight, but I feel as though I've known you for as long as I've known Bekah."
I, for some reason, force myself to laugh. It's more a puff of throaty air than anything, but it relaxes me a little. "Don't apologise, Caroline. It's alright," I insist, though I'm really not sure if it is. "You caught me off guard is all."
I've worked hard all my life. I've distanced myself from reality. Pulled myself inside my own mind. I never saw a problem with it, but now I'm not so sure it's been as helpful as I previously thought.
Caroline opens her mouth to speak—to apologise—but I hold my hand up. "Please, no more saying sorry," I beg playfully, attempting to ease some more tension from the air.
Closing her mouth, Caroline goes back to picking at her dress. My hard-on has disappeared.
We transition into another silence, but this one is loud with unshed thoughts. Panic rises through me and I can see it piling on Caroline as well.
"When I was seventeen," I begin, startling Caroline so much she accidentally rips a load of sequins from her dress. I laugh breathlessly and continue before I lose my nerve, "I met a girl. Her name was Katherine and I fell in love with her almost instantly. I was seventeen, though. Love to a seventeen-year-old isn't what it is to an adult. It's silly and detrimental. But I was in love with her, and I think she was in love with me too."
I pause, staring at Caroline for some sort of clue. She nods her head tentatively and I swallow a gulp of air and speak again, "Long story short I noticed we were drifting apart the summer before I went to university. I was moving to America with my family, applying to colleges on the east coast, but I assumed we'd stay together. Make the long distance thing work. Three days before I left, I found her in bed with my former best mate. And I guess I've not been the same since. Heartbreak like that could turn anyone into a depressed, lonely old sod."
I mean for the last words to come out humorously, but they drip down my tongue with powerful gloom, so heavy it seems to blacken the whole apartment.
"Ha—have you ever talked to anyone about this?" Caroline's voice is tiny. A flicker of light in the darkness of my mind.
I look at her now, her face shining beneath the lamp beside the sofa. She really is stunning. "No. I told my family we broke up, but not the reason. It seemed too . . . depressing."
That makes the blonde next to me smile, and I feel like a weight has toppled off of my brain.
"So you were happy once?" Caroline asks.
"A long, long time ago."
"I'm—" Caroline starts, but I shake my head.
"No more apologising," I remind her. "It happened twelve years ago. I've gotten over it."
"You've gotten over her," Caroline says.
I give her a questioning look.
"You've gotten over Katherine," she furthers. "Not the damage it caused you."
This time, it's me who begins interrupting and she's the one who nearly slaps me in the face with her palm. "No, let me say this, please. I don't really know you, but I know this type of situation. From what Bekah has told me, added with what you've just revealed, you're still suffering from the aftereffects of Katherine's betrayal."
I sit in stunned silence, awed and outraged that this tiny woman whom I met mere hours ago, is evaluating me. I've had psychologists and therapists stare at me and provoke me, but they were usually too terrified of me to really examine my problems and attempt to solve them.
What makes the fairy-like thing in front of me so very different?
"Maybe now you can start recovering," Caroline says, and I snap my attention to her once more.
"Recovering?" I ask before thinking, my eyes drifting towards Caroline's full lips. She's been chewing on them. The rosy glimmer they once held has all but disappeared.
I want to kiss her.
"Your secret is out in the open." She waves her hand around briefly. "You don't have to carry it around anymore."
When I say nothing to either disprove or agree with her statement, she flushes brightly and shakes her head. Her hair, no longer sticking to her, floats around her shoulders.
"I should probably go," she mumbles, getting to her feet. I stand immediately, blocking her path. "It's late," she says, pointing to the digital clock mounted above the television that sits, unused, in front of the sofa.
I glance at the clock. 3:00 a.m. Shit, it's late. Or early. And I have work tomorrow.
"Are you okay to be driving?" I check, refusing to move out of her way. A stubborn part of me doesn't want her to leave.
"Not drunk, remember," she says dryly.
"I'm not worried about that," I assure her. "It's late, though. I wouldn't want you to fall asleep at the wheel."
"I think I'll be okay."
No matter how much I wish I could ask her to stay, I don't. I step aside instead, and watch her grab her keys from my kitchen island. She heads for the door.
"Wait," I say, turning around to grab ahold of her wings. "Don't forget these."
I hand them to her, nearly dropping them when her fingers graze the back of my hand, sending liquid flame through my veins.
I suck in a sharp breath.
It's been too long, Nik. You're getting desperate.
And that's it. That's what the little . . . spark . . . was. My desperation.
I let go of the wings and Caroline takes them gratefully.
"Thanks," she says. "For helping me with Rebekah. And for . . . talking to me."
"It was a pleasure," I say, pondering momentarily if I truly mean that. I tilt my head towards the glittery wings under her arm. "What are you?"
Laughing fleetingly, Caroline gives me a crooked smile that melts a piece of my icy heart. "The tooth-fairy. It was a last-minute idea. I had the wings from a project I was working on with my class and the dress was an impulse buy from a year ago. But I kinda like it."
"You like being the pretend tooth-fairy?"
"I like representing childhood innocence."
Flicking the wings, I let out a sigh and rifle through my hair. "That's quite poetic."
Caroline's smile widens into a full-blown grin. "I switched majors from English to history after already completing two semesters."
"Ah," I breathe. "That explains it then."
Together, silently, we stand by my front door. Neither of us move. We do nothing but stare at different parts of each other's bodies.
"I'd better . . . go," she whispers. She turns around and unlocks my front door before twisting her head over her shoulder. "Have Bekah call me in the morning, okay?"
"Yeah, I'll make sure she gets ahold of you. She has your number?" I ask stupidly.
"We've been friends for three years, Klaus. She has my number."
"Right. Well, drive safe."
"Thank you," she says, opening the door.
Caroline exits the apartment gracefully. I stand in the doorway, watching as she saunters off down the hall to the elevator. She doesn't look at me, not even when the elevator dings and she steps inside. The doors close, but all I see is her glittery, pink-covered back.
And then she's gone.
I go back inside my flat, closing and locking the door silently, and nearly jump out of my skin when I spot a zombie-fied Rebekah standing in the kitchen. She looks confused. Sleepy.
Drunk.
"Was that Caroline?" She garbles. "I thought I heard her voice."
I nod swiftly. "Yes. She was just leaving."
"You didn't . . ."
"God, no, Bekah. I didn't. Have some faith in me." Her insinuation hurts me more than it angers me, but I can't help snapping at her. I've done it for so long.
Grabbing a cup from one of my cupboards, she pours herself a glass of water. She takes large gulps, draining the water in record time.
"She's nice, isn't she?" Bekah asks, swiping her mouth with her hand. She's still in her catsuit. I might have some pyjamas for her to change into.
"Yeah, she's very nice. And she's a tea drinker," I add, because this fact thrills me.
Speaking of the tea, I look around Rebekah and catch sight of Caroline's empty mug. I shuffle over to it and bring it to the kitchen sink along with mine.
"She wants you to call her in the morning," I say to Bekah, who looks as though she's falling asleep in the middle of my kitchen.
Bekah's head jerks. "Gotcha."
I walk to Bekah and take her arm, leading her to the guest bedroom. "Let's get you to bed."
She complies, sliding into the bed without one word of protest. I turn to leave, but her hand grabbing the tail of my button-up stops me mid-stride.
"I love you, Nik," she mumbles, dropping her hand.
A smile creeps over my face. "I love you too, little sister. I'll grab you some old pyjamas, okay?"
I look behind me, waiting for an answer, but she's already fallen asleep.
The next morning, Rebekah walks to the kitchen table looking good as new. Minus the leather catsuit.
I'm showered and dressed in more work clothes, but I bet I don't look nearly as nice as my baby sister.
She plops in the seat opposite me and grabs a slice of toast from the tray in the centre of the table. She nods her thanks, sinking her teeth into the golden bread and grumbling her approval.
"I called Caroline," she says after swallowing her bite of toast.
I try not to look too interested, but Bekah smirks and I know I've probably got the face of an excited child.
"And . . .?" I prompt.
During the night my dreams were haunted by a floating creature. Its wings brushed my heated skin. Its words soothed my thundering heart. It had on a dress of pink sequins, but halfway through the dream that dress disappeared. Beneath it was a beautiful woman, with supple, full breasts and smooth skin.
As I reached out to touch her, she leaned into me. I held her body to mine and in one swift movement we were joined.
I felt as if I were on fire when I awoke. My sheets were drenched in sweat and my thighs were coated in a sticky, white substance. But I was in euphoria, where no one could touch my happiness. Not even me.
I have to wait for Bekah to finish another bite of toast before she answers. Surprisingly, the wait is excruciating.
"She's glad I'm okay," Bekah says languidly, like I, her favourite big brother, am not dying right in front of her, "and she asked me for your number."
I think I feel my heart lurch to a stop. My jaw slackens and I drop the slice of bread in my hand. It clatters to the table and rolls onto the floor.
"Your dentistry number," Rebekah clarifies, not even trying to hide her mocking smile. "She's got a sore tooth and wants you to take a look at it."
"Oh." I dislike the disappointment in my tone. I clear my throat. "Okay, yes. That's wonderful. I could always use a new patient."
Rebekah simply nods at me, grinning as she finishes off her toast.
It isn't a request for me personally, but Caroline coming to my dentistry would offer more opportunities to see her. To speak to her and tell her more about my fucked up life.
It's not much, but it's a start.
A/N 2: Good? Bad? Ugly?