A/N: This is yet another one of my old rewrites and, as I continue to try to get back into my old writing rhythm, I decided I should try a different strategy and publish different things that I can work on. So here's yet another story that I more or less know where is going.

This one will be more mature, so to speak. It deals with themes of adultery, past substance abuse (it's a rock band, after all) and complicated relationships. I have to say that, in spite of all the tags, endgame pairings are Klaroline and Steferine (I know, I know...), but Caroline/Stefan and Katherine/Elijah are also important parts of the story. There might be a minor character death in the future (minor). Also, Caroline and Katherine have a difficult relationship, but it'll be worked on as the story progresses. I really, really love band!AUs and I'm yet to see one in this fandom, which is shocking because it's so perfect for band!AUs. I hope you guys enjoy it and, if you do, please let me know you're interested in reading more. :)

As always, I apologize for any mistakes you might find. English is not my first language and the story has not been beta'ed.


Caroline thinks she looks at least 10 years older as she analyses her own reflection on the cracked mirrored wall behind the counter. Between dirty shelves full of half-empty bottles of alcohol, she sees huge black shades under her eyes, the crinkles on her forehead effortlessly deepened further than ever.

She looks every bit as exhausted as she feels. And slightly drunk as well.

Ok, considerably drunk.

The bar smells like cigarettes and booze, with just a little scent of vomit to set the atmosphere. It's dark, old and reeking of disappointments and failed expectations. Looks like the kind of place where dreams go to die, matching her mood just perfectly.

There is a fancy party going on at some ridiculously extravagant hotel and she's supposed to be there. Well, that's an understatement. She's something like the guest of honor. Her band is, anyway. Circulate, shake hands, pretend to recognize the rich bastards, smile; routine stuff. The kind of task she could do braindead. Enzo spent the whole week bellowing on their ears about the importance of causing a good impression, although it wasn't really her Enzo had been worried about.

It was Katherine. It was always Katherine.

But Katherine is probably parading across a room full of people she never met before, holding a flute of champagne in one hand a cigarette in the other, making Enzo very proud while good ol' reliable Caroline buggered off into the night.

She blames this city for her misbehavior.

Caroline really fucking hates New Orleans.

"Un autre, s'il vous plaƮt," she tells the bartender in her awful high school French accent. The woman has a hard look in her eyes and her lips are drawn in a grimy line and she looks at Caroline like she thinks Caroline might be crazy, which is understandable. She has no idea why she keeps trying to speak French in New Orleans, but she does. It's this city, she tells herself again. Messing with her head. The bartender casts an annoyed glance her way before fetching another drink. "Merci," she makes sure to add. The woman just ignores her and goes back to her chores.

The alcohol goes down burning, making her eyes water. It tastes as horridly as you'd expect from a bar like this, not that she had expectations to begin with. Caroline reckons that's the kind of thing you're supposed to be drinking when feeling eerie and gloomy; it's supposed to be a punch to the gut, not a walk in the park.

A familiar sounding name coming from the TV behind the counter catches her attention. A tiny reporter with bulgy eyes babbles excitedly about something. Frankly, it all sounds like blah blah blah to her at this point. Except for the part where the reporter mentions Vamps, and then her face is on the television, smiling, waving, pouring her heart on a song while thousands of fans scream.

Caroline then remembers they have a gig the next day; it's why they came to New Orleans in the first place. You'd think that would be the first thing on her mind. Usually, yes. Her responsible side is telling her she shouldn't be having drinks of dubious quality and getting wasted the night before a concert. Enzo is going to murder her. But even that side is starting to get a little tipsy, so she just waves it off and drinks some more. She'll worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes.

"What would those fans say if they could see Caroline Forbes now?"

Caroline raises her head and stops, her whole body going rigid, her fingers flexing angrily around the glass in her hand. Every hair on her body stands to attention and her lips press into an antsy pout at the sound of that voice - of that fucking accent, always so smart, so eloquent.

New Orleans might just be her least favorite place in the entire fucking planet.

"How did you know I was here?" she asks, not turning around.

"I didn't."

"How did you know where to find me then? Did a paparazzi give you a tip?" Ah, that would be great. Caroline Forbes getting smashed at a dirty low profile little bar in New Orleans. Enzo would just love it.

"You're not that famous around here, love." The way he says it... Like he's got any right to call her love. The fucking asshole. Thinks he's allowed to do whatever the hell he wants. It just makes Caroline want to fly on his neck. "Call it a gut feeling."

She sighs, tries to relax her posture a bit and not look so damn bothered. That's exactly what he wants. Caroline won't give the bastard the taste. "Well, then. You found me. Congratulations, Carmen Sandiego."

"Thank you." She can hear the smirk on his face.

He approaches, takes a seat on the next stool, eyes burning on her face until Caroline can't avoid to look anymore. She takes another gulp from her drink - honestly, what is this? - and then there it is. Stormy blue-green eyes meeting audacious dark blue-grey ones.

"Hello, Caroline."

"Niklaus."

Klaus grins a grin Caroline knows so well she feels suddenly sick. It's that subtle curving of lips that seems to find her defiance endearing, that says I know what you're thinking and I've still got you, and it takes Caroline a lot of self-control not to punch the smugness out of his face, mostly because it's all true.

It's been two years, four months and two weeks since she had last seen Klaus Mikaelson - not that anyone's counting - but it feels like it was only yesterday that he walked out on them - on her - and went back to his precious New Orleans, to his beautiful French Quarter, where the sun shines brighter and the flowers are always blooming and the grass is a hundred freaking shades of greener. New York is grey, boring, too far away from Klaus Mikaelson's ambitions. It's not good enough for a man like him. A naive delusional overachiever like Caroline isn't good enough for him.

It's not that she thinks about Klaus all the time - she doesn't. She's got her music, her career, her band. She's got Stefan. She doesn't think about Klaus. It's goddamn New Orleans that brings it all back in a rush and makes her want to throw things around and break everything and quite possibly Klaus as well. Especially Klaus.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

"Looking for you."

"Why?"

"Because you weren't at the party."

"Why were you at the party?"

Klaus shrugs. "I'm a former band member residing in New Orleans. The company sent me an invitation."

"And you thought it was a good idea to show up," she says, not as a question, but an accusation.

"Why not?"

Because we fucking hate you. Because we needed you and you left. Because I don't want to see you ever again, asshole.

Klaus looks so good and put together Caroline feels a little embarrassed. She's got a nice dress on, but one of her straps keeps falling off her shoulder and she's long given up on trying to look presentable. Her hair is messy, her make up is all smudged. She looks like she got on the worst end of a fist fight and was made to wear her defeat bright across her face. Despite her surroundings, she suddenly feels very inappropriate.

Klaus, on the other hand... He is elegant and polished and perfect. He's growing his beard a little bit more now, but it doesn't make him look older or disheveled, but rather wiser and more refined, like a man who only knows success in his life. Caroline decides she hates the damn beard.

She stays quiet and drinks again, moves the glass with her hands to see the liquid go around in circles; it's a welcome distraction.

"Why aren't you at your party, love?" Klaus asks.

"Caroline, listen," Enzo says, with an urgent tone. "He's here."

"Who's here?"

"Klaus."

"Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck. But you're gonna have to deal with it."

"Who invited him?"

"I don't know, and it doesn't matter anymore, because he's already here. Avoid him if you want, but do not act like the crazy ex, ok?"

"Hey -"

"Don't start an argument. Just... Pretend you don't care. Be the better person. Can you do that?"

"Sure."

"Great. Now go and get yourself more champagne. You'll need it. I'll go keep an eye on Katherine."

Caroline turns around, pretends she's heading for the bar and goes for the door instead.

"It's not my party and I'm not your love, so stop calling me that," she replies, drily.

"Sorry," Klaus offers, but the smile on his face says otherwise. "It's your band."

"Bonnie and Katherine can do the honors."

"Where's the new lad?" Klaus asks, a hint of something different on his voice, disrupting his well-practiced poise for just a split second. So he knows, Caroline thinks.

"He's been part of the band for over two years, he's hardly new," she replies. He's replaced you, you old rag,", she wants to add. He's been replacing you ever since.

Klaus grins. "Where's Stefan/"

"He had some family stuff."

"Ah," Klaus says. "He's got family in New Orleans, doesn't he?"

Caroline doesn't say anything, just drinks. Yes, Stefan has family in New Orleans. Yes, that's the reason why they're staying in this sodden city for longer than strictly necessary. Because half the band is made of people who know people in New Orleans and they all want to spend time with their relatives and friends while Caroline withers and dies. Who cares?

Klaus' fingers drum a beat on the sticky countertop. They're long and calloused from playing the guitar, just like Caroline remembers. For a moment she wants to stretch out her hand and touch him. But it's only a moment and it's going to wear off. It has to. So she doesn't.

"So," he starts again. "From one to ten, how angry would you say you are with me?"

Caroline frowns. "I'm not angry." Even she doesn't believe her own words. She used to be better at this, saying things and meaning them. Again, New Orleans.

"Really?"

"It's been two years, Klaus."

"Then why won't you even look at me?"

Caroline does. "Because I don't like you anymore."

Klaus is quiet for a moment, his eyes unreadable. Caroline hopes he's hurt. It won't be even a tenth of what she felt when he left, but it's something already. She'll take whatever she can.

"So that's very angry, then?"

"You want specifics?"

"Please."

"A solid nine point two."

Klaus' eyebrows rise in surprise. "That's very high."

"What did you expect? You left us."

"I expected you'd be over it."

Caroline feels a stab somewhere. "This might come as a surprise to you, but not everyone is a cold-hearted psycho, Klaus."

"It's been two years, love."

"Stop calling me that."

He doesn't apologize, of course he doesn't. He doesn't care. He calls everyone love. It's not meant to mean anything. Except it did, once, and it makes Caroline's stomach churn away inside, as she feels Klaus crawling underneath her skin like he never left at all. I've still got you.

"Why are you really here?" she asks again, because that part is still cloudy. She can't understand why Klaus would leave a room full of upper class, self-centered people like himself to walk the streets of New Orleans in search of a filthy enough bar for Caroline Forbes - other than to torture her, that is.

Coming to think of it, that's exactly the kind of thing Klaus would do.

"I already told you," he says, calmly, like a teacher talking to a mentally-challenged child.

"No. Why were you looking for me?" she asks, heat finally etching into her voice as she demands for an answer. She turns the glass against her lips and drinks the last of it, the fire down her throat sending a jolt of renewed fight through her body. "You're not supposed to be."

Klaus looks at her, sighs wearily. "I can't -" he starts, stops, looks away; the uncertainty dancing shyly behind his eyes seems odd on him. "I've missed you, Caroline."

She laughs a hollow, dredged laugh that sounds more like an enraged whimper.

"You don't believe me."

"Can you blame me?"

"I do, love."

"Blame me?"

"Miss you."

"Ah."

They fade into silence once more; the unintelligible blablabla from the TV joining the low clinking of glasses to fill in the space they leave. Caroline doesn't see the point here and therefore doesn't know what else to say. She spent two years either hating Klaus or trying to get over him through so many imaginary conversations she quite honestly ran out of what to tell him. She's not that good with spoken words, it's why she writes and sings them, but hardly ever says anything. In her head, however, she spoke to Klaus, picked every single word carefully and made him feel as guilty and destroyed as she deemed he deserved to feel.

Now, there is nothing else left.

"I need to go to the ladies' room," she announces, getting up from her stool and tumbling her way to the bathroom.

Ladies' room is kind of a bigger concept, though. This is more of a tiny dirty room, only a tad better lit up than the rest of the bar, improvised as a bathroom out of sheer necessity. She thinks about how she fled a luxury five stars hotel to escape Klaus Mikaelson only to end up finding him in this shithole and laughs at the irony. If she'd stayed there, at least she'd have decent alcohol and more sanitary bathrooms at her disposal.

She gives up on trying to pee at that place and just moves to the sink to wash her hands and throw some water on her face, taking a little time to study her complexion once more. Under the pale light of the bathroom she looks even worse.

The door opens and, unsurprisingly, Klaus walks in. Caroline's eyes flicker his way through the mirror.

"Are you a pervert now, too? This is the women's room, leave."

"How do you feel about sex?"

Caroline's hands stop moving under the water for a spell. Then she continues, looks for paper towels or whatever to dry her hands with and, predictably, doesn't find anything. That would be asking too much, wouldn't it? She turns to Klaus, shaking her arms in the air to get rid of the excessive water and not wet her expensive dress.

Klaus is staring at her as though he'd said some sort of polite amenity, like 'What about the weather, huh?' or 'I like your dress'. Caroline forgot Klaus has this thing where he can be blunt like a rock to the head and still sound ridiculously elegant and charming while doing so, almost daring you to resist him. It's annoying.

"Excuse me?" she finally says.

"Sex."

"What?"

"Want me to give you a demonstration on how it works?" he smirks. The fucking bastard smirks.

"I'm not sleeping with you."

"Who said anything about sleeping?"

"Is that why you came here? You needed a booty call?"

Klaus stuffs his hands in his trousers' pockets and takes a step closer. "I think we both need this to happen, and you know it."

"You're insane."

"Perhaps," he shrugs. "But I'm also right."

He comes closer to Caroline, so near she can feel his breath on her face, that familiar and distinct scent of Klaus overwhelming her senses and making her shiver. She can't tell whether she's angry or anxious or frightened, but she's suddenly very hot.

I've still got you, she can read on Klaus' thoughts, on the mischievous smile curving his ridiculously beautiful lips. She feels his hands tentatively reaching out to touch her, palms covering her knuckles; Klaus feels incredibly warm for such a cold fucker.

He gently pushes Caroline back against the wall, presses their bodies together, one of his knees pulling her legs slightly apart, as much as her tight dress will allow, to fit between them. He slides his hands up her arms until he's got them around her neck, making little smoothing circles there with his thumbs. Caroline doesn't know how, but her own arms end up around the man's waist, like the movement was involuntary, muscle memory, like they belong there.

Klaus still has her.

"Don't worry, love," Klaus tells her, placing a soft kiss on her lips. "He'll never know."

TBC


A/N: Vamps is the name of a real band that exists. I don't dig them so much, but I do like their vocalist. So, in case you're familiar and you think 'OH, I KNOW THAT NAME', yes, it's on purpose.

So, what do you think? :) Let me know your thoughts!