kiss an angel good morning
pt i
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|"In a new skin I'm ready to spill
what I'm never willing to share;
I disable the muscles and bones
so they won't try to walk on the road."|
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—
She wakes up alone, on the ground, naked.
Pale sunlight filters through the tree tops, bathing her in a dewy golden glow, and little birds chirp happily from somewhere in the background. When she finds her hands folded beneath her body, it's the snag of a twig beneath her palm that has her rearing back, inhaling a sharp breath through her teeth. There's no one around, nothing around, but her and the forest. The freaking forest of perpetual Doom and Gloom.
When she brushes shaking fingertips to her chin, she's relieved to pull her fingers away just as clean (more or less) as they were when she'd touched her skin; no blood. So at least that means that she hadn't gone crazy and devoured an entire campsite or something.
"Okay," she whispers to herself. "Caroline — pull yourself together. There's a perfectly logical explanation for all of this."
"Really now?" A smooth male voice causes her to jump, and she whirls onto her haunches, clenching her chest as her heart pounds painfully. "Because I'd sure love to know what it is."
Her breath is lost in her throat, her mind stuck on a loop of "Seriously?" Because really, of all the people who could have stumbled on her right now, it has to be freaking Klaus?
He stands there, leaning back against a thick tree trunk with his hands tucked casually in his front pockets, one ankle crossed over the other. His eyes are light today; a clear, sparkling blue as the sun catches the reflection from the iris, a soft smile playing at his lips.
"You know, I've had my fair share of mornings such as this," he says, conversationally, glancing up towards the leafy tree tops (there's a certain sense of amusement in his tone, and she's not liking it at all. Nope, not even by a little tiny smidge). He arches a brow and his grin widens to a lippy smile, flashing deep-set dimples her way. "Quite the experience, isn't it, love?"
Caroline rolls her eyes, but because his gaze is still somehow both warm and threatening, something deep in her gut just snaps: she's naked, sitting on the forest floor with Klaus of all people — Klaus, the bane of her existence — watching her curiously. No, none of that gentlemanly stuff like offering her his jacket or rushing to her side to make sure that she's okay. Nope, of course not. He just stands there, looking infuriatingly amused with a smug smile and maybe a speck of curiosity glinting in his eyes.
"Though, I must say—" he starts again, his voice too soft and his tone too curious. He pushes himself away from the tree, moving slowly to her side. He only stops when he's right in front of her, the corners of his lips twitching, but he kneels down in front of her and slowly reaches out a hand.
She pulls back, pressing her arms tighter to her chest, regarding him cautiously, because hello — personal space?
"—these are new," he chuckles, reaching past her shoulder.
She feels a soft tug, something of a finger stroking lightly somewhere on her back, and when she glances over her shoulder just to see what he's referring to (because hey, she's sort of curious, alright?), she finds wings — a set of long, feathery, real-as-it-gets wings — protruding from her shoulder blades.
She gulps heavily, hugging her arms closer to her body because what in the hell? She can't even deal with this right now. Klaus pulls away, his hands falling together in the space between his thighs, and turns his gaze to her, stupid smile still plastered on his face.
"I'd offer you this, sweetheart," he says, pulling off the black jacket he's wearing. It's long, reaches just past her waist and is comfortably lightweight (and smells like him; like spicy fruits and tall, exotic trees and oh God), and she snatches it from his hands, proceeding to smother her chest with it. "Unfortunately, I'm not sure it'll do much good." He gestures towards the wings that gleam brightly at her sides, stark white that stands out amongst the shades of mint and chocolate the forest colors.
His eyes explore every inch of the grandiose projections, and he makes no move to be subtle about it (because that just wouldn't be Klaus; there simply must be an element of King Creeper in everything he does. Duh).
Pushing herself to her feet (which is a feat, for real, because her legs feel like jello and the wind is a bit nippy, if she does say so), she takes care to adjust the jacket, pushing a long, thin finger to his shoulder.
"Turn around," she demands, clenching his jacket in fistfuls against her chest. "Seriously."
Klaus chuckles, but with a small shrug, obeys and turns back around, retreating to the tree she'd first spotted him at.
"You know, this is probably your fault," she snaps as she tries to force the wings down, to fit Klaus' jacket over the new extensions she'd suddenly accrued.
"And how do you figure that?" His tone is light, too jovial, and it pisses her off. Seriously.
A growl bubbles low in her chest, the acid scratching the back of her throat, because this stupid jacket is too small and why the heck is Klaus' jacket no freaking help at all? He has broad shoulders, this damn thing should fit!
"I don't know," she sighs, giving up with smothering her . . . wings . . . with the jacket and instead attempts to adjust it over her arms. "But I'm sure you did something. You always do something."
Klaus peeks over his shoulder ("Are you deaf? I said no peeking!") and when he's apparently determined that she's covered enough (or maybe just as much as she'll ever be, with the little she has to work with), turns around to face her once more. His arms are crossed over his chest, but his carefree expression has changed, and she's somewhat pleased to see that he at least looks a bit more troubled.
"I assure you, sweetheart," he takes a step forward and Caroline pauses, mid-step, "I had nothing to do with this." He makes a show of trailing his eyes down the length of her body and she rolls her eyes, nudging his shoulder.
"Right." Note the sarcasm. "Go." She nods towards the direction he'd been standing, assuming that he'd come from somewhere (which means that he at least must know where they are, and that makes her want to cry because she's lost in every essence of the word).
He cocks his head, watching her questioningly. "I'm staying behind you," she says, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, again. "While I appreciate you lending me your jacket, it doesn't exactly cover, like, anything, and you sir, are not getting a free show."
He waves his hand dismissively and slows his pace, waiting for her to catch up. "A gentleman minds his manners."
"Oh, a gentleman, really?" She cups one hand over her eye and makes a show of looking around, searching for something. "Well that sucks for me, because the only person I see here is you." And damn her and her foot-in-mouth syndrome. Sometimes she speaks before she thinks and unintentionally makes things worse, she just can't help it. It's not something that goes away with age, alright? Things like that — well sometimes, they just slip out.
(Word vomit, she likes to affectionately refer to it as, and yes, she's quoting Mean Girls.)
He looks pointedly at her, taking a moment to let his eyes rake over her body, again (and yes, her cheeks begin to burn, the tips of her ears tickle and she pulls the lapels of his jacket closer to her waist, casting her gaze away from his and to the ground). "Had I been anything but a gentleman, I'd have taken advantage of the opportunity to admire—"
Caroline cuts him off, reaching out (somewhat hesitantly) to push at his shoulder. "Alright, alright," she nearly seethes. "Just stop, okay? Seriously. I'm so not in the mood."
He shrugs, holding his out in in front of him. He may be offering retreat, but he still smiles, and it still infuriates her.
She sighs, heavily (dramatically), and kicks out at his calf. "Give me your pants."
"Sorry, sweetheart, but I'm afraid my assistance only extends so far," he chuckles, tucking his hands back into his pockets. "That would be horribly immodest, don't you think?" He tosses a grin over his shoulder, his shoulders raising to shrug shortly.
But Caroline's Bullshit Tolerance Level is falling by the minute, and she pinches the bridge of her nose. "I think that I'd just like to know what the hell is going on."
"Well I'm afraid it's quite obvious, love," he says, and even though he doesn't even look over at her, she can totally hear the smile in his voice. "I believe you're experiencing what's known as reincarnation."
The acid that had been churning in her stomach pushes its way up, bubbling as it rises through her throat. Her mouth goes dry, cottony as if she'd swallowed a handful of sawdust, and she brushes her tongue over her teeth simply to wet them because she can't even seem to get her lips to work properly.
"Reincarnation?" she repeats, reaching out to grab at him. When her fingers curl around his wrist, Klaus stops, turning to face her with an expression that she just can't decipher. "What? I don't—"
The look Klaus gives her sends her over the edge, makes her want to hurl. "Caroline, do you recall anything of the past two evenings?" His voice is soft, his tone gentle; comforting, almost. A tone she's never heard him take with like, anyone. Truthfully — it's sort of scary because there's a tenderness to him that just. doesn't. fit. Klaus is not gentle. Klaus doesn't care. He causes destruction, and then revels in it.
"Nooo..." she stutters, and heart starts pounding again, so loud that she's almost worried that the ground is going to start thumping soon, the vibrations so strong and anxious.
Klaus turns to her fully then, so suddenly that she nearly walks right into him. "Caroline." He grips her shoulders, and even through the cotton material of his jacket, his hands are warm, bolstering her down in place. His expression is so serious, so somber and maybe even genuinely sad that she almost wants to look away. Almost.
"You died last night."
Oh.
...
The Final Battle is nothing like they thought it'd be.
There's no distinct sides; there's Alaric and an indestructible stake, and then there's . . . everyone else.
...
She tags along at his hip the entire way through the forest.
He doesn't take off into vampire speed, thankfully, though admittedly, the thought crosses her mind that she might be able to out—out fly him, and the look on his face would totally be worth the trouble (is it bad that she's pretty sure she can predict exactly how he'd react? It's perfectly innocent, right? Stefan and Elena, and probably even Damon can now decipher his looks — buuuut she's pretty sure that the scale is larger with her). Anyway.
There's like, a billion trees, wide clearings and trickling creeks. Birds, hidden by the cover of the billowy tree tops chirp and sing, the hum from tiny incandescent wings zipping behind her head every few seconds. She doesn't recognize any of her surroundings — but Klaus apparently does. He jumps over upturned tree roots bigger than her, and he walks with his hands tucked into his front pockets like he's taking a freaking stroll around a park or something.
Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother's house we go . . . The old children's tune plays on loop in her mind, blurring pages with that of Little Red Riding Hood. How is tale spun when you know well and straight who the Big Bad Wolf is? Over the river and through the woods, oh how the wind does blow! It stings the nose and bites the toes as over the ground we go . . . It's not Christmas and the tune is misplaced; but hello! Her mind is sort of frazzled right now!
"You said that I — I . . . you said that I'm . . . reincarnated?" She doesn't stutter. Caroline Forbes is not a stutterer. But damn if she sort of freaks out a little bit, because she suddenly has a pair of white, fluffy, feathery wings sprouting from her shoulder blades and and an entitled, narcissistic jerk as her only companion, whom nonchalantly mentioned in a passing sort of way that she'd freaking died.
So yeah, excuse the stuttering, but she thinks that this one time is perfectly justified.
"Yes," he says assuredly, bluntly, glancing at her from over his shoulder. "You died."
There's a giant tree branch just a few feet away from them, and Caroline sees a blurry image of herself wielding that giant tree branch right at the back of Klaus' head. "Now's not the time to play your word games with me, Klaus," she snaps, the vision dissipating into the air.
She catches the slight shrug of his shoulders, and biting down on her molars to swallow the irritation (because you do not even know the stream of naughty words stinging her tongue), reaches a hand out and wraps her fingers around his elbow; pulling him to a full stop. She yanks him around to face her, and his eyes flash darkly.
"Caroline," he growls, his voice low and menacing as he pries her fingers off of his arm (oh, so what, he has no problem manhandling everyone else but no body can touch him? Hello Mr. Hypocrite).
"Tell me what happened." It's a plead hidden by a demand (she should at least get a couple points for her bluntness, right? He basically gave her rights to stuff like that when he admitted that he liked her throwing his faults right back in his own face).
His eyes are dark, shades grimmer than the crystalline color they'd been just moments before. They ghost over her face, his nose scrunching and lips pursing in that way that she knows, knows means nothing good. "There's nothing to tell."
"Bullshit." It's out before she can even contemplate wording it more eloquently (nicely). "Bullshit. I have wings Klaus, a pair of fluffy wings that I don't recall seeing the last time I looked in the mirror."
His face takes on a dewy, golden sort of glow, and a peculiar warmth settles over her shoulders. Creeps up the back of her neck, and seeps into the hollow of her chest. "Look," she pinches the bridge of her nose, scrunching her eyes closed, "I don't mean to snap, but come on! I have wings, and you said that I . . . that I . . . died. If you haven't noticed, Klaus, you're the only one around, so I need your help right now. Please."
Yep, she's desperate; she just used the golden word on him. But because he's Klaus, she can't really decipher his expression. His jaw is clenched, that much she can tell by the way the thin tendons above his molars strain, and his eyes continue to skate over her face (making her flush, like, for real), and there's this moment when everything around them seems to still; the air goes stale, the birds stop chirping, her breath becomes a solid mass in her throat (her imagination is way too active, she notes).
She sort of wants to reach out to him, even thinks about actually touching him — but she can't do it. She just can't make herself do it. Not when she's in such a delicate position.
So, "You know what? Never mind. I'll figure it out on my own," and steps around him, pulling at the hemline of his jacket.
Damon and Stefan. They're bound to know, like, something. They were the last people she remembers seeing, anyway.
"Caroline," Klaus calls, his voice somewhat frazzled (not remorseful. Never remorseful). "Wait."
She whirls on him, and her wings create this weird wall of dense air that knocks into him with the force of one of Bonnie's invisible walls. He stumbles backwards a few steps, but rights himself without so much as a blink.
"Why? Are you going to help me?"
He closes the distance between them, moving slowly, carefully, as if she's some sort of anomaly not to be scared off. "I'm afraid that I can't, Caroline," he says, and there's this, this something in his voice that keeps her from writing him off (just yet). "But I know witches, Caroline, a number of very powerful, very old witches."
"And you'll call them? To get rid of these things?" She juts a thumb at her back, pulling a coiled strand of hair free from a clump of feathers (yeah, chew on that).
He seems to consider her request. "I'll see if they can offer any assistance, yes," he says, agreeably (for once — probably the first time in his gazillion years).
But she knows him probably a bit too well. So even though she tries to bite her tongue and tells herself to leave it at that ('leave well enough alone' and all that, rings in her mind), she's Caroline Forbes: the girl who perpetually has her foot in her mouth, who simply can't leave well enough alone, because she just doesn't really know how (you know, she's still neurotic and has OCD, and things like this... well, they pretty much ensure that she'll probably always be a bit neurotic and OCD. Because apparently it doesn't matter how many times she dies; the Cosmo's are intent on screwing her over every time).
"So what's in it for you?"
When Klaus tilts his head with eyes colored mysterious, hands finding his pockets once again, she expects a set of double fangs to drop, or a growl (he's a big fan of growling because he thinks it's actually intimidating or something), but she certainly doesn't expect him to smile. A full mouth, all teeth, smile, one that has clear hints of amusement and accomplishment peeking through.
"Must there always be a stipulation, Caroline?"
She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, pulling out her best mean girl interpretation. "Well it's you, so, yes, there must always be a stipulation, Klaus."
His eyes trail to the ground, but his grin widens to a smile. "Mm," is all he says, rocking back onto his heels. But then he's turning away, not even bothering to check to see whether or not she's following.
Klaus is Klaus, and Klaus is a grade-A Ass (with capitals and italics and all).
But of course she does follow, and this time, the silence follows them all the way to — to Klaus' mansion? Oh, just kill her already and put her out of her misery (and maybe this time, it'll actually work).
"No!" she groans, tossing her head back. "Seriously? Anywhere but here."
Because yep, they come to stop on the very edge of the property line, where the well groomed lawn stops abruptly as the the outlying forest begs for attention, feathering at the edges. They face the back of the house, which she's never seen in the day time, and if the situation hadn't already taken her breath away, she'd probably loose it just with the grand beauty that is his home. Mansion. Castle. Whatever the hell he calls it. (That is now . . . going to be become a museum? She doubts anyone in Mystic Falls can match the prince inquiry for the upkeep. You know, not everyone can compel themselves everything they want.)
Klaus offers her his arm, but she ignores it. Instead, she pushes her shoulders back and pulls her chin up, and marches right past him, her toes sinking into the cool, soggy ground.
Her second un-dead life isn't starting out any better than the first.
...
"Tell me what happened," she demands, digging her finger into his shoulder as she follows him around the back of the house. The yard is full and bustling with zombie-fied moving men carrying large, brown boxes between the house and a number of large, white moving vans parked in a horse shoe around the curve of the driveway.
"I'm afraid that's a conversation for another day," he grouses, pulling his arm free from her grasp when she snatches his wrist and grips it between her own hands, clawing at the back of his hand with her now-ruined manicured fingernails.
"Um, okay?" Yeah, that answer just isn't going to work, because you know, wings. Death (for the second time). Him and her and no one else around. So, she manages to step in front of him, slams her palms to his shoulders and forces him to stop short, and scoffs right in his face when the growl he tries to suppress gurgles low in his throat. "I don't know what angle you think you have, but now is not the time to try to play games, Klaus. I died, and now I have a pair of wings, and—" and she's like, this close to becoming hysterical because this kind of stuff doesn't happen everyday, and why is it always her?
"—And now I have wings," she repeats, and the familiar prickle of acid at the back of her eyelids sends a layer of cotton over her teeth, coats her throat, and she suddenly can't see straight because she's crying and she's trying to turn away from him because him being The Big Bad or not, she is just not a pretty crier and she doesn't need him and his attractive golden face to witness her snotty nose and her red, puffy eyes. "M-m my mom? Elena? What—?"
And then there's this weird moment when a pair of strong, warm hands (that she's become way too familiar with) are suddenly clenching her upper arms, and a cloud of spice and earth and leather washes over her just as his face clears up in her vision.
"Calm down, sweetheart," he says, his voice soft and lulling and, like, what even? Why does he do this to her? These moments of tenderness, of earnest pleads and genuine interest. Why is she the only one that sees them? Don't you know you make my head spin? she doesn't say, because she doesn't want him to misconstrue her words. You're crazy, and I'm afraid it's catching. "Your mother knows you're here."
And, um, "What?"
"Caroline, there's..." he trails off, his hands sliding up her arms to grip her shoulders, dipping his head to meet her eye. "There's—" and you know what? She's freaked, she's really, really freaked because Klaus is flustered, and Klaus doesn't get flustered. Like, ever. And yet, he stands in front of her, the pull of his eyes so blue and intense that she literally feels like she's drowning (that's actually probably her own fears coming to consume her). "When you died — well, it's actually quite the story."
"Oh, my God, I'm not in the mood for your elaborate tales right now, okay?"
But he ignores her, his eyes scanning across her face and whoa, his expression is just way too intense for her to deal with without her morning cup of coffee. "When you died, you had my blood in your system—"
"WHAT?" she practically screams in his face, and no, she doesn't like where this is going. "Why? What did you do to me?"
This time it's him who rolls his eyes at her, and ignores her outburst. "Tyler," he starts, something of a wistful grin carving out a single, shallow dimple, "Tyler, m'boy, well — he bit you. On accident, I assure you, but it was quite a nasty bite, none the less," he amends quickly when she sort of starts hyperventilating, and tears well up and brim at the corners of her eyes. "Let me ask you, Caroline, what do you remember of the past two nights?"
And she has to think about it. Like, really think about it, because she doesn't know. She doesn't remember anything. Nothing.
"I — I don't remember . . . anything," and oh no, here come the tears again! "Oh God, I can't remember anything! I can't remember the past two days of my life! Oh, my God, Oh my God, ohmigod!" — And here comes her first psychotic break of her second undead life!
"It's all right, sweetheart," he says, and for a moment she gets caught up in the way he calls her sweetheart, because it's soft and, like, nurturing and really, she can't deal with him and his probably-genuine endearments right now.
"It's not all right!" she slaps his hands away from her shoulders, tries to step around him, but her wings get caught up in his face and Oh God. But then she whirls on him again, leveling a finger to joust into his chest. "I died last night, and I woke up this morning with a set of wings and I don't even remember how the hell that happened!"
"Well if you'd stop interrupting me—" he interjects, only to be cut off once more (mostly by her ginormous wings that nearly take his head off when she starts pacing just a little too close to him).
"This is a dream," she sighs through a watery breath, pinches the back of her hand. "This can't be real. Someone's giving me a dream, you're giving me a dream, aren't you, you asshole," she spits as she turns on him, again. And if she wasn't afraid of her laughter turning into full-out sobs, she'd totally laugh at the startled expression on his face because that's just not one she sees often.
"Caroline, stop," he tries again, dodging as the tip of her wing clips his shoulder when she makes an abrupt turn. "I need you to listen to me for just a moment." She stops, lets his grip her arms again, because whatever, his hands are warm and sometimes she just needs the contact, okay? "Just a moment, that's all I ask." His smile is soft, cautious, but she nods anyway. "Then you can go right back to your nonsensical babble and unfounded assumptions about how I'm out to ruin your life, all right?"
Ugh, please. "Fine." (Maybe she pouts a little then.)
Klaus nods, as if assuring himself that it's safe to go on, that she's not going to start firing insults and vervain-soaked bullets at him the moment he opens his mouth. "Let me get straight to the point: in a bid to save not only my life — as I am in fact the originator of your bloodline — but also the lives of Stefan, Damon, Tyler, Abby and even your own life, Caroline, Bonnie had my body brought to that decrypt old house that her ancestors inhabit."
"Oh God, it was the witches, wasn't it? They still hate us. They made Tyler bite me, didn't they?"
But Klaus trugs on, ignoring her completely. "Alaric followed you lot to there, and unfortunately, it took both of the Salvatores and Bonnie to keep him at bay," he says, his eyes coloring and clouding. "You hadn't much choice, I'm afraid."
This is where her heart starts pounding like a base drum, and her blood begins to boil. Oh, and the acid in her stomach? — Totally rising up her throat and yeah, she's probably going to yak all over his nice Italian-leather shoes (but she doesn't even feel that bad because that's what he gets for wearing nice Italian-leather shoes into the forest).
"Much choice of what?" and is it weird that she sort of doesn't even want to know? Ignorance is bliss and all that.
"Well, you fed me your blood, sweetheart, due to some . . . rather unfortunate circumstances with the blood bags you'd brought along," and ugh, the way he says it makes her insides crawl and she feels hot all over, and not even in the good, sexually aroused way.
"Oh is that so?" She folds her arms and resists the urge to roll her eyes. Yeah, he can be, like, a totally great story teller (she's been on the receiving end of some of his better tales), but she's just totally not in the mood for his theatrics right now, thank you very much. "But it was an accident?"
"You're problem, Caroline, is that you haven't learned that you can't fix everything. You'd simply gotten in between Tyler and I, and unfortunately, that resulted in a rather painful looking bite to your forearm." When he turns away, heading towards the looming stone wall of the back deck, she nearly plows into him in her haste to catch up.
"So? I still don't see the connection."
When he turns to face her, stopping on the very first stair, his smile is way too predatory, way too animalistic and possessive and just Oh, my God, her life is over to keep clear the bile that's coating her throat.
"We'd exchanged blood, Caroline. We're... connected," he says, and the bastard (in the literal sense, she thinks), doesn't even try to look sympathetic. Yeah, he wouldn't because that's probably what he's been aiming for all along.
"Connected? What the hell do you—"
"A blood bond," he says, and when she nearly tosses herself bodily at him, intent on stuffing one of her wings down his throat while simultaneously using the other to stab him a billion times, he holds up both hands defensively, and smiles. "I'd suggest you thank me, sweetheart. That bond saved your life."
She plants a hand on her hip and pops said hip, channeling her best Mean Girl's impression. "Oh yeah? And how did you manage to do that?"
His explanation is so simple, so in your face and duh that it makes her head hurt. "I can't be killed, Caroline," he says, shrugging as if it's just no big deal at all.
"Okay? But what does that have to do with—"
And then all trace of humor just drains off of his face, and she thinks that for the first time in a while, she's probably looking at 1000 years of life flooding into his features; shadowing and contouring, from every lifetime he's outlived, all ebbing and flowing right here in this one moment that will forever be etched into her memory.
"I can't be killed," he repeats, his voice low and . . . and his tone unfamiliar. "And since we now share a blood bond, that means that as I can't be killed, neither can you."
Oh fuck.
...
"So what, I'm stuck in the in-between?"
She seriously doesn't know why he hasn't backhanded her across the room yet, because she's even starting to annoy herself. She's walking on his heels, pulling at his arms, grilling him like he's stuck in some sort of whacked interrogation.
"I don't know," is all he says, and yeah, that totally pisses her off.
"What? But you're, like, a billion years old — you can't honestly expect me to believe that you've never shared a . . . a blood bond with someone before?"
Oh, and the looks he gives her; scathing and unimpressed, yes, it totally has her reeling back and biting her lip. And she even contemplates apologizing, because even she knows that insulting the only person who can help you is totally not the way to go, but then she remembers that it's him, and her resolve comes back full force.
He's getting no apology from her, other than the acknowledgement that she'll probably continue to insult him because she just can't help it (and let's be real: he makes it too easy, what with all his, I am King-Were-Man, KISS MY FEET or I'll kill you and everyone you've ever met).
"I've dabbled in it once or twice," he shrugs, pushing open a set of heavy looking oak doors, and guiding her through them. "However, I'm afraid I lack the experience this situation requires."
"So then they're not permanent?" Because that's really what she'd gotten out of his admittance.
He shrugs, grinning. "Well, death," and okay, where's the damn white oak stake when she needs it?
"You can't die, I can't die," she reminds him, but he ignores her and leaves her standing in the door way. She hovers hesitantly behind him as she watches his movements wearily. He pushes around a number of boxes lined along the golden-trimmed wall (real gold, she finds, when she runs her finger over the dipping curve at her shoulder), and types a message into his phone before turning back to face her again.
"True. And on a different note, as stunning as you are, I'd prefer to see you fully clothed for the time being," he says, turning away from her and tending to the boxes at his hip. He shuffles through them, then turns back to her with a silky white bathrobe. "Take this. It's Rebekah's, but I'm sure she can spare it—" he gives her a pointed look, his grin waaay too smug, "—considering the circumstances."
Her cheeks warm, a flush spreading from her chest all the way to the tips of her ears because she'd sort of forgotten how inappropriately dressed she is, and then she remembers that Klaus has, a major, never-fading hard on for her and this is all probably, like, his biggest fantasy come true.
It irks her how nonchalant he can act about this, like he didn't just find her buck naked in his backyard, with no clue how she'd ended up there.
So she rolls her eyes dramatically and throws in a scoff for good measure (because he hates that), but quickly snatches the robe from his hands (in full evil-eye mode). "Thank you," she snaps. She shrugs it on over her arms (and damn, it's Cashmere. Does everything in this damn house have to be so amazing and luxurious and nice?) and ties the straps around her back into a rough, misshaped bow, and proceeds to stomp all the way over to the other side of the room. "Can you try to not be smug for once in your life?"
He doesn't say anything right away, just tilts his head some and folds his arms over his chest, his eyes dark and inquisitive and searching her face. Then, and only when she feels like she might actually drown in him, he pushes himself away from the wall, and takes his time walking to her. And she doesn't know why, but just the way he walks makes her want to punch him in his smugly attractive face.
"Can I get you anything, Caroline?" he questions, tone light and hands tucked into the pockets of his black jeans as he closes the distance between them.
She pops a hip and plants her hands there firmly, cocking an eyebrow. "Um, how about a clue about what the hell happened to me?" She taps her thin, eyes narrowed and scaling the ceiling in mock thought. "Yeah, that would be nice."
Klaus doesn't move right away, doesn't even really say anything. Just cocks his head to the side, and regards her regally. His gaze is warm, his eyes intense, and a warmth flushes through her face under his scrutiny.
"I apologize that I can't be of more help to you, Caroline," he says. "But I hardly see that a reason to be so hostile."
"I'm not being hostile," she snaps. A tow brow raises, dimples deepening as he grins (slyly, always slyly), and snorts a low laugh. Caroline cringes, taking a deep breath to calm herself. "I'm not trying to be hostile," she corrects. "I just . . . I'm a little stressed out, okay? Most people don't wake up naked in someone else's back yard without any clue how they got there."
And then he nods, as if that's completely understandable (because this kind of stuff happens so often, right?)
"So . . . she clasps her hands together, tries to ignore the giant white fluff that keeps edging into her peripheral vision. "What do we do now?"
But Klaus doesn't get a chance to answer, because the giant oak doors part and all Caroline sees is collected, crisp, and undoubtedly curious.
"Brother," Klaus greets brightly (or as brightly as you'd expect from Mr. Doom and Gloom himself), and guides Elijah into the parlor with a gentle hand to his back.
Elijah takes it upon himself to address Caroline, extending his hand out in front of her chest. "I don't believe we've formally met, Ms. Forbes," he says, his voice so collected and confident and, like, alluring.
Damn these Originals and they're super attractive genes.
There's something about Elijah that has Caroline accepting his hand hesitantly, timidly, unable to tear her eyes away from his. It's a different sort of feeling than the one she gets around Klaus; almost like she feels like she must obey to his every command, because there's an air of importance and culture to him that she'd once laughed at when Elena had described it.
"Elijah Mikaelson," he says, though she's sure he probably knows all too well who he is (and what he's done).
She nods, swallowing thickly. "I know," she nods, and she's even sort of proud at the way her voice doesn't shake. "You're the one that kidnapped Elena after the Masquerade ball—" and Oh God, there she goes again with the word vomit.
She spares a glance at Klaus, who hides his smile by ducking his head and turning softly, checking his phone.
But his smile is wiped off his face as quickly as it appeared when Elijah drops her hand suddenly, all traces of bemusement and curiosity gone, and instead replaced with a look that it just decidedly not Elijah. And then he takes a few steps back, a look altering his somewhat stoic expression. They're left in a stunned sort of silence; Elijah unable to look away from Caroline, Caroline staring angrily at Klaus, and Klaus looking at Elijah as if he holds the cure to the curse that is his life.
"Elijah?" Klaus questions, coming to stand between Caroline and his brother. Elijah's eyes remain on Caroline, finger running over his thumb, watching her with a curious expression (dare she say he'd looked . . . startled? No, that just doesn't sound right). "What is it?"
It's only then that Elijah's gaze falters, that he pulls his attention away from Caroline and directs it towards his brother. They're silent for a moment, sharing that stupid, annoying If-My-Eyes-Could-Speak sort of silent conversation that she's witnessed way too many times, between Elena and Jeremy, and even Damon and Stefan (the freaking kings of staring contests and the craziest crazy eyes).
(And maybe she's even a little jealous that she has no one to have those weird, silent, eye-conversations with, being an only child and all.)
"You can understand her?" Elijah questions, his eyes finding Caroline's once again.
"What?" Oh, here it comes: word vomit take trois. "What are you talking about? Of course he can understand me—"
And then Elijah steps away, face drawn and tired looking, the pupils of his eyes widening for a moment. He looks to Klaus, his expression unreadable. Klaus looks to Caroline, his confusion much more evident (see, as much as she hates Klaus —and she does— he really is like an open book; she's gotten pretty good at reading him over the past year).
"It... it sounds as if she's..."
Yeah, that's disheartening — Elijah at a loss for words. She doesn't know Elijah or the dynamics of this family other than every single one of them is pretty sure that they're the Alpha, and they're all way too intent on showing it and stabbing each other quite literally in the back, but she's pretty sure that this reaction is uncharacteristic.
"Talking," Caroline supplies, toeing the back of Klaus' shin, because seriously? She needs a freaking clue here, okay?
"Screeching," Elijah settles with, adjusting his tie uncomfortably as if he suddenly can't breath in her presence.
Caroline's heart sinks to her stomach.
...
Because the Cosmo's are definitely not on her side, she can't even wallow in peace. Nope, Rebekah comes bursting into the room, hands up and attitude blazing.
"What is all the damn ruckus?" she snaps, wedging herself very peculiarly between her brothers. She eyes Caroline haughtily, and glances first at Klaus, then Elijah.
"So you heard it too?" Elijah muses, touching his fingertips to his chin, the perfect picture of contemplation (and what's worse; Caroline can't even really tell if he's freaked out or intrigued by her wings and apparent screechy-speech).
"That screeching?" Rebekah questions, turning her attention to her nails as if they'd suddenly become infinitely more interesting or something. "Yes, of course. I thought my polish bottle would shatter."
Caroline rolls her eyes, because please. Rebekah's such a bitch.
"I was hoping your brain would shatter and you'd finally disappear," she snaps, snorting. But Rebekah too startles, stumbling backwards to take refuge behind Elijah and slamming her hands over her ears.
"Bloody hell, what's wrong with her?"
And since Rebekah's staring at Klaus like Big Brother has all the answers, Caroline also directs her attention to him, and cocks her brow expectantly.
He shrugs, now looking unaffected (and ooh, does his apparent nonchalance get her blood boiling!). "I was hoping Elijah would be able to shed some light," he admits, looking between his brother and Caroline, avoiding Rebekah's eyes (and ha! Rebekah looks like she might explode at any moment, and God, they can only hope).
"I'm afraid I don't know much about this phenomenon," Elijah says regretfully, dark eyes shinning like ignited coal in a fire pit. "Perhaps the Bennett witch might be of assistance?"
"Bonnie," Caroline interjects, tapping the back of Elijah's hand (and then immediately pulling back, because she feels like that was probably a major no-no). "She's not just some Bennett witch—her name is Bonnie, and she's one of my best friends."
"For the love of— stop talking, Caroline," Rebekah snaps, burying her face into Klaus' shoulder for a moment before abruptly deciding to shove him into Caroline for no apparent reason other to be a complete and total pain in the ass. "Do something, Nik. She's going to make us all go deaf with that horrible screech, if it doesn't kill us first."
Caroline smiles sweetly, all sugar and spice and nothing very nice. "I wish," she whittles, but then Klaus' hand is on the small of her back, and he looks troubled; as if he's unsure of whether or not to placate his sister (who has the biggest, baddest temper of them all, because she's a petulant eternal child), or to, like, actually help Caroline.
But then he settles (and makes the right choice). "Rebekah, that's enough."
And of course, Rebekah's jaw hits the floor, because her favorite big brother didn't side with her.
Caroline: 1
Rebekah: 0
"Nik?" she starts, but Elijah, ever intuitive, steps in between them and pulls Rebekah into his arms.
"Come, Rebekah," he says in that smooth, cool, collected voice of his that is total BOSS, nodding softly to Klaus (and for some reason, it really makes Caroline want to kick Klaus in the balls. Don't know, it just does). "Let us leave Niklaus and Caroline to deal with this on their own."
"Deal with what?" Oh, things just keep getting better and better. Yeah, she recognizes that voice. It's only her best friend, voluntarily at the House of The Devil.
"Elena?" And then her heart plummets all the way to her toes when Elena stumbles backwards, gaping unattractively at Caroline and covering her ears.
"What's — what is that? It's . . . It's loud," she says, clenching her eyes shut and grabbing at her hair as she backs into the door, doubling over on herself. "It's too loud."
Caroline whirls to face Klaus, accusation and irritation wrinkling lines around her eyes and her forehead (and whatever, she knows they'll bounce back, but lines are lines). "What's Elena doing here?"
Rebekah's suddenly back at Klaus' side, looking infuriatingly smug, and flashes a chilled-to-the-bone smile at Elena. It's all teeth and ferociousness, and no remorse. Suddenly, the air in the room just becomes too thick and too heavy, and Caroline can't breath.
Klaus looks murderous, Elijah looks unsettled, Elena is distraught, and Caroline wants to scream.
"Thanks to Rebekah," Klaus wraps an arm around Rebekah's shoulders, squeezes her too tightly until the little bitch cries out, scratching at his face with her perfectly manicured fingers. "The doppelgänger is in transition."
"Transition?" Caroline parrots, because what now?
"Yes," Klaus confirms with a nod. "Caroline, dear Elena here is to become a vampire by morning."
And then everything goes dark, then suddenly turns into a blindingly bright light, and Klaus and his golden curls start to blur into Elijah and his chocolate colored quaff, and the room is suddenly too big and too warm and too everything. The acid in her stomach is definitely not going to stay down any longer, and she's probably definitely going to have a complete meltdown soon because she's only seventeen (well, eighteen now, chronologically) and this is way too much for her to handle.
"Oh fuck," she cries before her knees buckle, and she thinks she feels a pair of warm hands at her back before she passes out completely.
...
|" Now I stand here, nothing to hide like the newborn; hungry and wild,
but the ground I want to explore doesn't feel like before—
'Cause all I think about is why the skin I'm in feels ordinary."|
—
A/N: I use too many italics, I know. And I'm sorry. I don't how else to get the emphasis out on certain things. And I know that this is kind of crazy and out there and all kinds of WTF, but I'd love your thoughts, just the same. And, good news - I have this story plotted out from beginning to end! So that means no discontinuations or hiatus'! YEAH, BOY! And plus, this is the first thing I've written in a reeeally long time that I don't hate. That I actually sort of really, really like. So, I'm really excited about it and IDK, just give me your thoughts, yeah? I'd so much appreciate it.
And this is going to be something of an ensemble. Klaroline is the dominate pairing, but I have, like, 2 maybe 3 other side pairs that I'll use just to break up the monotony, and help build up Klaroline. But anyway.
The song lyrics are from Silverson Pickups', Skin Grafts, which, for you The Secret Circle fans, was the song that played during the final scene of the finale. RIP TSC :( OMG, I just checked Netflix and THE SECRET CIRCLE IS STREAMING NOW! OMG, you don't even understand how happy that makes me :) *sigh*
And thanks to Anna Banana for encouraging me to post this and all of it's WTF'ness (if I embarrass myself with this thing, I'm blaming it on you!).