The time is right
Your perfume fills my head,
The stars get red
And oh the night's so blue.
And then I go and spoil it all,
By saying something stupid
Like "I love you".
- Frank and Nancy Sinatra
Bonnie Bennett, he'd learned, is as talented at dissemblance as she is magic.
The witch who'd turned up in New Orleans with a suitcase, a Grimoire and haunted eyes to take him up on the offer he'd made to be employed as his witch (most gainfully, he'd promised her) was a far cry from the fiery young girl who'd almost killed herself and him too.
But as the months slipped by and they settled into a semblance of routine (or as much of a routine as can be expected in a city seething with supernatural disputes ) he realized that while she was now privy to much of his life, he still had little to no idea about hers or what had prompted her to finally leave behind the deadweight she called friends and a hometown.
Oh, he had his guesses. And what's more, he had eyes and ears everywhere. One phone-call and he could know all he desired. But he held off at first, supremely confident that, whether by tears or rage, she would let something slip. After all, she'd worn her heart freely enough on her sleeve when he'd first encountered her in Mystic Falls.
But here in New Orleans she made no bombastic claims to morality or power. She let him know, quietly but firmly, what she would and would not do, and he'd agreed to those terms without complaint. Having a Bennett witch in one's corner was well worth the price.
Besides, he didn't need her to get her hands bloody. His were crimsoned enough from the centuries, a spot or two more hardly made a difference. The rest - locator spells, barrier spells, antidotes and narcotics, the occasional hex - she carried out beautifully.
And the more time he spent in her presence, the less he wanted to learn about her recent past from a third party. He watched her sometimes on those rare occasions she took her evening tea in the living room, her small frame folded catlike into the Edwardian chair she favored, turning the pages of a new book, chewing her lip in concentration, and felt himself burn with a curiosity that was increasingly difficult to assuage.
One of these days, he assured himself as the weeks lengthened, he'd see behind that veneer of quiet calm. In the meantime, fending off old enemies and new contenders kept him busy enough. She became, almost imperceptibly, a fixture in his daily life, as natural as the change in seasons.
A year and a half passed in this way until, one morning, quite without meaning to, he glimpsed her smiling.
She'd come down for breakfast and found a plateful of scones from the bakery around the corner (Elijah's doing. His older brother had almost as bad a sweet tooth as the witch) and the smile that dawned on her face lingered longer and brighter than any he remembered. It was rather like the curtains being drawn, unexpectedly, from a bright window. You'd almost forgotten what the sun could do.
Soon after, he began noticing other things.
When once she would spend her free time sequestered in her room, she now went out in the city for hours at a time, often returning with a shopping bag or two. Her clothing changed. She traded the dark, shapeless tunics and jeans she'd worn like a uniform for light colors and swirling skirts. They were not expensive clothes ( even though she was paid handsomely enough to frequent the same shops as Rebekah did) but whimsical and bohemian items such as one might find at a flea market or a consignment store.
She even took to socializing with him and his siblings, on occasion. She would sip a glass of sherry or white wine and listen intently while Elijah talked about some ancient manuscript, or chat with Rebekah about life in the city.
She still made no allusions to Mystic Falls, and he did not ask. What had once been a piquant curiosity had burgeoned into a kind of dull ache, a moody demand not just to know but for her to tell him. He knew where she went in the city, when she returned, when she went to sleep, when she awoke. He knew what spells she excelled at and which ones she still needed to practice. He knew she liked her tea with heaping spoonfuls of honey. He knew what scents she preferred ( orange blossom, mostly, but lavender seasonally) and which scones were her favorite. He knew how to spot the early signs of her magic being overextended, how to reach out and steady her before the nosebleeds began. He even knew, sometimes, how to make her smile.
But what kept her awake at night, what drove her to write so copiously in her small journal, what tears she hid from him behind closed doors - he felt unreasonably possessive of those tears and hankered to know what caused them - she would not say.
There were moments, like some evenings listening to the gramophone and talking with him about a piece of music he'd chosen or when, light-headed from a spell, she would lean into him with a look of quiet gratitude, that he felt she would finally drop her guard.
(And he wanted her to tell him. Anything. Everything)
One night walking back from the Quarter having dealt with a particularly vicious coven he informs her, almost casually, that she will always be safe with him.
"I know," she replies, startling him. "You're practical, you lead with your head instead of your heart. And you've never been anything but honest about what you need from me. It's a nice change."
"Oh?"
"From Stefan and Damon."
"Not difficult to be a cut above swine, love."
She laughs a little and moves closer to him on the sidewalk to avoid a staggering drunk. Something about her words sit uneasily with him. He wants to reiterate that for as long as she remains in his city he will see to her safety, without pretense or preamble, in a way that the Salvatores had never even managed for the doppelganger they claimed to love. But that brings up the unpleasant thought of her someday leaving New Orleans and taking her smiles and tears with her, far away where he cannot protect or claim them.
And besides, it would be a lie. He is swiftly growing less and less practical when it comes to her.
"I like our arrangement," she adds. "I work for you and you take care of work-related hazards. It's simple and straightforward. Business-like. I...appreciate that about you, Klaus."
She's smiling at him, quite brightly, and he wants to tear into something, feel the snap of bone between his teeth.
Klaus bids her goodnight at the door to the Mikaelson home, answering her quizzical look with a hard grin and a comment about catching a late supper. She takes his meaning and asks no questions.
"Don't get hexed," she says before slipping quietly inside his house. He waits until the light fills her bedroom window to melt back into the city.
The protection spell, she informs him, is nearly foolproof. Her finger goes down the page of ingredients, writing each one in a small notebook. He lounges next to her on the settee, arm thrown across the back, legs crossed at the ankle. If she moved just so, she would tuck nicely into his side.
Bent over in her writing, the loose peasant blouse offers a tantalizing glimpse of her bra. His eyes linger on the spray of lavender lace on brown skin, wondering when she bought that particular item. The lace appears delicate and fine, handmade if he had to guess. That she would indulge herself in this discreet manner makes perfect sense. He tries, and fails, to restrain his imagination.
"So I can get most of these pretty easily, but the alligator egg and coral snake venom need to be fresh."
"Hmm..."
How many matching sets of exquisite lace did she have? And did she wear them to bed? Did she wear anything to bed? The thought of a dark bead of nipple poking through the dainty filigree sends his head spiraling.
"So you'll get the stuff?"
It takes a herculean effort to command his thoughts.
"Yes," he says roughly. "Whatever you need."
"Umm, okay. Cool, thanks." She smiles again that bright, blinding smile and hurries off to do whatever she did in the afternoons.
It takes him three hours of wading through the swamp to procure the ingredients. He leaves his shoes at the door and takes the bounty to her room. Rebekah wrinkles her nose in disgust as he walks by, earning her a deathly glare.
Bonnie had asked for a room on the eastern wing, far away from his and his sibling's quarters. It had seemed a reasonable enough request at the time, now it's another thorn twisting in his side, another veil she hid behind.
"Just a second!" she calls from inside the room. He smells steam and orange-blossom soap, they cut through the odor of mud and muck clinging to him. Sod being business-like, he wanted to walk in there and gather her naked body against his until the water makes him as clean and sweet smelling as her. Until there were no more secrets between them.
She appears in a very pretty blue silk robe, her hair pinned messily, skin glowing from the shower. She eyes the muddy box in his hand.
"You got it? Nice."
"That is hardly the word I would use for trudging through the swamp."
She glances at his feet. "What happened to your shoes?"
"I plan to burn them."
"Oh damn. Well, once I do this spell you won't need another one like it for a good ten years." She plucks a beetle from his shoulder. "And look: this little guy came home with you."
Klaus has half a mind to crush his hand over hers, beetle be damned. But she's already placing the small creature on the railing, watching it scuttle away with a contented little smile.
"I'll get dressed and then we'll do the spell."
He half-grunts a response, still intoxicated with her closeness, as she sails back inside her room.
This was his doing, he was the one who'd offered her this position in his household, who'd agreed to these careful, damnable boundaries that, even as he chafed against them, apparently made her happy.
As Elijah is often fond of reminding him, he has no one to blame but himself.
"Bekah? Are you down here?"
Bonnie wanders into the dining room holding two dresses. "I'm gonna be late if I -,"
Klaus raises an eyebrow.
She stops in her tracks, looks almost embarrassed. "You haven't seen your sister have you? I - umm, I need her to help me decide."
"And what are we deciding between?"
Her look of embarrassment deepens. He could swear she's blushing.
"I do have some knowledge of color and form," he informs her airily.
"Okay well," she hesitates before holding up the two garments. One is a rose-pink cocktail dress with a teal belt, the other a midnight-blue sheath with an open back. She gives a self-deprecating laugh, "I have a date tonight and, well, it's been a while so I have no idea what to wear."
His first thought is to ask his name and ensure the morning papers have a new obituary. His second thought is that neither dress will do, because she will no doubt look fetching in both. Perhaps he could suggest a large sack with a hole for each limb.
"And where, pray tell, is the bloke taking you?" he inquires, casually.
She shrugs. "Not sure. I'm meeting him in the Quarter and then we're gonna decide."
He pictures her arm in arm with some sod, laughing, tilting her face up for a kiss. Surely she wouldn't bring someone home after one date? She's never struck him as particularly impulsive.
But then, this is a new city, a new life, a Bonnie who drinks wine with the Mikaelsons and secrets a lavish collection of lingerie. And this Bonnie might let someone take her to bed soon after meeting them, let them join her in the shower, even fall in love. (Whatever else has changed about her, of this one thing he remains certain: she is someone who loves deeply, with her whole heart.) The thought of her cooking breakfast for some human after a shared night together makes him feel ill.
"Klaus?"
"The pink one," he proffers in a gruff voice.
Bonnie regards him with some surprise. "Thanks-,"
"Don't listen to a thing he says, darling. The last time he had a date was sometime before the industrial revolution." Rebekah floats in decked with shopping bags that she flings unceremoniously at him. "Wear the delightful blue number. It'll look lovely on someone's bedroom floor."
Bonnie laughs, ducking her head. "We're just having dinner. But if you think this one's better-,"
"You'll look ravishing. Now go along and get dressed."
"Thanks, Bex. You too, Klaus."
As soon as the witch disappears upstairs, Rebekah whirls on him.
"Don't think I don't know know what you're doing."
He tosses off the shiny Prada and Valentino bags, not a little annoyed. "I have no idea what you mean, sister. She asked for my opinion, I gave it."
Rebekah folds her arms. "You fancy her."
"What a ridiculous notion, I am-,"
"Oh cut the dramatics Nik, I'd know that gormless look on your face a mile away. You fancy her something awful."
Their eyes lock in a silent battle of wills. His jaw clicks. "Even if I did, it would be none of your concern."
She narrows her eyes. "Bonnie might be under your employ, but she's become a friend to me. And I won't see her made a mess of by your attentions-,"
"So that's it. Bekah has a new toy - oh, pardon me, friend - and doesn't want to share. If I were to make more claims on Bonnie's time there'd be no one to listen to your endless prattle." He sneers, flinging the ugly words like mud, goading her. Some days, it's the only way he knew how to talk to his sister.
But Rebekah only looks tired. "I may not be a saint, but I'm encouraging her to try new things and live her life a little. You would keep her all to yourself, cut her off from the world before she even has a chance to see it -,"
"That is not-,"
"If you care about her at all, then leave her be. She's had her heart broken enough, Nik."
He makes his way to the bar, feeling a black mood descend. "She told you this, did she?"
Rebekah follows him, kicking off her heels. "Not in so many words. But if I had to guess, I'd say Gilbert Jr left the poor thing high and dry."
So, his suspicions about the Gilbert family's role in her leaving Mystic Falls prove correct. Has there ever existed a more wet-behind-the-ears weasel like Jeremiah bloody Gilbert? And the boy fancied himself an artist to boot.
Impaling him on his own easel is starting to sound like a wonderful weekend excursion. To think he had dared to-
"See you guys later!"
Klaus glimpses her in the doorway, bright and lovely in a green dress she'd obviously chosen over his and Rebekah's suggestions. She waves at him. She looks, quite simply, like spring.
She is happy here, he realizes. In this city, under his roof, she looks happier than he can ever recall. Clinging to this cold comfort, he returns her smile. When the door closes behind her he makes no move to follow.
There's a clink of ice and glass. Rebekah claps a hand on his shoulder and hands him a drink.
A/N: Oh nooo, unrequited!Klonnie :( This was supposed to be a short and dirty drabble about Klaus looking down Bonnie's shirt but instead I've gone and caught FEELINGS. I blame Chelle for encouraging me. Not sure if I'll add to this at some point, but the muse demanded I write it so... hope you enjoyed!