He is animatedly painting, a large brush in one hand and in his palette vibrant colors; he spreads them on the white canvas, aimlessly to some perhaps, yet it all makes sense in his head. He is in control, the auburn brushes curvy like hair, sharp whisky dots, ever so watching, the bright pink darkening into rusty dried blood red. And yellow all around, to lighten the whole piece. Only on a canvas can he be entirely truthful and spill secrets that he would not even dare think of, even much less tell his family about.
He grins as he applies the last touch, light raven black brushstrokes. Klaus stretches to his tallest, slowly as the bones pop back in place and moves the dirty palette and the many brushes in the basin to be cleaned. His favorite faded green v-neck did not escape the flying paint, it is only when he takes off the garnement that he notices the wolf staring at it from under the table closest to the doorway. He does not startle, although he wonders how it became that his senses no longer recognized her as a threat and got so used to her presence in his house.
He stands shirtless in front of his canvas, embarassed that she has probably seen him at his weakest - there is a reason why he avoids painting abstract around people, too much is revealed if one understands.
"Little wolf? Aren't you supposed to train this army of yours?" He stares her down, her hazel eyes darker in her wolf form while her fur coat is light grey. He does not remember having seen her turned ever before and drinks in all the details of her other shape - as much as he can considering her position.
She lets out a high pitched whine from her spot below the table and puts her paws over her muzzle. He cannot help but laugh at her acting, if there is one thing she has learned from his family it is their propensity toward drama. He walks out of his atelier and the telltale click of her claws tells him she chose to follow him to his bedroom. As he puts on another v-neck of his liking, purple this time, she climbs on his bed and hides below the covers.
He wonders if her wolf form does not take away some of her inibitions, she would have never dared to lie down on his bed had she been in her human form. He lies down on the bed at his usual side - left side, the one closest to the door - and Hayley shifts around, her head now resting on his chest. He has been painting for the past, he looks at the clock, ten hours, he can afford himself a nap. And if his hand comes to rest on her head and scratches her ears, well he was asleep and simply dreaming. It doesn't mean he cares.
