A/N: It appears my muse likes pining!Klaus as much as you guys do ;)
As a rule, he did not make concessions or bargains. After refusing to spend a life - even an immortal one - as anything less than the fullest version of himself, he had neither the patience or the desire to do things by halves.
But for the first time in centuries, he'd found a half of something more satisfying than many of the fuller cups he'd drained to the dregs.
His childhood hunger for his father's love had crippled his trust in the world. And his life shackled by Esther's curse had been full of shame and self- loathing. In each instance he'd been driven by the knowledge that something better awaited him, some horizon of his own. He had risked and gambled and pursued, firm in the belief that what he might lose could not compare to what he deserved to gain.
And yet, in the case of Bonnie Bennett, such assurance failed him.
He spent long hours picturing her tousled and smiling on the pillow beside him. The careless, casual touches shared between them that had no seeming affect on her, - a hand on his sleeve, her shoulder brushing his chest - set him aflame. And in those moments it became difficult to remember why he bothered to exercise any restraint, why he did not follow his desires in the single-minded manner to which he'd grown accustomed. There could be no doubt that having her in all the ways he longed to have her would bring a sense of repletion that, as the centuries passed, grew increasingly rare.
But then she would smile at him in her quiet, trusting way. Or listen to him rant about the newest coven hatching a plot to kill him with a patient look in her eye, her head cocked like a bird's. Still other times, he would meet her gaze across the bodies of mutual enemies and see there a grim satisfaction that mirrored his own (never let it be said that Bonnie Bennett lacked a warrior's pride). And then there were the evenings in the parlor, nursing their respective tea and bourbon, alternating between easy conversation and easier silence.
(Over the years he'd accumulated a sizable vinyl collection - having scoffed when the populace rushed to embrace CD's and gloated when they scrambled back to record players - that was a source of no little vanity. His siblings each had their own peculiarly honed taste in music, and the four of them often devolved into heated arguments about this or that obscure composer or extinct folk melody. Bonnie had no such compunctions or investments, being simply a lover of good music no matter the source. And so she would peruse his collection with a curiosity he found damnably charming, asking questions and giving thoughtful opinions.
"Grams loved Alice Coltrane. Owned all her records, went to a bunch of concerts."
"Sheila Bennett had exceptional taste."
She nodded fondly, remembering. "She really did. Did you know Alice Coltrane spent time in India?"
In lieu of answer, he reached above her head for one of his rarest records and placed it in her hands.
Her eyes widened as a look of reverence swept over her face. "Is this...?"
"Prarthana. Recorded on the banks of the Ganges with the closest members of her ashram. This is one of four copies in the entire world."
"How did you-"
"Alice was a good friend, and an extraordinary woman. I spent some time in her company after her husband's death." He held out his hand, lifting the needle on the gramophone. "Shall we?"
And as the room filled up with the dizzying, euphoric music, each note suspended in the late afternoon light, he noticed her wiping her cheek.
"Grams would've loved this," she said, simply.
And in the quiet look shared between them there was something true and wistful that he dared not tarnish. That hovered, like the music, in the brilliance of a moment too beautiful for tangibility.)
Over the years he had been called many names by friends and foes and lovers. Not a few had likened him to the god of the underworld, crowned and yet malcontent. But these days he felt more of a kinship with Persephone, she who'd risked the world and all its sunlight for six drops of sweetness.
The sod's name, he discovers, is Graham. A recent implant from the British Isles, the man drew cartoons for a living and drove one of those vehicles he himself considered a faux sports car (alternatively known as an Audi TT).
Bonnie had been seeing him for a couple of months.
He'd learned these basic facts from Rebekah who, to his annoyance, remained privy to far more of Bonnie's personal life than he. The two of them would often leave for "girl's brunch" on Sundays, and not a few times he'd watch Bonnie disappear into Rebekah's room with an armful of nail polish and remain therein for hours at a time while the sounds of music and laughter drifted down to his study. One weekend they'd even taken off to Miami with Bonnie's friend Caroline in tow - how the witch convinced his sister and the blonde vampire she so detested to stomach each other's company much less spend an entire four days in a hotel room together was beyond his imagination, the only conclusion he could draw being that Bonnie Bennett had an extraordinary talent for making people put aside their petty differences and unite for a greater cause (or, in this case, for a beautiful beach and expensive tropical drinks) - and Rebekah (to whom his feelings for the witch had become a great source of amusement) had tormented him upon their return with details about Bonnie cavorting in the blue water in a yellow bikini and fending off bevies of admirers until he had threatened to empty the entire contents of Rebekah's closet into the bayou.
She'd laughed, patting his arm. "There there Nik. Maybe next time I'll convince her to text you a selfie."
It was only Bonnie's entrance into the parlor that had prevented him from crushing Rebekah's phone and throwing the metal dust in her eyes.
He had yet to meet Graham, as Bonnie insisted on keeping her romantic life separate from what she jokingly referred to as her "work family", but the first few nights she spent at her paramour's place drove him to make such a dent in Elijah's collection of liquor that his brother threatened to put the cabinet under lock and key. And so, against his better judgement, he started to join Kol on his pub crawls. Drinks were plentiful and neither of them had a dearth of choice when it came to sexual partners, but while Kol revelled in the debauchery, he found himself not a little bored, his thoughts straying to the spirited little witch who was spending her smiles in another man's arms. Even the reappearance of his old drinking-buddy-with-benefits, Aurora, who made no secret of the fact that she fancied another roll in the hay with him, could not stir his dull mood. And so he settled for challenging Kol to endless drinking contests, returning home in such a state as to annoy Elijah extremely.
"Niklaus, I will thank you not to track mud on the carpet. It is an antique."
He sized up his elder brother who looked very stern indeed in his robe and slippers, and laughed. "You -" he hiccuped, "- you look like Mother Goose." He staggered to the bar, reaching for the bourbon and taking a swig, knowing how it displeased his brother when he drank directly from the decanter.
Elijah pursed his lips. "It would be quite a pity if Miss Bennett were to return early and see you in such a state."
He glowered at his sibling, slouching towards the stairway. "Oh sod off."
"Niklaus, the decanter-,"
"WILL GO WHERE I GO."
Unfortunately, his attempts to ensure that Bonnie should never witness him in any state approaching weakness were foiled by none other than himself. Or, what Elijah referred to as "your grand tradition of self-sabotage."
A vampire who'd caused trouble with the wolves and even made some hazy threats against the Mikaelsons proved all bark and very little bite when, one Saturday afternoon, he and Bonnie cornered him in an alleyway. And seeing as how he didn't fancy getting blood on his new jacket, he sent the wanker off with a nasty bit of Compulsion instead of bothering to separate his heart from his chest cavity.
"Wow," Bonnie remarks, watching the vampire in question totter away. "That was easy."
"Embarrassingly so for him, yes." His mood turns when he notices her glancing at her phone. "And what time will you be dining with Gareth?"
"Oh, it's Graham."
"Right. Of course. Graham." He enunciates as they fall into step with each other.
"Not 'til later," she shrugs, scrolling her phone. She comes to such an abrupt stop that he grows concerned.
"What is it?"
She looks up with a dazzling smile. "Since my afternoon is miraculously open, I'm gonna go to the rose festival. Today's the last day, and it's only a couple of blocks away."
"Ah, I was wondering why the scent of elderly women's perfume was wafting in the air."
She gasps in mock outrage. "Hey! I love roses."
"And you inherited this love from...?"
"My grandmoth- oh whatever," she laughs, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, I'll see you later."
And that should've been the end of it. As a creature with heightened olfactory capabilities, places teeming with strong scents weren't high on his list of Pleasant Outings. But the chance to spend time with her outside of their usual settings proved irresistible, so instead he'd announced a desire to see the festival for himself and observe the "elderly in their natural habitat".
(She had mentioned once, in passing, how Sheila Bennett had owned an antique necklace of delicate gold roses that, after her death, passed to her granddaughter, and that the necklace - having sustained some damage during Sheila's adventurous life - thus resided always in a locked box in the altar inside Bonnie's room. Upon learning this, he'd induced Rebekah to help him steal the necklace so he could bring it to a famed jeweler in Switzerland that would restore it to its former glory in time for the witch's upcoming birthday. Rebekah had refused to assist him at first, still firm in her belief that he should make no overtures towards the witch. It was only when he'd pointed out how happy it would make Bonnie to have her grandmother's necklace repaired - and didn't Rebekah want to see her friend happy? - that she'd acquiesced.)
He realized the festival was a mistake in less than five minutes. Rose air freshener, rose candles, rose incense, mini fountains of rose water, rose lemonade, and, failing all that, buckets and buckets of blooming roses at the height of their fragrance, thickened the air with scents strong to the human nose and overwhelming to his.
It wasn't long before his eyes were watering and a dull ache had settled around his forehead. More than once he considered flashing off and clearing his airways. But she was here, a crown of may queen roses perched playfully atop her hair, savoring the scent of every bloom she passed, delighted with all she saw. It was worth the discomfort to watch her flit between the various stalls like a butterfly, to hear the delicious little sounds she made eating a cup of rose icecream. To watch the contented smile on her face as she purchased rose soap, and picture her covered in fragrant bubbles. His mind took off running with the image of her reposing in his clawfoot tub, head resting happily on the edge, smoothing a rosy bar of soap over her legs. Perhaps she would call for him to soap her shapely back and slender shoulders. Perhaps he would join her in the tub-
"Klaus? Are you ok?"
The pain has mounted in his temples, and his nasal passages throb in equally agonizing protest.
" 'course, love. Why wouldn't I be?"
She frowns, coming to stand close to him. "You're blinking really hard... like you're gonna faint."
"Faint?" he scoffs, "what nonsense."
Truthfully, he was feeling a touch disoriented, what with essence of rose assaulting his senses from all sides. But the witch had no reason to suspect such a thing.
In fact, he is about to reiterate just how very far away from fainting he is when she robs him of speech entirely by standing on her tiptoes to lay the back of her hand across his forehead. Her skin is cool as water, her lovely face full of concern and close enough for a kiss. "You look a little feverish. Did you get hexed and forget to tell anyone?"
The warm lilt of her voice holds him captive. He is dizzy at the thought of her hand travelling up into his hair, combing through his locks and perhaps scratching lightly along his scalp-
"No," he says in a low voice, "there's no hex."
"Then what-,"
There's a crash behind them, someone scrambling in apologetic embarrassment and pulling their toddler away from the display of perfumes they'd knocked to the floor. The broken vials each release their own potent scent. To his horror and dismay, he sways a little, causing Bonnie to steady him. Her eyes widen in realization. "Ohhhhh...oh no, all this scent. You must be dying."
"I'm quite well-,"
"Let's get you out of here. Poor wolf nose."
"I am fine, thank you," he growls.
His protests fall on deaf ears. Bracing her shoulder under his, she wraps an arm around his waist - a ridiculous notion, as though she could ever support his weight - and begins escorting him away from the festival grounds. His senses breathe in thankful relief the further they get. His arm is resting over her shoulders, her head tucked on his chest.
"This probably isn't helping," she mutters, pointing to her rose crown before tugging it off. A breeze lifts her dark curls to his face and for an indulgent moment he lets his eyes drift shut, breathing their clean warm scent. It's a moment that floats, full of possibility, like a note of music in the sunlight. He could turn her, capture her mouth in his, tangle his hands in her hair and kiss her until she forgets all about her evening plans.
"Are you feeling better?" she asks, extricating herself gently from his side. Her face is still etched with the sweetest concern, the most exquisite regard. And he thinks to himself, Enough. It's enough this measure, this cup, these few pomegranate seeds. Even with its ache and bitter tinge, its maddening scarcity. Enough.
"Nothing a little evening snack won't cure," he grins, gesturing at the busload of tourists dismounting at Bourbon Street. "Enjoy your dinner with Gareth, love."
She rolls her eyes. "It's Graham."
"I'm sure."
"Well...you enjoy your night, Klaus," she says, with a hint of awkwardness. And then she's off with a little wave, and he watches her go with a twinge he's grown accustomed to.
Still feeling restless after he's fed, he takes out his phone and places a call.
"Hello 'Rora. Fancy a drink?"
xxx Two Weeks Later xxx
Savoring the lovely brunch weather, Rebekah sips from a mimosa and tries to school her expression as Bonnie finishes playing a YouTube video of Graham doing some kind of tutorial about using a design tablet. She hasn't met the man yet - Bonnie's planning to introduce him to her and Caroline during her birthday dinner next week - and when Bonnie had first told her about him, his profession and personality and interests, Rebekah had put the similarities down to mere coincidence.
Now, she watches the sandy-haired, leather-jacket wearing bloke on the video sign off his segment - "That's it for today, loves. Catch you next time, and be sure to hit Subscribe if you liked this tutorial. Cheers!" - with a sinking realization.
Bonnie smiles shyly. "He's so nice now, but apparently he used to be , I quote, 'a real terror' when he was a teenager."
"Was he now?" Rebekah downs her drink and calls for another. "An artistic type with a London accent and streak of rebellion. Sounds positively novel."
Bonnie sets her phone down on the table with a look of exasperation, "Bex, you can't decide you don't like him before you even meet him."
"Something tells me I've met his type before."
"Really?" the witch asks, a blank look on her face.
Oh you've got to be joking. Rebekah downs the second mimosa before it even touches the table. The poor girl really had no clue.
"Bonnie, darling, don't you think Graham is...well, a lot like someone else you know?"
Bonnie frowns a little, then her expression clears. "Oh, you mean Jeremy, because of the art thing and getting in trouble. I can see that." She pauses, shrugging. "I guess I have a type."
Rebekah snorts.
"Do you think it's a bad idea? Dating someone like Graham?" Bonnie asks with perfect sincerity, having appealed to Rebekah's considerably vaster experience with men on numerous occasions. She chews her lip."I mean, he does get a little moody sometimes-,"
"Let me guess: issues with mum and dad?"
Bonnie's eyes pop in surprise, "How'd you know?"
Rebekah stifles a groan. "Oh just a hunch. Intuition really." She stares into the bottom of her glass, debating whether to point out the obvious or let things take their course. Nik's been spending time with Aurora again, and while she personally loathed their tendency to bond over their Misunderstood Loner status ( a bond that quickly devolved into churlishness on Niklaus' part and codependency on Aurora's) at least it was keeping him busy and out of Bonnie's way. She'd thought, foolishly, that they were all in the clear as far as Nik's crush on the witch. But now here's Bonnie, dating a human copy of her brother.
Lovely. Just lovely.
Bonnie continues telling her about Graham's troubled home life, "-after his stepmother adopted him, things got bad. She wanted to control every aspect of his life. So when he was fifteen he snuck out and got a tattoo-,"
"He has a tattoo." Rebekah sighs. Of course he has a tattoo.
"Well, he has about five now-,"
"Waiter!"
She orders a fifth round of mimosas.
A/N: Fun fact number one - my muse has a part four and five planned, because she runs a tight ship and there's no rest for the Klonnie shipper.
Fun fact number two - while the record "Prarthana" is fictional, Alice Coltrane did spend time in India, and much of her later music was deeply influenced by her religious practice. I'd recommend listening to "World Spirituality Classics 1: the Ecstatic Music of Alice Coltrane" if you're interested; it's truly transcendent.
Drop me a line or two with your thoughts in the reviews!