Chicago, Illinois — August 26, 2010
Maxine's POV
Last night, after the debacle at the warehouse — Rebekah's wake, Stefan's memory being returned, and then Klaus' and Rebekah's argument — the four of us clamored back to our hotel and this time, Klaus had rented out another room. He'd intended for it to be Rebekah's temporary room — just Rebekah's temporary room. But then the blonde vampire had requested my stay as well.
Initially, Klaus had vehemently disagreed, telling her, and I quote, "No way in hell." Rebekah wasn't deterred by her brother's objections, replying, "I'm not going to kill the girl. I simply want to talk." Of course, she rolled her blue eyes as well, a mannerism she seemed to share with her older sibling. Even though Klaus' sister assured him that she wouldn't harm me, he still refused. It was only when I told my mate that I wanted to go stay with his sister that I was allowed to go. Well, he hadn't necessarily told me I could leave. He had first told me something along the lines of, "I know my sister better than anyone. You are not going with her. The decision is final."
Despite how the mating bond had been hitting me over the head like a pile of bricks, enforcing his stern words to manipulate me into submission, I had shrugged his grip off, permitting Rebekah to whisk me away to her room. Technically, Klaus had never granted me to leave, but he never stopped me either. True to her word, Rebekah had never laid a hand on me. She was more polite than before and also quite the gossiper, like most girls our age are. I say our age because Rebekah had disclosed information only her and her family are privy to. Rebekah had informed me that she had died just after her her eighteenth birthday and that Klaus, or as she liked to refer to him as, Nik, is five years her senior.
Rebekah was, of course, curious as to why I am here. Once I explained the messy situation Klaus had created for himself, Rebekah and I had an awkward yet surprisingly good laugh together. I mean, laughing over my misfortune is a bit more masochistic than my usual tendencies, but I think Rebekah laughed more at the idiocy of her brother. At one point, I detected a hint of jealousy in her observatory eyes when I spoke of the connection I shared with Klaus, but nonetheless, I chalked it up to Stefan's lackluster affection or a snuffed out flame of her past.
Either way, it doesn't really matter. I saw the pain and defiance behind Rebekah's thick, long eyelashes. Despite the things Klaus has put her through, Rebekah remains strong and loyal to him. Rebekah reminds me much of myself. She seems to hold a part of herself away from the world, a side she will never dare reveal to even the most intimate of companion. Maybe that is from past experiences or maybe she was born distrustful.
I myself am much like that in the presence of Klaus. I don't know him — at all. I'm skeptical of his methods and true feelings. I can't trust somebody I've know for two days who has murdered people just because they happen to be my mate, even if my wolf is telling me otherwise. That is the hardest part of being a werewolf. You have this whole other side to you that possesses contrasting feelings and desires to make decisions that don't agree with what you, as a person, want.
Klaus and Stefan had slept in later today than yesterday morning. It was Rebekah that woke up bright and early to go clothes shopping. Apparently, her decades-long sleep is enough shut-eye and her outdated flapper dress is simply a 'horrific' sight, one she doesn't want to be caught dead in, pun intended.
Klaus, although reluctant to spend his time shopping for clothing, had known that his sister and I were in need of them. After all, I had left all of my belongings behind in Tennessee and Rebekah had no clothing from this century. Klaus had scouted out the most charming boutique he could find in Chicago, which ended up being Splurge Boutique down on South Ashland Avenue. The hybrid hailed down a cab and the four of us rode the almost-thirty-minute drive to the classy boutique from The Peninsula. Of course, Klaus took the passenger seat for himself, leaving me in the backseat with his sister and antipathetic friend.
Rebekah, who was obviously excited to be shopping, had taken on the role of picking clothing for the both of us. Her goal had been to find more era-appropriate clothing for herself and more colorful choices for me. Apparently my all-black from head-to-toe outfit makes me look like I'm 'attending a funeral'. Rebekah had chosen a few dresses which were all a resounding no, but there were some nice blouses sans design or only a morsel of. Jeans are something she has yet to fully grasp the concept of, especially the skinny kind.
Despite my aversion to wearing anything that doesn't give my legs full mobility, Rebekah insisted that I try one of the dresses she'd chosen. She had even steered me in the direction of the off-white wrap dress, one of the few garments that stood out among the others. Mostly, I clung to dark, baggy clothing, figuring it did well for obscurity. But, it seems my comfort is not a priority when it comes to Rebekah Mikaelson's fashion standards.
I'm in the middle of slipping the dress onto my lithe, pale body when I hear the female vampire's voice from the dressing room beside mine. "There has to be more to this dress," she mutter in disbelief. I don't even need to see her face to know it is scrunched in disgust.
I nearly laugh. Rebekah sure has a lot of up-to-date societal changes to learn about. Women have earned themselves more rights, minority groups have turned the tide to gain equality, and although much talk of the LGBTQ community is still a rather hush-hush topic of conversation, more and more people are opening up about who they truly are. Rebekah has missed out on so many celebrations, experiences, and developments in our American history.
Klaus' voice brakes me out of my thoughts, blunt as always, he rasps from outside the curtains Rebekah and I get dressed behind, "There's not." I hear the crackle of Rebekah's beaded curtain being pulled aside and her heeled feet make a statement across the polished concrete floor.
"So women in the twenty-first century dress like prostitutes, then? You know, I got dirty looks for wearing trousers," I hear Rebekah point out, disgruntled by the limitations she faced in the past. I can faintly hear a dubstep-influenced song playing from the radio in the store. I'm sure I've heard the song before if I feel this much distaste for its upbeat tune. If I remember correctly, it was composed by a French DJ by the name of Mark. Or is it Martin?
Klaus snaps back quickly with a mocking remark, "You wore trousers so women today could wear nothing." Rebekah says something else to Klaus from the outside of the curtain concealing my body from view. Instead of eavesdropping further on the siblings' petty bantering, I tune them out much as one would twist the dial to a radio, crushing their voices into a soft murmur.
The dress... it is captivating. Stunning, truly. The intended length must be mid-thigh, but due to my short stature, it rather ends just above my slightly-knobby knees, fighting to add innocence to the pale dress. There aren't any designs on the fabric, not that it needs any. The wrap is exceedingly long. So long that it curves around my back and over my waist before being able to tie awkwardly above my hip. It features deep décolletage, but due to my small breasts, barely reveals anything but peeking cleavage. The most sentimental part of the dress is the frills that sit on the outline of the at the hem, adding a subtle flirtatious flare.
All too soon are my inner-musings interrupted by a taunting voice. "Maxine," I hear him caress my name between the lilt of his rough accent. My senses spring to alert, ears perking to attention for him — to him. I patiently wait for his next command, one I know he won't delay for long. "Come out, love. Let me see the expensive garment I'll be ripping off your body." Although he teases, I don't doubt he will one day follow through with his words.
Following Klaus' orders, I turn my back on my reflection to pull the grey curtain away from his smoldering gaze. The first thing my eyes see is Klaus, slumped low and comfortably in a red chaise, a red-accented flute of champagne in one hand, bottle containing the surviving alcohol in the other.
When Klaus' eyes find my body, he immediately shoves his glasses onto the white table before him and the other chair I am sure was previously occupied by Stefan. That is the second thing I notice. Stefan and Rebekah aren't with Klaus any longer. Klaus sits upright, a clear indication that I've garnered his undivided attentiveness.
At first, Klaus seems eager, possibly even boastful by looking at me, proud that I am his mate. But I watch his bright eyes turn dangerously dark, roving down my body, pausing at my most eye-catching features before resuming their onslaught. The hybrid hums appreciatively in his chest and lifts a pointer finger into the chilly air with his elbow situated on the arm of his seat. He twirls his single finger into a circular motion, conveying a silent message.
Picking up what he is putting down, I turn on my feet, letting Klaus appraise my backside before turning to face him again. His head nods, satisfied with what he sees. That finger of his is still standing to attention in the air, only this time, it is curled in a come-hither motion, setting my bare feet into compliant motion. I had opted out on the shoes and jewelry part of the fun, much to Rebekah's disappointment.
Once I've come close enough, Klaus snatches my arm from my side, pulling me to sit on his lap. The sudden intimacy doesn't do much for catching me off guard. Klaus isn't one to shy away from what he wants.
And he wants me.
Klaus sits upright to lean closer to my body. One of his big palms runs over my bare thigh, igniting a chill to skimp down my spine. I can feel his pink lips brush against my ear as he whispers, "Best get dressed in something more appropriate, 'less you rather me give everyone a show."
There is an underlying threat concealed in his words. It isn't the kind of warning that provokes fear, but more along the lines of anticipation. My expert nose detects the smell of champagne lingering on his tongue mixed with his natural musk that never fails to entice.
A current coils in my lower abdomen at the feeling of his body on my mine. Imaginary strings attached to the current pull away in opposing directions, strangling it tighter, up until Klaus pushes me away from his lap. The clear indication to go change paired along with the departed contact forces the strings to be snipped away from the current, now hanging limply.
Just as Klaus wants, I leave him and return to my small dressing room. I remove my dress in a haste, glad to remove something so unlike my usual self from my body. I numbly let the silk fabric slip through my fingers to pool around my feet. Somehow, I can still feel Klaus' lingering touch on my bare thigh as if he's left a handprint behind, even as I dress myself in a pair of new, unworn jeans and a loose, button-up, short-sleeve shirt. The jeans are styled boyfriend and the shirt is slightly cropped, tying the two female and male sides together at the bottom. My flat stomach is displayed well enough for a tease, but not enough to be wrongfully eye-catching.
Well, I'll be damned. Pin up my hair, slap on a bright red tube of lipstick and call me Marilyn Monroe. After all, it is her — among many other iconic women — I have to thank for making the once-only-men's clothing item so damn popular for females.
So lost in my realization, I barely catch wind of the thump behind me. I turn, wondering what has caused the noise. It is only then that my bare toes make contact with something hard and made of leather. Looking down, I see a pair of boots sitting beside my feet. I pick the innocent shoes up, somehow not at all suspicious of their sudden appearance. I set one down on the bench inside my room in favor of holding the other half of the pair in-between my hands, inspecting the expensive leather. The boots are black and shortened to only reach over the ankle. They remind me of the infamous Doc Martin combat boots, except they are off-brand.
They're nice. I'm just astonished a store like the one I'm in even sells boots.
Slipping the boot onto its respective foot, the contorts of the material hug my arched sole exceptionally well. I lift my foot at a forty-five degree angle to inspect the underside. Sure enough, right on the outer sole of the shoe is a bright sticker with the number six boldly printed on it.
My exact size.
When the hell had Klaus had enough time between kidnapping me and right now to check my shoe size?
As soon as the question crosses my mind, I dispose of it within the deep corners of my brain, never to be thought of again. There is no purpose in questioning Klaus, his intentions for the things he does, or methods of extracting information. Klaus knows everything.
I push the other shoe onto my left foot and grab everything I have decided I won't buy, regardless of not trying them on, making sure that white dress Klaus is so fond of stays on its hanger in the keep pile. Walking out of the dressing room, I see Klaus and Rebekah sitting beside each other, Rebekah now occupying the other chair.
I'm unsure what dress Rebekah had sampled before, but she now wears a white shirt, just as I do, but hers is a tank top with sequins on the front, hugging her natural curves well. On her hips, she has decided to go with dark brown shorts, something fitting for the weather outside. Her small feet are supported on strappy stilts, ones I wouldn't dare walking in unless I wished to snap my own neck.
Surprisingly, the female vampire is the first to take notice of my appearance and despite how antonymous our outfits are, she provides me with an approving nod, lips upturned into what is on the cusp of a smile. She stands steadily — something that must have taken years, in her case decades, of practice — on her skyscraper heels and makes quick to catch me.
Is it even catching if I'm not running?
Rebekah grabs my arm much more gently than her brother ever has and drags me toward the doors at the front of the store. You know, the ones you use to enter and leave the store? Yeah, she is doing that. Confused as to why we're walking out of the boutique with hangers supporting unpurchased clothing still on our rack-like arms, I turn to Rebekah and ask exactly that.
Though, I mean, I did use layman's terms, when presenting her with my question.
Rebekah spares me an unimpressed frown, muttering, "Really? Do you think we have the time for that long line? Compelling people always comes in handy." I hold my breath, prepared to hear an alarm to go off or an employee to stop us from leaving, but we walk through those paneled doors without so much as a "Wait!"
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not going to make a habit out of stealing, but just this once can't hurt. Besides, that line is too long anyway.
———————————————————
Niklaus' POV
Shopping.
The dreadful act is much less draining when all you are forced to do was sit and wait.
My petulant sister had complained all morning about her outdated clothing that she refused to be seen out in public in. Of course, she talked my ear off about how it was my fault because I daggered her and now she was stuck catching up to everyone else.
She even forced dear Maxine into it. Poor girl.
Once Maxine, Stefan, my sister, and I had entered the high-end fashion store, Rebekah's eyes had lit up like they had when we were children. The blue orbs we shared widened comically, shining with pure joy. My little sister had filled her strong arms to the brim with all kinds of clothing. Pants, shorts, shirts, dresses. She even found some heels to try on. Of course, she didn't go to try on her clothes until Max had enough to keep her busy as well.
A retail clerk instructed Stefan and I to a set of comfortable chairs outside of the girls' adjoined dressing rooms. We were served a bottle of expensive champagne, which we poured inside flutes, and left to wait for the show.
Rebekah, as always, had managed to find an issue to complain about. She'd walked out from behind her curtain to reveal a tight dress with a low v-neck neckline. Too much of her skin was shown in a way that was less than pleasing to my brotherly eyes. But who am I to tell a woman what she can and cannot not wear? Especially one as stubborn and argumentative as my sister?
After the complaints about her skimpy clothing, Rebekah then bellyached about the music playing throughout the busy store. "Like a cable car accident," was how she described it, which I can't entirely disagree with her on.
Which brings us to now.
I sigh as Stefan explains to my sister just what it is we are unfortunately listening to. Through slightly blurred vision, I turn to Rebekah and ask, "Are we done?" I'm antsy to get to Gloria's. We are wasting precious time just so that my sister can try on and complain about apparel.
Rebekah makes her way over to me. Her heels kiss the floor, clacking loudly with every step she takes, which causes my sensitive ears to cringe at the grating sound. "And why are you so grumpy?" my sister asks, much like one would a pouting child.
Rather calmly, as calmly as I can, I explain, "I needed one thing from you for my witch to find out why my hybrids are dying, one thing. Your necklace. And you lost it." I spread my fingers apart in the air, a universal hand motion to say, "Poof! Gone."
"I didn't lose it. It's just been missing for ninety years," Rebekah excuses dismissively, making me smile just a bit. Even when I'm mad at her she makes me smile. Rebekah turns to Stefan. "So, what do you think?" she asks, twirling to show off the full front and back of her short dress.
My poor little sister is never going to give up is she? She just can't lose the hope that her former flame of nearly a century ago still holds the same affection toward her. In her defense, my dear sister hasn't a clue that her long-lost love had loved another after her disappearance. Granted, Stefan hadn't known that Rebekah existed at the time. But Rebekah isn't as simpleminded as she leads people to believe. She has to have suspected some sort of change in Stefan, has to have known he would have eventually moved on.
But Rebekah will never accept that. The hopeless romantic inside of her wants to believe that Stefan had mourned over her for months and never fully healed because the loss of her had shattered his heart completely. Spare me, they'd only known each other a couple of months.
I hear Stefan sigh, uncomfortable but attempting to be polite. "I like it," he tells Rebekah. The young vampire's lackluster reply prompts a dissatisfied frown to form on Rebekah's lips. She peers over to the side, staring at her reflection in the full-body length mirror in front of the dressing rooms. Stefan notices my sister's reaction to his three-words as well. "What? I said I like it," he defends, albeit rather unenthusiastically.
I can feel the disappointment and rejection surrounding my sister in the weight of Stefan's unconvincing words. "I can always tell when you're lying Stefan," Rebekah declares without sparing him a glance. She walks back into the confines of her dressing room, leaving behind a heavy, awkward silence.
I turn to Stefan with a sarcastic smile on my face. Grabbing my full champagne flute, I tip cheers to him and say, "Nice one. Good work."
What I don't include is what I really want to say. Nice one. Good work. Oh, and thanks for upsetting my baby sister. Maybe next you can tell her all about Elena Gilbert and how much more you love her. Or will that be too much for you?
"You're the one that pulled the dagger out of her," Stefan remarks, in which Rebekah pipes up from behind the curtain, "I heard that." I lightly scoff. She is such an eavesdropper. Stefan sits his glass on the table in front of our seats and stands abruptly, announcing, "All right. I'm going to get some fresh air."
Maybe he is done dealing with Rebekah's childish antics or maybe his body is sore from sitting so long. Either way, I can't blame him for wanting to get away for the moment. As Stefan makes his way out of the store, I grab the bottle of champagne laying next to me and pour a generous amount into my now empty glass.
Alone with my thoughts, my mind begins to drift to the girl behind the left-hand dressing room. With hair so bright that it borders on spun gold from God himself and two pits of deep water for eyes, like the rolling waves of the sea, so vibrant and complex, I'm captivated by the girl I only know as Maxine. The body she's been gifted is small in height and mass. She has delicate fingers, small like a child's. Her face holds permanent weight in her cheeks with a soft blush that makes her appear ethereal. The girl has softly rounded breasts, on the smaller side like her bottom, which holds a naturally appealing curve when pressed against the fabric of her tight jeans.
Maxine has been graced with a personality that shines like a bright star, Although irritable and easily put off, she has determination and a stubborn will engraved into her brain. But of all the things I like about dear Maxine, I love when she is free. When she is fierce and powerful, magic so precise, so deadly.
It was something I've only seen once when she fought off Damon Salvatore. But I want to see her magic again. I want to feel it underneath my fingertips.
"Maxine," I call out to my mate from my side of the curtain, suddenly craving her daze-inducing touch. "Come out, love. Let me see the expensive garment I'll be ripping off your body."
Moments later, my mate exhibits herself to me. On her body is a pure white dress empty of embellishments or designs besides the large frills on its ends. The dress ends above her knees, adding imagination as to what is under there. The attractive dress is lax at the bottom and sits tight at the top with padding inside to hold her pliable breasts hostage.
I shove my now forgotten flute and bottle onto the side table, uninterested with them now that I have Maxine to keep me company. My left pointer finger springs high in the air and I twirl it around, watching as Maxine obediently listens, allowing my eyes to roam over her backside. When Maxine has finally turned around to face me again, waiting for my next instructions, I curl my finger so that she'll come to my side, which she dutifully does.
I watch her bare feet as they walk in my direction, the soft pitter-patter less grating than Rebekah's heels from before. Once I can reach out and grab her, I pull her to sit on my legs, rubbing the same hand I used to command her from before over one of her cold thighs. The feel of her smooth skin between my fingers relaxes my mind but stirs my body.
Knowing it best to remain partially decent in the eyes of the public, as well as the eyes — and ears — of my little sister, I tell Maxine, "Best get dressed in something more appropriate, 'less you rather me give everyone a show." When Maxine doesn't move on her own accord, I place my other hand on the small of her back and lightly push, hoping she'll understand.
Maxine stands eventually and returns to her dressing room as I ask. I allow myself a moment to breath before standing, hoping there isn't something a little too noticeable between my legs. I leave the chair I've been occupying in search of shoes for Maxine. My mate deserves clean, comfortable, reliable shoes instead of the ratty sneaker's she's been wearing. I find the footwear section fairly quickly, but the store only carries heels. That won't work. I haven't known Maxine for long, but I know her well enough to know she will flat-out refuse walking in something she can't even stand in.
Making a split-second decision, I speed-walk out of the store and into the busy streets of Chicago. Just a few buildings down from the one I walk out of is another clothing store. Luckily, a regular one. None of that expensive shit Rebekah demands.
Upon walking through the doors, I am greeted by a clerk and reply back rather absentmindedly. I find the women's boots right next to the men's. If I am thinking like Maxine, she'll want something black, neutral, nothing that she can't run in. Looking up and down, side to side, I finally find what I'm looking for.
Between the hiking boots and the rain boots are the combat boots. With every pair but three sold out, a size six is the only suitable ones left. Edgy, practical, and ideal for protection.
They are prefect. They are also entirely black.
I pay for the shoes at the checkout counter, only forking out sixty dollars. I dash back down the street and into the boutique with my two ladies inside. Upon entering, I see my sister sitting in the chair Stefan had been in ten minutes before, now changed into updated, more modest clothing, complete with, you guessed it, heels.
I remove the shoes from their box, as well as the crumpled paper from inside the shoes that help them to hold their shape. I throw the new shoes under the curtain to Maxine's dressing room, disposing of the paper and cardboard in a nearby trash can.
Rebekah is surprisingly silent as we sit together, waiting for Maxine to step out. My sibling and I don't wait long before the blonde appears in a short-sleeve shirt that buttons, exposing acceptable amounts of stomach and cleavage, a pair of loose jeans, and her new shoes.
She holds her white dress on the provided hanger and Rebekah grabs Maxine, dragging her to the push-doors. Maxine never mentions the shoes and for that I am glad. I follow behind the girls, faintly listening to their conversation as we leave the store without another glance back and are off to see the Wizard.
Or in this case the Witch.