until the break of day
Day Four
It's still dark out when Caroline wakes up, her eyes flying open, her heart—and head—pounding. She blinks, the darkness of the room and the lingering effects of bourbon disorienting, until her eyes adjust and she can make out the shape of the room. If the crickets outside are any indication, the rain has stopped, and the soft light that spills on the floor through the thin curtains indicates a cloudless, moonlit sky.
She rolls over, and the world tilts at the edges. Oof, definitely not sober yet, then; and it takes a moment for her eyes to focus on the sleeping body next to her.
It's almost annoying, she thinks irritably, how much the light seems to like him. They're miles from the artificial brightness of civilization, and yet she can still make out his face, lit softly in the pale light of the moonbeams that have slipped through the cabin's windows. He had taken his shirt off at some point—fair, she has to begrudgingly admit, since it, like her own, had to be covered in sweat and dirt. But still she swallows at the outline of the muscles in his chest and forearms.
Water, she decides. What she needs is water.
But as soon as she slips a foot out from under the covers, she scraps that plan. It's freezing in the small space, the storm having clearly swept in a cold front. As soon as the chill hits her skin, she yanks her foot back under the comforter, back to the warmth of the bed.
It's just as well—her head had spun dramatically with the simple attempt at leaving her prone position. She figures she wouldn't have actually made it to the sink intact, much less handled the kettle and boiling water without incident.
Yawning, Caroline pulls the comforter back up to her chin and, after a moment's hesitation, scoots in next to Klaus. It's cold, she tells herself, and here, next to him, is warm. He shifts, but his breathing doesn't change, and his eyes remain shut. She waits a beat, just to be sure; but when he doesn't move again, she yawns again and slides further down into the comforter, her skin touching his.
She is already asleep when, moments later, the line of his body presses more firmly against hers, an arm snaking around her.
—
The second time she wakes up, it's with a still-pounding head and strong arms wrapped tightly around her middle. Her face is flushed and she's warm, too warm, her skin overheated, her legs entwined with his and his face tucked into her shoulder. When she blinks her eyes open, she instantly regrets it; the pouring sunlight is shining directly onto her face, the sheer curtains a nonfactor. Her head throbs, the full force of her hangover hitting her like an oncoming train and she only just bites back her wince.
Judging by the way his breathing hasn't changed, Klaus is still fast asleep; but when she tries to slowly slip out from under the covers, he moves, his arms tightening at her waist and his face nuzzling closer. She goes still, her foot nearly out from the protective cocoon of the comforter, caught mid-escape.
Shit.
"Sweetheart," he mumbles into the crook of her neck, his lips brushing her skin with every word, "I have to warn you that if you continue to move in that direction, you will find yourself in a very precarious position."
She freezes, suddenly very aware of how neatly her body has lined up with his and how that is definitely not his hipbone. A flash of heat slices through her, and she has to fight back the wild, irrational impulse to continue pressing backwards. Just to see what happens, to find out what he would do— if he would yield and back away, or if he would take what was offered. She shakes her head to snap out of it and feels his breath on her skin, sparking goosebumps.
Don't start anything that can't be undone, she orders herself sternly. A drunken kiss she can rationalize away, but anything further is unexplainable.
Unacceptable.
"Let go," Caroline commands, though any authority she might have is undone by the slight waver in her voice.
But his arms fall away at her words, and he rolls onto his back, stretching languidly as she tries her best to not look at the muscle definition in his chest. An art thief should have no right to look that way, she thinks resentfully. What does he even need it for?
"The rain stopped," he notes as he sits up, and she very much ignores how sleep-rumpled he looks, and how it does nothing to detract from his attractiveness. A federal agent, she reminds herself sternly, and with that, she grits her teeth and stands up, the covers falling away and with them, the warmth.
"We're finding the road today," she informs him tartly, and she sounds so sure of it, that she almost believes herself.
"I have every confidence," Klaus says genially as he, too, stands.
Caroline very pointedly looks away from him. "Good," she says firmly. "Be ready to go in twenty."
The look he sends her way is knowing, with just a touch of predatory awareness that she does not like, that she refuses to engage with. "Twenty," he repeats, then, "Caroline."
It's a taunt, or a test, or both, and instead of answering him, she simply scowls from the safety of the other side of the bed.
—
The previous day's rain has turned the forest floor into sludge, her boots sinking a good quarter-inch down into the earth with each step she takes. As she had suspected, the storm had ushered in unseasonably cold temperatures overnight, and she is huddled in a truly terrible camouflage jacket she had found in the cabin's closet.
"You're walking too fast," she calls ahead grumpily as she pauses to scrape an X into unsuspecting tree bark. Yards away, Klaus stops and waits, an expression she can't quite discern on his face.
When she catches up to him, her cheeks are pink with the cold and his gaze lingers just the slightest bit too long; she has to stop herself from shifting uncomfortably.
They walk in silence, only stopping for her to mark their trail with Xs, the dull dinner knife slicing through tree bark as they trudge.
An hour in, her hand begins to shake, her grip aching from a second day of carving into the tough bark of the forest's trees. He sees it, and silently plucks the knife from her fingers to take over. Caroline opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off.
"Why did you want to become a federal agent?" he asks as he carves, and it's a variation of the same question he had asked her the day before. She frowns as they begin to walk again.
"We're not playing anymore," she points out as she picks her way through downed branches and piles of leaves.
"We could be." He gestures to the quiet forest around them. "Very little else to do, I'm afraid."
He has a point—in the past hour, her mind has drifted in the silence, bouncing from anxiety to hope with startling, borderline unsettling, quickness. She chews her lip before thinking fuck it. After all, he does have a point—there is nothing else to pass the time.
"My mom was the sheriff, in the town where I grew up," she finally answers, nimbly dodging a deep-looking mud puddle. "And I guess I wanted to be like her."
She doesn't tell him that she had had a front row seat to her mother's growing dismay as politics had overridden justice at every turn. Small town life was hardly the harbinger of fairness, but when Liz Forbes had finally called it quits and hung up her badge and gun, Caroline's desire to make a difference, a real difference, had outpaced what their tiny town could offer. And the FBI, despite its many, many flaws, had seemed like the perfect place to start.
"She must be very proud of you," Klaus says quietly.
A snort escapes her. "I think she'd rather me be like, a lawyer or something. Less dangerous. And," she adds as an afterthought, "Right now, I can't really say she's wrong."
He inclines his head and says quietly, "Perhaps not."
It's her turn, and rather than let the silence between them settle into something bordering comfortable, she asks, "Are you afraid of prison?"
His answer comes with a quickness that surprises her. "Not particularly."
"Really?"
Klaus glances over at her, and his mouth curves into a grim grin. "Been before."
"European prisons aren't the same as American ones."
"I'm well aware, love."
"You could just tell them where the Matisse is," she points out, her brow wrinkling in confusion. "I mean, you'd still probably have to serve some time, but—I mean, they might cut you a deal."
"You are under the impression I want to cut a deal," he counters smoothly, and she blinks.
"Do you want to go to prison?"
That makes him laugh. "It's not ideal. But all things must end, sweetheart. Including prison sentences." His grin turns sharp, like the edge of a knife. "I'll take my chances."
"You think the Petrovas won't find you in prison?" she demands. "They can. They will."
One of his eyebrows lifts, and it's a gesture that borders on haughty; it irks her. "Are you telling me to escape?" He pauses before adding with soft, deliberate emphasis, "Agent?"
She bristles. "No. I'm telling you to make a deal."
"Impossible, I'm afraid."
Caroline throws her hands up in frustration, only just barely keeping from giving in to an admittedly childish desire to stomp away from him. "Fine. Whatever. It's your life."
"Are you worried for my safety, sweetheart?"
"More like worried for my own," she fires back, "given that you seem to be cursed with terminal idiocy. Seriously. Give up the Matisse, cut a deal, serve the time, get out. Start over."
"Start over," he repeats with just a hint of sarcasm. "As what?"
"Whatever you want. That's the thing about starting over—the slate is clean."
That makes him snort. "For a federal agent, you are remarkably naive," he says with a shake of his head, and though the words should cut, he sounds almost exasperatedly fond.
Caroline glares at him. "I prefer remarkably positive."
"No difference."
They fall quiet again, but it's a distinctly less comfortable quiet now. It's under this new, tense atmosphere that he picks the game back up. "What happened to your father?"
Her feet trip over each other and she has to reach for him to steady herself. "Excuse me?"
"Your father." He doesn't sound the least bit apologetic, and his fingers are warm around hers as she regains her footing. His grasp lingers a beat too long before he lets go. "You said that he had passed."
"That's—that's not really any of your business."
"Debatable," he says smoothly, and for some reason, that makes her flare like a sunburst.
"What happened to your mother?" she counters instead of answering, stopping in her tracks and putting her hands on her hips. "As long as we're getting personal here."
It doesn't have the effect on him that his question had on her; he laughs, a low, humorless chuckle. "We have long passed personal, don't you think, love?"
The reference to their previous night's—activities makes her cheeks heat. "Three days stuck together and a drunken makeout doesn't make us friends. It doesn't make us anything at all."
"Three days," Klaus echoes. "Feels a bit longer, though I suppose running for your life will do that." A pause, then, "Caroline."
Her name, instead of the flippant endearments or the silkily coded agent, is what strikes true, pricking through her defenses and deflating her entirely. Her hands drop to her sides and the fight slips out of her shoulders.
Sure, it has only been three days, but she already knows more about him than she had her last semi-serious boyfriend: she knows that his brother's death cratered his family, that his father is nursing a blood feud, that he is bizarrely good at chess and an excellent shot; and, most importantly, that he has had multiple opportunities to not only leave her behind, but leave her for dead.
And she knows that he has not taken them.
"Forbes," she says abruptly, walking ahead of him, her shoulder blades taut. "That's my last name. Forbes."
It's the answer to a question he hasn't asked, and an avoidance of the one he had, but he accepts it all the same.
"Pleasure, Agent Forbes." The twigs underfoot snap as they walk, and she almost doesn't hear him over the sound when he continues, his voice soft, "It was suicide."
Caroline stops in her tracks. "What?"
He stops too, turning to face her, his expression carefully blank. "My mother."
Her stomach swoops, sympathy and regret at having even asked converging into a single sick feeling. "I'm— god, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have—" she cuts herself off, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. "I'm really, really sorry."
Klaus doesn't reply for a long moment, and the feeling intensifies. "If my brother's death fractured my family," he says quietly, no longer looking at her, but off in the distance, a faraway look on his face, "my mother's cut it clean in half."
She bites her lip and has to stop herself from reaching for him. "Klaus, I'm so—"
He waves her off. "Hardly signifies."
But she thinks it might.
—
How long would you say you walked on the fourth day, Agent Forbes?
Caroline will retrace her steps, recall the position of the sun in the sky, and how many times she had checked her watch— Several hours. At least three miles, maybe four.
And which of you found the road?
She will hesitate only a moment; so quickly that the debriefing agent will not notice. He did.
The sun is high in its zenith, bearing down on them and driving some of the cold away when Klaus stops suddenly in his tracks, his brow furrowing in concentration.
"Something wrong?" she asks him, wrapping her arms around her middle to stave off a shiver as the breeze picks up.
His smile is a touch too automatic, too practiced, but she lets it go when he says, "I think we may be getting close." He nods towards something on the ground.
"How do you—"
But she cuts herself off, staring down at a piece of trash that is half buried in the mud in front of them.
Slowly, unable to believe her eyes, Caroline squats down and picks it up gingerly.
An empty bag of sunflower seeds.
Collins.
For a moment, she only looks at it, her heart pounding in her ears. Elation crashes over her, but is followed swiftly by a strange wave of disappointment that she shies away from exploring further.
Pushing the disappointment aside—she'll think about it later, she promises herself, though if she happens to forget, then really, that's all for the better—Caroline straightens and walks, as quickly as she can without breaking into a run, through the branches towards where she knows, she knows, the road will be.
It might be nothing, she tries to reason to herself—anyone could have thrown out an empty bag of sunflower seeds, and just because she wants it to be a sign that they are almost there, almost home, doesn't mean that it is. But somehow, she knows.
Behind her, she hears twigs snapping and she wonders again why he isn't taking this opportunity to flee, to run further into the forest without her so that he can escape. It's what she would do if she were in his shoes, but he has already established that running isn't in the cards for him.
And, then within steps, there it is. The road.
Caroline has never in her life been so glad to see the inky surface of black asphalt.
What did you see when you reached the road?
Nothing. Just pavement.
"That way," Caroline says, pointing to her left. "That should be west, and if we walk in that direction, there has to be something."
They walk, for a while longer, in silence on the asphalt. No cars come, though it's hardly surprising. Caroline remembers from the drive four days ago that their black Explorer had been mostly alone for the majority of the trip—school is still in session, and with the Smokies a mere few hours drive away, vacationing families would rather take a trip to a National Park instead of a National Forest. The only thing out this way, aside from quiet trees and softly babbling creeks, is McIntosh.
She isn't sure how long they've walked when, off in the distance, Caroline spies the yellow of police tape.
Her first instinct is to take off, to sprint towards them—towards the police, towards home, towards everything that is waiting for her, towards her life.
What held you back? the debriefing agent will ask her later.
After chewing her lip for what feels like hours, she will finally reply, I don't know.
Something is off, from the too-large lettering on the backs of their jackets, to the way she recognizes none of the faces, to the overbright yellow of the police tape that has roped off the road. The forensics team works too quickly for the tape to still be here, for any evidence to still be waiting for collection.
Something is wrong.
"Caroline," Klaus hisses in her ear, his grip around her arm hard enough to bruise, "we need to leave. Right bloody now." He pulls, and she follows him despite the fear that is slowly unraveling in her gut. Something isn't wrong— everything is wrong.
"Hey!" an unfamiliar, slightly accented voice yells, and his fingers tighten around her. "You! Stop!"
What kind of accent, Forbes? Agent Bennett will demand from her seat in the debriefing room.
I'm not an expert, she will answer, but it sounded Eastern European.
"Run," Klaus snarls at her, and she does not need to be told twice. Her feet take off, following him through the dense forest and when they pass a tree with a horribly visible X, it dawns on her that her breadcrumbs wouldn't just lead her and Klaus back to their secret hideaway.
"Klaus," she gasps, trying to match his steps, "Klaus, we can't go back— the markings—they'll find the cabin—"
He whirls around and grabs her wrist, pulling her into a hard right turn, away from the trail and from the pathway that would lead them back to the cabin. "I know," he snaps, and his wide steps eat up the ground as she struggles to keep up.
A rapid fire of pops bursts into the air and the blood roars in her ears, the adrenaline erasing thoughts of anything beyond escaping to safety. Something sharp skates across her arm, but they have no time for her to stop to investigate it; probably a branch, she thinks wildly as she tries desperately to keep up with Klaus.
Behind them, the snapping of twigs and thundering of boots doesn't cease but the sounds fall further and further behind as they run.
And run.
And run.
They run until there are only the sounds of the forest, though this time, Caroline is pretty sure the road is only a few yards away, buried behind thick trees and foliage. This time, they have run just deep enough into the forest to lose their pursuers, and keep the road to their right.
But this time, there won't be another cabin.
As they slow, Klaus turns and eyes her, something flickering in his expression that she can't quite read.
"We have to keep moving," she insists, brushing past him in a bid to do just that.
Strong fingers circle her wrist in an iron grip and keep her from going any further. "Caroline," Klaus says, his eyes on her face, "sit down."
She only stares at him, unsure of why his expression is so hard, and why he won't stop looking at her. "What? Why?"
"Sit down," he repeats, and when she only blinks at him in confusion, his eyes narrow and he walks toward her, every inch of him turned from the charming art thief with whom she has spent the last few days, to a hardened criminal that she thinks she may not know at all. She backs away until the backs of her legs hit a tree stump; nearly stumbling, her momentum forces her into a seated position and something like satisfaction flares in his eyes. She thinks vaguely she may have just been maneuvered.
"Now," he says, squatting so that they are at eye level, "how do you feel?"
Caroline frowns and shakes her head. "I'm fine," she insists, and she follows his gaze as it drops from hers down to her stomach, where a dark red stain is spreading across the muted olive and brown of her pilfered coat. As she stares at it in disbelief, the adrenaline of their flight from the road begins to wear off.
"Klaus," she whispers in growing horror as her side begins to sting, then to burn, flames licking across her skin, "did I—did I get shot?"
He doesn't answer. "Take the coat off," he orders, and there is so much authority laced in his tone that she barely blinks before obeying. "Shirt too, sweetheart," and his voice has softened just slightly as she fights back mounting hysteria. Her fingers shake as she unbuttons her ruined white shirt; she doesn't take it off but instead peels it back from her skin, exposing her belly to the quickly cooling air of the woods.
They see it at the same time, the streak of red that slashes across the curve of her waist. Her relief at not finding a hole in her stomach lasts only a second before the panic she has been battling begins to gain ground. Her throat tightens, her lungs feel too small in her chest, and there's a slow-building ringing in her ears as she fights for air.
"A graze," he murmurs, more to himself than to her, his fingers brushing along the skin of her belly as she battles mounting hysteria.
It proves impossible, she finds, to hold back the tears once the first one slips through her defenses. They had been so close— the road had been right there, and now here they are, back in the forest, where they are probably going to die. The what ifs swirl in her mind, each one more drastic and terrifying than the last until she is convinced that she's going to bleed out on the forest floor.
"Stop that," Klaus orders without looking away from the wound in her side; the syllables are crisp and firm, designed to nip hysterics in the bud. It works—Caroline opens her mouth to retort with a hearty fuck you, I'm the one sitting here with a gunshot wound; but it's then that he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a switchblade.
Her mouth goes bone dry as he frees the blade with a single smooth flick of his wrist. The sight of the silver blade, long and sharp as he cuts away a slice of his shirt, gives her mind something to zero in on.
"You've had that this entire time, and you were letting me dig into tree trunks with a dinner knife?" she blurts out incredulously as her fingers press into her side. A tiny part of her is grateful that the petulance he has sparked is beating back the hysterics that still threaten to overtake her.
The grin he shoots up at her as he ties the fabric tightly around her stomach is equal parts charming and conniving. "Best to keep this sharp," he says, "in case of emergency."
"Where'd you even get it?" she demands as her side throbs; the white of the fabric slowly blooming with a curling red stain. Time seems to stop as they both stare down at the spreading color, Caroline wincing with the effort of staving off panic. But once the red has overtaken a third of the white fabric, it slows, then stops; and she releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"Off the hitman," he says easily, gently thumbing the blade back into the handle and slipping it back into his pocket before offering her his hand.
With her stomach thoroughly wrapped, Caroline fights through the pain and grits her teeth as she slowly pulls herself to her feet. Her legs feel like jelly, and she's surprised when her first instinct upon taking a wobbly step forward is to lean heavily onto Klaus. Pain, bright and blinding, streaks through her, but she bites the inside of her cheek and forces one foot in front of the other.
Did Mikaelson lend aid to you, Forbes? the debriefing agent will ask, the question careful in its formality. She will be distinctly aware of Agent Bennett's sharp gaze on her.
He did, she will answer; then just as carefully, she will add, I suspect he knew time was almost up.
Later, when Liz Forbes hands her a second mug of steaming hot chocolate, she will allow her guard to drop and say, for her mother's ears only, I think he was worried about me.
"Can you walk?" he demands, and though his tone is rough, his grip on her hand is gentle.
Caroline takes a tiny, cautious step forward, and, when she doesn't collapse or see spots in her vision, nods once. Klaus doesn't look convinced, and, gritting her teeth, she lets go of him to take a single, pointed step.
Her triumph doesn't last long—pain flares in her belly, crisscrossing down her abdomen and into her legs; her eyelids flutter briefly shut as a wave of nausea sweeps over her. Her head spins and she has to take a long, ragged breath in to steady herself.
A strong arm wraps around her waist, careful not to jostle the makeshift bandage or brush against her wound; and she can't help but let her head drop onto Klaus's shoulder. It's right there, she reasons as the dizziness slowly abates and her heart rate evens out. And he doesn't seem to mind.
Slowly, and far more carefully than before, they begin to pick their way back to the edge of where the road dips into the forest.
The sun has well and truly gone down now, and the black of the road threatens to vanish with the black of the sky. The forest surrounds them on all sides, and the despair that eats through Caroline's nerves has her reaching shamelessly for Klaus's hand.
Their steps are slower, heavier, thanks to her injury, and they walk for what feels like hours. But her watch, the liar, shows that only a mere hour has passed when she sees it, glittering in the distance.
A gas station.
She blurts the words out before she can think better of it. "You should run."
When Klaus is silent, she swallows and tries again. "I won't stop you." Caroline gestures to her belly, where pain still flares, raw from the miles they have walked. "I owe you one." Unbidden, her mind flickers back to the hard ground beneath her knees and the cold of metal against her temple, and she winces. "Two, actually."
His grip around her tightens ever so slightly. "I'm not counting, sweetheart."
It's too affectionate, the endearment, and her spine stiffens as she says, voice rasping, "I'd run, if I were you."
Klaus laughs at that, under his breath. "I don't think you would," he says, and his thumb strokes absently where it rests against her waist before his hand falls away. "Agent."
They're at the front of the gas station now, the bright Marathon sign lighting up the night sky and blocking all of the stars.
Caroline takes a deep breath that is cut short by the sharp pain in her side. "Your life," she says tartly.
—
It takes the FBI ninety-seven minutes to arrive.
—
tbc
A/N: I LIVE!
Sorry for going MIA, had a lot of real life things taking up a lot of my time and energy. But I'm settled now, so hopefully I can knock out a few of these WIPs!
As always, I am on Tumblr at little-miss-sunny-daisy and Twitter at sunnydaisy6!