Wait.

It takes you a moment, trapped in the carpeted boot of a car, rough fibers scraping at the side of your face. Slowly coming back to reality— mind still half fractured. For a moment you think you smell the sickly sweet of antiseptic, clawing up your nose, down your throat.

No— you think, that's not right. Cinnamon cappuccino. Coffee you spilled in here months ago.

You think this might be your car.

Who the fuck kidnapped you and stole your car? You shouldn't be allowed to do both.

Your muscles twitch unevenly, still weighed down by stiffness. You don't know how long you were out— long enough for you to grow lethargic and fatigued in the absence of movement. You wiggle your fingers and toes and discover your legs are untied.

(Probably thought that spell was enough to keep you under. It always pays to be thorough. The Mikaelsons would never make that kind of mistake.)

The Mikaelsons. You hope they're okay. They will be. Have to be. You struggle to remember what happened, anything before that flash of white all-encompassing light. Just Finn's living room. Nothing out of the ordinary. Well, outside of their family dynamics. No break ins or faces of attackers linger in your memories. You don't think anything could destroy the Mikaelsons— they would just continue to cling to this earth with whatever strength was left in their bodies.

Worrying, then, that someone managed to snatch you. Given that the Mikaelsons didn't immediately eviscerate whoever kidnapped you means this is probably more serious than the Salvatores.

… You have a good idea who's driving.

It seems unfair to meet the Mikaelsons' parents and not let them meet yours. Oh well.

You suppose they can't have everything.

You wriggle around in the trunk, careful not to shift too much or make any noise. You're not sure how sensitive the driver's hearing is. If a vampire is driving, they shouldn't be able to hear your heartbeat over the engine. If it's a witch…

Well, hopefully it's not a witch. You're not sure Finn will be able to rip you out of another magical coma.

You owe him enough for the first round.

(How did he do it? He's not a witch.)

((How much did he see?))

You shake your head, knocking your thoughts out of your ears, dashing the fear out through your nose.

Okay: you're in a car trunk, driven by someone who presumably wants to kill you or at least hold you hostage. Or worse. There's no way out. You saw a video once of someone kicking out the taillights from the trunk of a car to escape.

You'd personally want to save yourself a trip to the mechanic. Car repairs are expensive.

And this is your car— your home turf.

They should know better than to attack on your home territory. You know what caused each stain, every smudge of mud. They must have taken out your queen sized quilt you keep in the trunk, along with your bottles of windshield wiper fluid.

Hm. You wonder.

You slowly roll over, avoiding shifting your weight too badly in the moving vehicle, and pull up on the cloth tab sticking up into the air. Everything is still there. (Really, not tying you up and not examining the trunk thoroughly? What kind of kidnapper is this.)

You examine the contents of the compartment, feeling out blindly among the clutter. Your spare tire, jumper cables, flashlight, windshield wiper fluid, and— success.

Multitool.

Screwdriver, wrench, and most importantly, a knife, all in one.

Probably your best purchase to date.

You sigh soundlessly, rolling back to close the compartment. You stare up at the felt blackness, stretched up above you like a cloudy night sky.

Blinded.

Okay you have a weapon. Not that it will do much in the face of a vampire or witch. (You'd hate to think you managed to get kidnapped by a human— that's just embarrassing.)

You'd also stake your money on your kidnapper being one of the Mikaelson parents, so: vampire or witch.

(You just don't know which one.)

The car starts to slow. Whoever's driving hits a pothole, sending your head thumping against the black felt ceiling. You bite your tongue to avoid cursing, clutching the sore spot at the top of your scalp. Metal hits your skin, jangling on your wrist.

Wait. Rebekah's bracelet.

You really should thank her properly after this. Assuming you survive. You carefully set down the multitool, fiddling frantically with the delicate capsules around your wrist. Your hands shake as the car slowly drifts to a halt, but you finally manage to get it open. You tip the small amount of vervain into your hands and pray it's enough.

Okay— new plan. If it's a witch, stab and ask questions later. If it's a vampire, toss the vervain, stab, and run like hell.

Sweat trickles at the back of your neck.

(You still don't know who's driving. You have to choose.)

Witch or Vampire.

Mom or Dad.

The driver's side door opens and slams shut, lightfoot falls circling towards the trunk. Towards you.

(Roll the dice.)

The trunk opens, blinding you with sunlight and you catch a glimpse of a familiar blue stone inset in silver around your kidnapper's pinkie finger.

You know that stone.

New plan.

You throw the vervain blindly and slash down with your multitool. You hit something, something harder than a carrot. Bile rises in your throat at the idea of what you're doing. You press down.

The finger snaps.

The vampire grunts as the sun starts boiling his skin, hissing in the light as the flesh puckers and then melts. He doesn't scream. You don't wait for him to— hopping out of the trunk and running like mad.

Hysterical laughter bubbles in your throat.

There's no time for the giddy relief that floods through you. You have to get somewhere safe. You're far away from Finn's— no trees or woods around you.

Where are you supposed to go?

You run without direction, through gray streets, damp with melted snow, and you start to realize you know where you are.

The benefits of living in the same city for your entire life.

You take back everything bad you've ever said about Virginia.

You run, feet pounding the blacktop pavement. You don't know how long before the vampire comes after you, but you don't think you have long.

Original vampires are made of stronger stuff.

You sprint down two blocks east, one block south, and arrive at a familiar hideously brown house. You don't bother with the front door, just race through the vegetable garden, mud caked on your heels, and go in through the back. Unlocked. As always. Beatrice, a 12 year old boxer, sniffs your hands and starts wagging her tail.

"Get the fuck out of my— what are you doing here?" Kate asks, bewildered. She lowers the baseball bat gripped in her hands.

You can't answer for a moment, wheezing from lack of oxygen.

"You—" you manage to say through gasps, "really should lock your door."

"I live in a good neighborhood," Kate says carefully, "Do you want to explain why you just broke into my home?"

"Sorry— I'm," you swallow, "being chased."

Kate's face pales.

"Oh my god, I'll call the police."

You catch her wrist. "No!" you say forcefully, "No cops."

Kate looks at you with something reminiscent of when you still worked together and saw you running yourself ragged. Concern. Edge of righteous anger.

(You used to get annoyed when she worried about you.)

"Does this have anything to do with your mafia family?" she asks, but her tone is dead serious.

You swallow again. "Not mafia. And kind of, yes. Can I please use your phone to call for help?"

Kate makes a hissing sound reminiscent of a spitting cat.

"You need to tell me exactly what the fuck is going on! I'm worried about you!"

"Kate— I'm sorry, I know I haven't been super open lately, but now is not the time."

"Then when is?"

You look at her, piercing eyes trained on you, and you're grateful you have her in your life. Grateful for her blunt and caring nature. Just not at this very moment.

"I— I'll explain after. Please. I need help."

Her forehead remains creased, but she sighs.

"Fine."

"And don't let anyone in. I mean it."

"I won't," she reassures you, "Lock the door. We don't want anyone getting in. I'll get the gun."

"That…. really won't be necessary."

Or helpful, but you don't add that part.

You manage to scrape yourself together to stand by the front door, hands shaking as you dial Elijah's number. Beatrice stays by you, hoping to be pet.

He doesn't pick up on the first ring. Second. Third.

"Speaking," he says in the precious few seconds in between the third and fourth chime.

"Elijah, it's me. Your father kidnapped me, we're at—" You spot a flash of movement just as Kate comes down the stairs. "Oh fuck."

You whirl around and shove the cellphone in Kate's hands.

"Get him here and hide."

Kate balks. "I'm not leaving you alone!"

"Kate please just listen to what I say. I'll explain everything later."

Obeying without reason is not within the confinements of Kate's personality. Her eyebrows crease, fine lines thickening around her eyes.

"Okay," she says, mouth thin, and shockingly, ground-breakingly, listens. She goes upstairs. Beatrice plods after her.

Relief smooth and warm as heroin courses through your veins.

Not enough to completely slow your heart rate down, turning slowly to catch a dark figure in the corner of your eye.

He's here.

(You haven't prepared for this— not enough.)

A dark shape sits just outside the glass panes of the front door, glass scattering his image at odd angles. Flashes of wheat colored hair. Blue eyes.

You don't do anything, not at first, heart too busy tap-dancing in your chest for you to catch a real breath. You force yourself to exhale. Steel yourself.

You open the door.

A tall blond man stands proud just outside the front door, old porch boards bowing beneath his weight. He's wearing a suit. Strains tightly against muscles. Not at home inside.

Like a too-tight shell.

"So," you say, punctuated by a breath, "I'm guessing you're the dad."

Mikael smiles, lips thin.

"How did you guess?"

You shrug. "Family resemblance. You also kidnapped me right out from under everyone. Seemed like a good hypothesis."

"Close. Smart move with the finger," he comments, and you could almost trick yourself into thinking he's proud. "But I'm afraid I'm just the transport."

Worrying.

"You don't particularly want to expand on that, do you?"

His eyes glimmer with amusement.

"You're not what I expected," he says instead of answering. Obfuscating. Bad sign. What is he waiting for?

"Oh?"

"You're much stupider," he continues, unprompted, "You do realize I could simply burn this house down to get you to come outside."

You balk. "You can't burn down the house! There's a dog in here."

Mikael, of all things, pauses.

"You are not suited to my son."

"I like to think otherwise," you say. You hope that Kate has called Elijah. The both of you are stalling and you can only hope that your aid gets here before Mikael's.

(Heads or Tails.)

Mikael seems to know what you're doing.

"It seems we're at an impasse."

You fidget with your bracelet behind your back. "Are we?"

"In your mind. Please stop fiddling with the vervain behind your back."

You freeze.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

His eyebrows raise. He doesn't speak, even as you slowly move your hands to your side.

"Alright," you give in, "You caught me. Can you blame me?"

Mikael doesn't answer that either. He looks at you for a long moment, eyes heavy on your skin, sliding like silk.

Heavy.

"You are not like Anya at all," he comments.

You swallow. "What do you mean?"

He continues as if he didn't hear you. "So helpful, that one. She was more scared than you. Smarter, too. She at least had the intelligence to know Niklaus is too barbaric to share."

Dread drips into your stomach.

"She summoned you. To kill your son."

"He is not my son," he growls, fist slamming against the doorframe so hard the wood splinters. His face blips to regretful, paints over into calm in the span of a second.

"Apologies," he says smoothly, "Niklaus is my greatest disappointment. Still a sore wound."

You shouldn't antagonize him. Anymore than you already have, at least.

You can't seem to help yourself.

"I'm sure he could say the same about you."

He looks at you evenly. You wonder what he's seeing. Woman bonded to his children. An enemy.

Or just an annoyance he can crush under his feet.

"In the spirit of fairness, I'll offer you the same deal I offered the other," he says, "Niklaus's life for sparing the others."

You don't know what unwilling expression flashes across your face, reflected in Mikael's cruel blue eyes. You suspect it tells him what you already know.

(You could never give any of them up. Klaus, Elijah, Rebekah, Kol, Finn. Even Freya. They're yours. You've had them now and you don't think you could ever go without again.)

"One life for a long eternity with the other four," he continues, "Seems a fair enough deal."

Four.

He doesn't know about Freya.

You try to keep your emotions off your face— praying that ability has gotten better with age.

"I'm not Anya," you say instead, "I would prefer if you remembered that."

"Yes," he says, faint smile on his lips, "I can see that. Still, I do wish you'd take a moment to consider."

You don't need a moment.

"Would you really do it?" you ask instead, "Let the others live?"

"Of course."

"You've hunted them for centuries."

"I've hunted Niklaus for centuries," he corrects in a hiss, "He succeeded in murdering me once. I doubt he will be so lucky again."

Privately, you think luck and perseverance are the only things Klaus has ever had. He may not see it that way.

Luckily, you know better.

"Going once," Mikael says, false sense of friendliness vanishing in the cool early spring air, "Going twice…"

You smile, skin pulling unnaturally over your teeth. "Sorry. No bid."

He sighs. It doesn't sound play-acted, too much sincerity in the breath to not have some sense of verity. He's disappointed.

You wonder why he would be disappointed if he knew this was going to be the outcome.

"Pity," he says.

Something crackles along your spine. Static breaking and snapping at your senses.

(Tails, then.)

The air on the porch shifts and bends in upon itself until it forms a figure. Your eyebrows draw together.

"Bonnie?"

"Long time no see," she says, reserved. Part of you balks even though you have no business feeling betrayed by someone who's never made any secret she hates the same people you love.

You wonder if she's going to kill you now. You can't manage to say anything, just remaining silent with frozen lightning up your veins as Bonnie raises a hand. Pulses of that static zings through the air.

You still don't manage to say anything when Mikael collapses, veins graying— cracks in a shattered mirror.

"Aren't you going to run?" Bonnie forces out.

She jumpstarts your ability to speak.

"What are you doing?" you ask wildly.

"I thought—" she grunts— "that was obvious."

"Bonnie! Now is not the time."

"Listen to me," she commands and you suddenly can't do anything but. "You need to go before I lose control."

"There's nowhere to go, Bonnie!" you say urgently, "Listen, Klaus and the others are going to be here soon, if we just wait until—"

Bonnie laughs. You don't think she means for it to sound so cruel.

"They're not coming, they're not going to face Mikael for you— not when he's the only thing that can kill them."

She's lying. They're coming.

They have to be.

"That's not true and you know it," you say, "We'll never make it in time."

Bonnie grins. "You underestimate me. I'll hold him. Take the car and leave."

"What about Kate?"

Her eyebrows draw together.

"Who?"

"My friend— this is her house."

"I'll make sure she's fine. Now go!"

You should listen to her. You know that. Bonnie has usually been right in the limited sphere of your interactions.

You breathe.

And run.

The keys are in the ignition of your beat up and refurbished Honda. You don't know where to go— you can't be the reason their father finds them. You couldn't take it.

You'll just go towards the interstate, you decide wildly, and just follow it for as long as it takes to reach safety.

Yes, you think, that's a good plan.

You start to peel out of Kate's driveway. Your car jolts, bumper stuck. There's something in the way.

"Hello, my dear."

You suck in a cold breath.

"Elijah— I— you came?"

"We need to get you to safety. Come." He beckons you, hand outstretched. He looks as perfect as he always does— uncreased and unworried.

The only thing betraying the illusion is the tense look in his eye.

"What about your dad? And Bonnie? And Kate?"

"The others will take care of it."

You want to protest, catching sight of Rebekah and Finn. If they get hurt, you would never forgive them. You want them to run away as fast as they can, abandon this place with you.

But it's their father.

You can't begrudge them that.

"Okay," you say, and you take his hand.

Elijah whisks you away from the battlefield, across streets and suburbs, to an apartment.

"You'll be safe here," he promises. You bite your tongue to avoid saying you weren't even safe surrounded by all of your Mikaelsons at Finn's.

"Oh," you say, blinking, as the door opens, "Hi, Marcel."

His lips curve in amusement.

"Hello again. It's been a long time."

"Do take care of her while we're gone," Elijah says smoothly, "I believe you recall our previous conversation."

Marcel smiles, unkind.

"Oh I do, Elijah. Nice talk."

You dislike the tension in the air and step out of Elijah's arms. You wonder why Marcel is here when the others were against it for so long.

Wonder what made them see reason.

"If you don't mind, I'm going to shower off my kidnapping. Please don't be fighting when I come out."

You can't see Elijah's face, back turned to him, but you can see the clear amusement on Marcel's.

The shower is hot and silent and safe. You scrub off the car trunk and your dreams of the hospital.

You still remember falling asleep face down in your own sick.

(You haven't thought about that in years.)

Like drowning.

You wonder again how much Finn saw. If the others know.

(He wouldn't tell them. Not your Finn. He of all people knows the value in secrets and the worth of keeping them.)

The steam fogs the bathroom mirror, obscuring your face.

Marcel is sitting in the apartment living room when you leave, dressed in fresh clothes that you steal from a wardrobe. There's no one else in the minimalist apartment, just you and the king of New Orleans.

"There's the crown jewel," he says, easy, reclined in his chair, "I was wondering what was taking so long."

"Miss me?"

"Of course," he says, "But you obviously didn't miss me."

You shift. "I didn't think it was necessary to call."

Marcel looks at you, face amused. His eyes remain dark.

"You should have," he says.

"Maybe," you say, "Maybe not."

You wonder how many times you have to choose the Mikaelsons before anyone believes you.

Marcel's face doesn't change as he lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.

"Heard you told Klaus. And that he wasn't too pleased."

You smile tightly.

"You know how it is, woke up on the wrong side of the coffin."

Marcel laughs, a warm rich sound. You almost wish he wasn't… whatever he is to the Mikaelsons.

You think there's a universe where you were friends.

"Don't lose that humor," he says, standing to his full height, "You'll need it."

Yes.

You suspect you will.

He steps closer to you, close enough you can see the explosions in his irises.

"Is there anything I could have said to get you to leave them, back in New Orleans?"

You smile, a little tightly, a little sadly.

"No," you answer, "I had already decided that they were mine."

He hums.

"And may they continue to be."

(They will.)