AU/AH. The best gifts are not material ones.
Klaus loathes parties.
Especially parties in his name that he has been forced to attend.
But there are certain things that are expected of him, belonging to one of the wealthiest, most powerful families in the whole of Virginia, and, unfortunately, celebrating every birthday surrounded by people he can barely recognize is one of them.
"You could be doing a lot worse, you know," a melodious voice quips from his left.
Klaus cranes his neck sideways, scowl at the ready, quite miffed at the interruption to his five minutes of blissful solitude, but, as soon as his eyes lie upon the voice's owner, a grin slackens his features, cutting deep into his cheeks and coaxing his dimples out to play.
"I would have begged to differ," he replies, smoothly, "though, with you by my side, sweetheart, I might just agree."
The stranger scoffs, rolls her eyes, appears, altogether, thoroughly unimpressed.
"Wow! You really are as bad as Bekah describes you."
An odd wave of disappointment washes over Klaus as his eyes narrow on the beautiful blonde.
"You're a friend of my sister's?" he asks, suspicious—he knows the type, has plenty of experience fending off hormonal teenagers, and is, most definitely, not in the mood for the umpteenth fangirl.
She must sense the shift in his demeanor, because, suddenly, she's the one frowning.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," she accuses. "Is there anything in the universe you don't feel has personally offended you?"
Her eyebrows are arched.
Her hands are on her hips.
She's looking at him ardently, almost glaring, and, despite himself, Klaus finds himself laughing.
If anything, that only makes her glare even harder.
"Excuse you!"
She's already rocking back on her impossibly thin, impossibly high heels, determined to walk off on him, but, before she can as much as turn around, he curls gentle fingers around one of her wrists, keeping her in place.
"Wait," he all but pleads. She appears startled by the unexpected skin-on-skin contact, and he, too, feels somewhat surprised by his own behavior. "I apologize," he dips his head slightly, gazing at her from underneath his eyelashes and unleashing the full effect of his dimples on her.
Her eyes, as blue as the ocean and just as bottomless, have thinned to slits, her way of letting him know that she's onto him and his so! not! playing! fair! without having to actually admit defeat.
"Fine. Since it's your birthday and all," she concedes, after an endless amount of seconds, drawing her hand away from his with reluctant movements, "which, seriously, shouldn't have you so broody and gloomy."
"Believe me, sweetheart, stick with Rebekah long enough and you will understand why I'm not ecstatic at the prospect of spending hours on end with this lot," he gestures widely around the Mikaelson mansion's lavish ballroom and its flashy occupants. "I'm fairly certain most of them don't even know the reason why they're here."
"What makes you say that?"
A careless shrug.
The navy-blue suit he's donning clinches his shoulders, catching her attention in a way that causes his lips to curve smugly against the wet rim of his champagne flute.
"I seem to have failed to receive any sort of present, for starters."
It's supposed to be a joke, of course, but the girl visibly cringes.
"Right. About that," she briefly pins him with a forefinger before taking to wringing her hands. "Rebekah dragged me here out of the blue... rude, by the way! Sooo, I'm also kind of guilty of showing up empty-handed. Sorry?"
Klaus laughs again, on pure instinct, a little too loud and a little too free for it to be appropriate for the social event unfolding all around him, yet not caring about anything or anyone other than the fascinating blonde at his side.
She's blushing under his scrutiny—a reaction he's no stranger to—but, most of all—surprisingly and refreshingly—her nose is crinkled in fiery indignation.
"Go ahead. Mock me for being polite."
"It's not mockery, sweetheart, it's delight," he reassures her. "I'm not quite used to it, is all."
"You're not used to... politeness?" she asks, skeptical.
Klaus raises a hand up to his face, curls it in front of his mouth, letting his chuckles subside until he's wearing only a smile.
"Faux politeness? Yes." That was, truth be told, a big constant in his life. "Genuine, however? I'm afraid so."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault."
"Like it's not my fault that I showed up without a present?" she tries.
A stray chuckle. "You're really hung up about that, aren't you?"
"Yes! I feel terrible, okay? This has never happened to me before! I have birthday gifts picked out for my friends, like, months in advance."
Klaus foregoes pointing out that they aren't friends. He doesn't dare mentioning that he would very much like to become more.
"Well," he hedges, "I do have a request you could grant to make up for the lack of present."
She frowns at his puppy-eyed stare. "If you say 'a date'—"
"No." Not yet, at least. "I would never coerce it out of you."
A beat.
A pursing of lips. A faint nod to show that she's listening.
"Just... a name. Your name."
The blonde half snorts and half laughs, eyes wide and incredulous. He stands his ground, however, waiting in earnest for her reply.
"That's it?" she probes. "You want to know my name?"
"I do."
"Where's the catch?"
"There's none. It can be your present to me and we will call it even."
Still unconvinced, she studies him for several moments.
There's just something about him—regardless of the designer clothes and expensive wristwatch and golden-boy aura—that tells her she can trust him.
What ill could he even ever do with her name, anyway?
"Even?"
"Even."
"It's Caroline."
Six years later, when, in front of their families and closest friends, during a party that, for the very first time in his entire existence, he has been eagerly anticipating to be attending, Klaus speaks it loud and clear, he's still insisting that her name, now coupled with his surname, is, by far, the most precious gift she has ever given him.