They stared at each other, connected, like they always did.
She could see the affection in his eyes, and how deep it ran. His words might have been poisonous, but his gaze was the antidote. And they didn't say anything, for now.
For one second, one moment, she allowed herself to want it, to be with him. He was living, breathing temptation (well, maybe not so much since he was technically dead) and he wanted her.
She couldn't act upon it, though, never, not even, especially now. So she'd just sit there, look at him and remain in the space that was still save with a growing part of her simply wishing that he'd close the distance between them. Yet, she was anxious. This tension was going to tear her apart. Another reason to be afraid, to not do this. She was in control.
But then he leaned in and she could feel his breath on her face before his lips touched hers, his eyes closing and she felt a shiver run down her spine at the contact. Then he started kissing her, softly, slowly, and it was so unlike and at the same time just like him that she couldn't help but let her own eyes fall shut. She took a shaky breath as his lips moved on hers and when she felt his tongue carefully and seductively invading her mouth she lost herself completely and responded.
It was light, gentle, yet it crushed her completely.
She felt his arms encircling her body and then-
She was waking up. She didn't wake up with a blast, it was slow, as if the fog was clearing around she came to her senses.
She'd had a dream about Klaus. She'd had a wet dream about Klaus.
Embarrassed, she gulped. God damnit, there was no reason to be embarrassed! She was in her own bed, nobody could see her.
But the guilt reached down right into her core.
Her dreams always revealed her, bringing up ancient issues from the past that she had almost forgotten about. Or recent ones.
She'd had this before, back when she was a teenager. She'd crushed on this guy and even years later when she knew he was a total douche and not worthy of her time she'd still dream of him sometimes.
She'd dreamed of Klaus every time that she remembered dreaming, for some time now. Every time he was there. First it had been dangerous, threatening and she'd always managed to fight him off.
Then he'd been in the background, always watching.
And then she'd started dreaming about him engaging with her, talking to her. No matter what happened, he was always present to help or just to be there sometimes.
And then the rest of the story had faded, leaving only him.
This was the first time she'd dreamed of… anything physical with him. It had always been reserved, right on the edge but never crossing it, just like it was in real life.
But now…
She sat up and slightly shook her head. No. She couldn't let this happen.
Elena's word echoed in her head. Elena's words in his mouth. The way she had been unable to deny the force of the attraction he held for her, even if it wasn't even him. It had been such a strange sensation, Silas holding her up against a tree, whispering in her ear. With his lips.
No.
She couldn't let herself want this. But it seemed some part of her brain had an entirely different idea about that.
It was 1725 and she was there with him. They were building the city, brick by brick.
He turned vampires and guided the work that was done by the humans, silently, invisibly, always in the shadows because his father could show up anytime and find him.
She was laughing, indulging in the things he showed her, vibrant with life and beauty. Everything she touched, she granted it a piece of the perfection that was her.
He watched her in awe.
She was his.
And she was happy, the light surrounding her stronger than ever. She was maturing, step by step, more and more filling the footsteps that he left her until she caught up with him and went her own way, even more enthralling to watch and love than before. There was no way to guide her anymore, she found new ways on her own that he hadn't thought of, that surprised him after a thousand years of experience.
And she melted into his form, kissing him, loving him. By his side.
He didn't hurt her. He couldn't.
He'd despised this if he had a choice but he just couldn't anymore. She was his life as much as he was hers. He could see it in her eyes sometimes, and it destroyed and fulfilled him in one single gesture.
She was beautiful.
It was Mardi Grasse and they were kissing, close to each other. He could never get enough of her.
He let his hands roam her body and she was holding onto his neck, his hair. He felt her small fingers caressing and pulling on it and it made him hot with desire. They way she kissed him, restless and without shame, even though they were standing in a mass of people.
It made him want to take her right there, uncaring about the prying eyes of the people around him but he knew she wanted to stay, wanted to experience what was happening around them so he pulled back and composed himself. Later.
She was his after all.
She smiled up at him, grasping his hand, lacing her fingers with his, a motion that created a pulling sensation in his chest. She was his. His.
"Thank you," she whispered, only for his ears. "I love you."
He woke up, instantaneously frustrated.
She haunted him, his mind, the potential of what could be. What could have been.
He cursed and sat up, pouring himself another drink.
He kept a bottle and a glass on his nightstand, for months now.
She was messing with his mind.
He was in New Orleans now and his whole world had turned around. There was a war to fight, an enemy to take care of. A bloody baby to be born.
Yet, all his subconscious could be bothered with was her.
He should be happy with the way it was for now, they were friends.
He snorted, suppressing the desire to find some random victim and tear out his throat.
Another distance, a wall between them. The killing.
If only she wasn't so keen on being moral, if only she didn't have these friends.
His teeth clenched after he took a slug. Who was he kidding. If only she wasn't herself.
And he wanted her like this.
But she didn't want him.
He'd always gotten what he wanted, taken it if necessary. The only boundaries he knew were his own and even those he'd cross if the occasion was right.
With her he wasn't taking any chances.
He'd tried to kill her. It was always in the back of his mind, a nagging, torturing voice making him feel helpless and disgusted by himself.
Yet, he could still remember the taste of her blood on his tongue, the feeling of her lips on his wrist, her body leaning against his in weakness. He hadn't been able to help it back then, he just had to have her in his arms, caressing her, trying to take away some of the pain he'd caused.
The closest he'd ever gotten.
And now the distance was not only in their minds, but actually, literally there.
The comfort of having her only a few miles away, reachable within seconds, was gone.
He'd let her find herself, fight her own battles until maybe, one day, she was ready for him.
He could only hope.
He could only wait.