You do end up waking up the next morning, but you really wish you hadn't. You groan as you sit up, head swimming in a way you have little experience with.
You barely make it to the toilet before throwing up what's left of your stomach contents. You vomit until nothing comes up and you're gagging with tears in your eyes.
Yeah. Definitely worse than a hangover.
You call into work that morning saying you've caught the flu. Your boss says she hopes you feel better soon and warns you to not miss too much work or else you'll be back on 12 hour shifts. Fucker. You slowly sip a glass of water and pray you won't throw it back up. You're not sure how long it will be until you can go back to work. Too long, you're certain, for your boss.
You prop yourself up against some pillows on your bed, ice water within reach, and resign yourself to a shitty day in bed.
You end up calling off the next day too. The wound on your neck feels hot and sticky even though you just cleaned it. You still can't stop throwing up, vomiting up even the dry saltines you had earlier. By nightfall, you haven't managed to keep even the antibiotics down. You feel close to tears with exhaustion. Barely able to move, you lie comatose in your bed, shivering and hot. You wait for sleep that doesn't come. Briefly, you wish you had your mom to take care of you. You stamp out the feeling.
You're tossing and turning fitfully in your bed when there's a knock at your door. You think you've imagined it in the fits of your fever until you hear it again. A bone deep weariness confines you to the bed.
You could always ignore it, you think.
Knockknockknockknockkno-
Groaning, you roll out of bed and stumble slowly towards the door, holding onto the turning walls for support. You pause by the bathroom and swallow the urge to vomit. The door swings open.
"What do you wa-"
Whoever you were expecting to be at your doorstep isn't there. Instead, there's the man that's been featured in your nightmares since you met him.
You try to slam the door on him, but his hand stops it. Strangely, he doesn't try to come in.
"None of that," he says, "I only came to check on you."
"Check on me?" Your voice is hysterical.
"It seems I was just in time." His eyes gaze over you like he actually cares. You know better.
"You're the one who did this to me," you hiss, too exhausted to be scared.
He seems affronted. "I believe I was only responsible for the hole in your neck. If you had gone to the hospital, you'd have been perfectly fine."
Your eyes burn. You try to rub it away, but only succeed in making it worse.
"What do you want?"
He's silent for so long, you think he left. You take your hands off your eyes to see that, unfortunately, that is not the case.
"Come outside."
You want to refuse on principle. The ache in your neck persuades you. Right now, you're liable to do whatever anyone tells you. You're just so, so tired. It's not like he can kill you easier outside, you reason.
You step onto the front porch, the night air swimming in front of you like the heat atop a grill. The man catches you as you stumble, laying you out on the porch steps. The wood digs into the back of your head and your body heat leaves you all at once. Your teeth chatter.
Well, you think to yourself as you look up at the night sky, you'd rather die outside than in the fever-heat of your bedroom. You shiver uncontrollably as the man tilts your head towards him. You struggle to turn away. The stars are a better sight to die seeing than the face of your murderer.
"Shhh," he says, "You'll be alright." He brushes your face once. You shiver like you're having a full body seizure. He lifts his wrist to his mouth and bites into it. The sound scrapes the inside of your ear drums and you would vomit if you had anything left in you. He lifts his wrist to your mouth and you can smell the iron in the clots forming in the wound. You try to close your mouth, but he holds it insistently at your lips until you're forced to open. What kind of fucking psychopath. A broken cry tries to escape around his wrist, but there's no one here to help you. You choke on the liquid and wish you were strong enough to force this psychopath away from you.
You've made a mistake. This isn't how you wanted to go out, laying in the arms of a killer with his blood coating your throat. You should've stayed in your bedroom, hidden until it was too late and you simply fell asleep.
He takes his wrist away from you and picks you up in his arms.
"Unless you intend on sleeping on the porch tonight, I suggest inviting me in," he says dryly.
The cold air seeps into you like freezing water. "You're the weirdest serial killer I've ever met."
He laughs.
"I was serious earlier," he tacks on, "You need to invite me in."
"I don't even know your name."
He hesitates, shifting you in his arms. "Klaus," he says finally, "Klaus Mikaelson."
Fuck it. "Would you like to come in, Klaus?"
You can't see his face from your position, but you can sense him smiling. "Of course."
He steps over the boundary of your doorstep and carries you to your bedroom. It's concerning he knows where it is. He lays you down in your bed and covers up your shivering body with your duvet.
"Go to sleep," he orders.
You look at him listlessly, too tired to turn your head away from him.
"Will I wake up?" You ask.
He looks at you in that eerie blank way of his. It's the face of someone who doesn't know what emotion to be portraying at that moment.
"Yes," he says, "On my life."
"Okay."
You close your eyes and slip underneath the blanket of consciousness, doubtful that you'll live to see the morning.
You blink awake to the smell of bacon in the air. That alone is worrying, considering your roommate abandoned you three months ago. What's more concerning is the fact that you feel great. There's no lingering pain in your neck. No exhaustion. No soreness in your throat from bile eating away at your esophagus. Your mouth still tastes like death, but that's not new. You get up carefully, but the room never starts spinning like how you fear. You feel like you could run for miles.
A clatter in the kitchen reminds you that there's someone in your house. You edge quietly out of your bedroom and catch sight of blond hair at the stove.
"Ah, you're awake," Klaus says, "I was wondering when you'd come out."
Your stomach drops and you feel like you're drifting somewhat outside of your body. Your hands shake.
At your silence, the man turns around.
"Oh come now, I'm not going to hurt you." You stay silent and he sighs. He moves the pan off heat.
"Would I have gone to the trouble of making breakfast for someone if I planned to murder them just after they woke?"
"From what little I know of you, that doesn't seem outside your wheelhouse," you snipe.
His lips twitch like he wants to smile. His eyes rove over you. "You look terrible," he says bluntly, "Breakfast isn't ready yet. Go take a shower. I'll serve you when you're done."
You nod stiffly. In the bathroom, you're unsurprised to discover that he was right. There's dried blood on the side of your neck and your face is pale and gaunt. You look like shit. You brush the side of your neck to test for pain and blood flakes off in large chunks.
Gagging, you turn on your shower.
As you wait for the water to heat up, you're grateful for the opportunity to brush the taste of bile from your mouth. You use half of your bottle of mouthwash by the time you're satisfied. When you step in the shower you're struck by the awareness that you haven't taken a shower in four days. The water runs rust brown with dried blood. You're vaguely disgusted and you scrub until your skin is pink and the water runs clear. You take the time afterward to examine yourself in the mirror. The gaping wound on your neck is gone. You trace the silver scar lines in its place.
You wonder, if Klaus hadn't arrived, how much longer you would've lasted. You dislike the idea of being indebted to him. The steam clears and a chill runs up your spine.
Belatedly, you realize you didn't bring any clothes in. Disgust claws up your throat as you wrap yourself in two towels and slip from the bathroom into your bedroom. Thankfully, Klaus doesn't turn around.
You're not sure what you would do if he did.
Once the bedroom door is closed behind you, you dress quickly— too afraid of Klaus losing patience and barging in to take your time. You cover up as much as possible, not just because of the cold weather outside. When you leave the safety of your bedroom, you see that Klaus has set out two place settings at your breakfast bar. Reluctantly, you sit at one of the barstools and Klaus stands on the other side.
"Thanks for breakfast," you bite out. You don't want to eat, but your stomach reminds you that you haven't managed to keep anything down in days.
You take a bite of bacon and it's tasteless in your mouth.
Klaus watches you as you eat like he's fascinated despite himself. The silence between you is awkward, but you remain too petrified to break it.
"Are you not going to ask?" He says finally.
You take another bite of bacon. "Ask what?"
Klaus stares at you like he's never seen you before. He tilts his head in that birdlike way of his. "I can't tell whether you're intelligent or a complete idiot."
You don't respond.
He watches you silently as you eat, resting his forearms on the counter. He doesn't try to eat anything. You wonder if he can. Klaus stays until you finish your plate and loads the dishwasher for you. You're convinced he's going to kill you as soon as he's done, but instead he hangs up your dishtowel to dry and brushes your hair to the side to look at your neck. Your skin crawls at the close proximity. You look away. He hums.
"The scar should fade in a few days," he says. You don't know if you believe him.
"Thank you," you bite out.
His thumb traces over your carotid. "Given our track record, I'm sure I'll see you again soon," he says. He's gone in an instant and you're left with a clean kitchen and indescribable feeling in the pit of your stomach.