You're not stupid. You read Dracula in high school, and despite the fact that your Sophomore year was a decade or two ago, you still remember the highlights of the novel. That's why you're not exactly surprised when you come home one day after work and Klaus is already there.
He turns the lamp on as you hang up your purse. You'd be more scared than startled if he didn't act like a B-movie villain.
"Oh," you say, "You're back."
"You invited me in."
"Not permanently," you grumble. You consider how this evening will go and decide you don't really want to be maimed again. (Even if Klaus was right and your wound has faded without a trace). You're also hungry and you have enough energy where you think you could cook. Frozen food is beginning to wear on you.
"Do you want dinner?" You ask. "If you eat people-food, I guess."
Klaus looks taken aback.
"I do, occasionally."
Ah, so he can.
"Fantastic."
You brush past him, still sitting in your arm chair, and head towards your tiny kitchen. He follows in after you. It's barely big enough for two people, but you can make it work.
"Dice the tomatoes for me?" You hand him a knife and a cutting board. He has that odd blank expression on his face again. He does as you request and you're annoyed to note that they're all evenly sized cubes. You chop up an onion with abandon before adding it to a saucepan with the tomatoes and basil. You set the pasta water on high heat.
"Can you get the pasta?" You ask, "There's some angel hair in the cabinet."
Klaus obeys your request and sets it on the counter.
"I would think one would get tired of cooking day in and day out— considering that's what you do for your job as well."
"I'm mostly a pastry chef," you say dryly. The silence lingers for a moment. "I think everyone feels that fatigue sometimes, but it's always more fun cooking for more than just me."
Klaus's lips curl up in a smile. "Is this your way of saying you missed me?"
A laugh bursts out of you against your will. "I can say with a fair degree of certainty that I will never miss you."
"Why not?"
"I don't think victims usually miss their murderers."
"Awfully dramatic for someone whose life I saved."
"It doesn't count when you also put it in danger."
"Hmm, is that so." He's too close. You can feel his body heat radiating from him and you follow the urge to step away. On some level, you're surprised he's warm at all.
"I'm almost positive that's the rule," you say, avoiding his gaze as you chop up two cloves of garlic and then wonder if he can even eat it.
You ask and he just laughs.
"We can, love," he says, "You'll find most things in folklore don't apply to us."
Yeah, whatever that means. You're not going to take the chance and ask. Klaus leans against your counter, following you with his eyes.
"You don't seem scared of me."
"I guess it's just wearing off. Fourth time's the charm."
"You're saying I lose my effect?"
You shrug. "There's only so many times I can get the action movie villain routine before it's a little old."
"You would do well to be afraid of me," he warns in a dangerously low voice, "I'm a beast, after all."
You learn another fact about Klaus. He's dramatic.
"Beasts don't get dinner so if you keep acting like one, I'll put you outside." He doesn't say anything as you go to put the pasta in the now-boiling water. Your heart is beating irregularly and you hope he doesn't call your bluff. He doesn't.
Klaus mostly ignores you as you cook in favor of poking around your kitchen. You almost ask what he's doing before realizing you don't care enough to ask. Or, at least, don't care enough to get your head bitten off for it. He makes a sound of triumph when he's sorting through your pantry.
"And who, my dear, has been giving you this?" Klaus holds up a tin of tea.
"The… The store?"
"This is vervain."
"Vervain… tea," you say in bewilderment, "I'm assuming you're a coffee person, then."
He bares his teeth at you and you have a moment of realization where you think taunting Klaus might be a bad idea. Oh well.
"Wait," you say belatedly, "Does this have anything to do with your—" you make an unintelligible hand motion, "Situation?"
"My what situation?" He asks pleasantly.
"You know, the vampire thing."
"Yes, this does have something to do with my, as you so eloquently put it, 'vampire thing'," he says, "Now would you like to answer the question before I show you some other 'vampire things'?"
You shrug and turn back to your sauce. "I really don't know what you want me to say. I like vervain tea in the evenings, it's soothing."
"So you buy this of your own volition?"
You cast him a sideways glance. "Yeah, pretty much. It's cheaper than chamomile."
You can tell that's not the answer Klaus was expecting. You feel like as a vampire he should know that you can just buy it in a store. You're not entirely sure of the significance of vervain to Klaus, but you can guess it's not a good thing for him. He looks at you for longer than you feel comfortable with. You glance away.
"Pasta's done," you announce to the silent kitchen. You drain the noodles and turn off the burner. Klaus sits at your cramped breakfast bar. It feels odd to have a dinner guest, even ignoring his bloodthirsty tendencies.
"Here," you say as you serve him.
He stabs one of the tomatoes with his fork. "You didn't put any in here, did you?" He asks lightly, but you can tell he's watching you. Your forehead creases.
"Any vervain?" You ask incredulously. He stares at you as you sit down and you can tell he's not joking. "Why would I do that?" You ask.
Steam rises from your plate and you take a bite. Tomato juice bursts in your mouth.
"You really mean that, don't you?" He muses, "Why?"
"You mean besides the fact that you shouldn't poison your dinner guests?" You ask wryly, "And that tea doesn't really go with this particular palette." Klaus even grins at that.
"Besides that lovely concept, yes."
You take another bite to stave off your answer, simply because you don't have a good one. You're sure that people better than you would have a good answer. Unfortunately, you're just you. And you've never been the most eloquent. He stares at you the whole time, dark eyes encompassing you. You want to avert your gaze, but you fear he'll think what you say next is a lie if you do.
"I'm not that kind of person," you admit, "I'm not one for 'an eye for an eye'."
"So you're a coward."
You look at him, amusement on your lips. "If you'd like to think that, sure."
You wonder what kind of life one has to lead to think that not taking revenge is cowardly.
Klaus stares at you for a moment like he doesn't quite know what to make of you. (Strange, you think, for a vampire to think you're the odd one). When he finally looks away, he begins to eat.
"This is rather good," he comments.
You try not to roll your eyes. "It is my job," you say, a mild exaggeration. He just laughs at that.
Klaus, as it turns out, is not a terrible dinner guest once he stops threatening you. The conversation starts to feel less like an obstacle course over a spike pit and more like a get together with an old friend. Disturbing, you're aware.
"So does this mean you'll stop maiming me?" You ask as you take your dishes to the sink.
Klaus hums. "What do you mean by that?"
You level a reproachful stare at him. "I mean," you say, "You're not allowed to invite yourself over for dinner and then rip a hole in my neck."
"I don't typically care for permission."
You feel yourself bristling and know that it will get you nowhere. Your anger is not strong, not the bright rage that you see flare in the man beside you. Your anger slips away from you to empty air; a diffusion of emotion.
"It's less about permission and more about manners," you say instead.
"I see," Klaus says, "I've been told I lack those."
"Manners are learned."
"In that case, I will make an effort. But," he corners you against the counter, sharp edge biting into your lower back, "I should do well to tell you that I do believe in 'an eye for an eye'."
You can't make yourself look in his eyes, not when the glittering darkness reminds you of the last time he cornered you.
"Something tells me you believe in a head for an eye," you state, making direct eye contact with his shirt collar. He laughs at that and backs away. You breathe.
"As fun as this has been, I should be going," he says.
"Things to do, people to kill?" You ask.
He grins, teeth sharp. "Something like that. See you soon."
You turn around to respond, and he's already gone.
How dramatic…
You make yourself a cup of vervain with honey and close up the house for the night. You put away leftovers and do dishes from dinner. The kitchen is almost sparkling when you're done. You take another sip of tea. It soothes your throat. You wonder why Klaus keeps invading your life, how long it will take him to do it again.
You don't feel the fear or disgust you expect.
You don't know how to feel about it.