Days pass without you seeing any of the Mikaelsons. Your groceries arrive on your doorstep, hand delivered by a very nice, very scared looking vampire. You thank them politely and they look like they're going to die of fright. You briefly reflect on what the hell kind of family you've gotten involved with.
Well, you know the answer to that.
Kate calls you, an odd conversation. She asks you where you've been, why the managers have acted so strangely when she mentions your name. You don't have any answers to give her. So, you lie.
("I'm just taking some time off," you had said, "It's no big deal."
"Well," Kate said doubtfully, "If you say so." She tells you your coworkers miss you).
The conversation is stilted in a way you're not used to. When she hangs up it dawns on you that she's the only human you've talked to in a week. That, you think, is not good. You need to talk to people outside of the vampires infesting your life.
Good luck with that.
You try to cling to your anger at Kol. You're not very good at it. Quiet days at home cooking and cleaning supplant 9 hour shifts. You're less stressed and it's easier to find it in you to forgive him. You don't want to. (Unfortunately, you were born too forgiving).
You wish you could stay mad. You come to the sharp conclusion that you desperately need to impose restrictions on the Mikaelsons. It would be so easy to get caught up in this— in them.
Thank you, addictive personality.
You funnel all of your energy into your passions. (But there are only so many pastries you can bake in a day). You have so much free time now that you even manage to feel bored. While cleaning out your bedroom, you find dusty acrylic paints in your closet. They aren't opened and you spend the rest of the afternoon trying to teach yourself how to paint.
It doesn't go well.
Even so, you stick it in an old picture frame that's been hiding in your closet and put it in the living room. Satisfaction, you realize, comes in different forms.
The house is quiet. You've been living by yourself for over three months now, but you haven't been home for this long in what feels like forever. It starts to feel distressingly like your childhood home. Loneliness encompasses you. You consider adopting a cat. You don't think you could get Elijah to pick one up for you.
You hope Elijah comes back. You're still wary of him, of course, but you've always been good at overcoming your instincts. Especially when he's been so kind and you so starved for niceness.
You're waiting at your breakfast bar for your macarons to come out of the oven when there's a knock at your door. Part of you thinks it might be another grocery delivery. The larger part of you hopes it's Elijah. It isn't.
"Hello, love," Klaus says, "Thought I should check in." Despite being alone for several days, you still don't feel up to navigating the minefield that is Klaus Mikaelson.
"I'm fine," you say, "No break-ins, not even a stray raccoon."
He smiles. "Glad to hear it." He continues to stand on your doorstep and you can tell you're not going to get rid of him. You stifle a sigh.
"I hope you like macarons." You open the door for him. A grin flashes across his face.
"I quite enjoy them," he muses, "A friend gifted me her own recipe in Paris in 1540, shortly after Catherine de' Medici's pastry chefs introduced them to France. I confess I haven't had the opportunity to try it yet."
Your eyes brighten. "Do you still have it?" He hums.
"I believe I do," he thinks, "I'll bring it to you next time."
Despite your love for historical recipes, you know better than to take Klaus at his face value.
"Bribery is unbecoming," you say dryly.
Klaus gets a mock offended look on his face.
"I am just being polite, someone told me I needed to work on my manners."
'Yeah, right' is what you want to say to that, but you don't.
"Go sit down," you order, "Macarons will be out in five." You take your strawberry compote out of the fridge and spoon it into a piping bag. Klaus takes the opportunity to wander in your living room, just out of sight.
"I see you've gotten into painting," he calls out. You wrinkle your nose. You forgot you hung your attempt at a painting in there.
"If you can call it that," you reply evenly when he rejoins you in the kitchen.
"I would," he says, "Have you painted before?"
"Not seriously, I took a few art classes in high school."
Klaus hums and takes a seat at your breakfast far, eyes sweeping over your mess of a kitchen. "Did you make your own jam?" He asks incredulously.
"Compote, but yes."
"Why on Earth would you do that?"
You look at him. "I've been trapped in this house with nothing to do and an endless grocery budget," you say, "I am doing whatever makes me happy."
Klaus tilts his head, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Is this your way of saying I shouldn't have left you alone for so long?" He asks, amused, "I'll be sure and come by more often."
You can't stop yourself from rolling your eyes at that one.
"Kol and Elijah came by already a few days ago," you say. You think you might be imagining the way Klaus tenses in his chair, but you don't want to test that theory.
"Oh?" He says, an edge in his voice, "My brothers seem to be fond of you."
You snort. "Kol tried to strangle me to death and then tricked me into drinking his blood. Not exactly proof of 'fondness'." You don't mention Elijah.
Klaus's eyes drift to your neck and you know he's looking for a bruise that doesn't exist.
"He made you drink his blood?" He asks and there's an undercurrent in his tone that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You don't think it's directed towards you this time. An odd feeling.
"… Not really, he slipped it into a glass of wine. I think he felt bad for hurting me."
It's when Klaus is staring at your neck with a mutinous, indeterminable expression that you realize that he's jealous. You get the feeling you're missing something. You have no idea how to deal with that, so you don't.
Your timer dings and you take the macarons out of the oven. They still need to cool. You ready the rest of your ingredients before peeling them off the silicon baking sheet. Klaus watches you with careful eyes, you can feel them on your spine. You don't turn around. You pipe a circle of strawberry compote around the border and fill in the middle with whipped cream. Using a sifter, you dust them with powdered sugar before putting them on a platter. You serve the first one you finish to Klaus.
"Tell me what you think?"
He takes it, fingers brushing against yours, and bites into it. He hums.
"Very good," he declares, "Perhaps you have a point with making your own preservatives."
You smile. "That's high praise, coming from you. I'll take it."
"It's well deserved, I assure you."
"Flattery will get you nowhere."
He grins. "I don't believe it's flattery if it's true."
You can't stop your smile at that one. The unexpected camaraderie with Klaus of all people is a strange feeling. You're not sure if it's a good thing yet.
"Maybe your manners are getting better," you comment.
"Thank you," he says, "I have an excellent teacher." You snort.
"Thanks," you say dryly, "I'll put that on my resume."
"Have you ever thought about going into education?"
You blink. "Not particularly. But I also thought I would be a psychologist by now, so plans change."
"You could go back to school."
"Sure," you say as you finish decorating the last of your macarons, "And go tens of thousands of dollars further in debt for a job I'm not even sure I want."
Klaus steals another macaron. You take one for yourself and bite into it.
"What do you want?" He asks and he sounds like he genuinely wants to know the answer. You don't have one to give him.
"I don't know," you confess, resting your arms on the counter, "Long-term, at least."
He tilts his head. "Then what do you want now?"
What do you want?
You want a lot of things that you can't have. Thinking about all of them makes your heart ache.
You want your childhood back. You want to be taken care of instead of always having to rely on yourself.
You want to be happy.
"It doesn't really matter," you say. Klaus looks like he doesn't believe you.
"What?" He says, "No long-lost love?"
It's so incongruent with your actual train of thought that a laugh bursts out of you. You and Klaus seem to be different on more fronts than you previously thought. (Well, you relent, you are two different species).
"Didn't even cross my mind."
"You are very unlike my sister," Klaus muses, "I don't think the two of you would get along at all."
You wonder what the fourth Mikaelson is like.
"I'm sure I'd like her more than you," you say and Klaus huffs a laugh.
"If I didn't know better, I would say you don't like me."
You manage to keep a straight face. "Well, it's a good thing you know better." Klaus's lips curl.
"You get away with an awful lot more than I would allow from most people," he comments.
"Why?"
You hope he doesn't continue to insist you're just a whim. Even if it's true, you still don't like it. You don't know why it bothers you so much. (Not, you think, a feeling you want to examine too closely). To your surprise, he shrugs.
"I find you interesting," he says.
"You sound like Kol." Judging by the way his face tightens, he doesn't appreciate the comparison.
"How so?"
"He seems to think I'm special because I haven't killed anyone."
Klaus lets out a full, loud laugh. You nearly jump from the sound.
"In our line of work," he says with a grin, "That is indeed a rarity."
"You are the strangest family I have ever met."
"No odder than any other family," he muses, "Give or take a millennia."
"I don't think that's how the Tolstoy quote goes," you say dryly, pushing yourself off the counter. You clean up the kitchen and Klaus, to your surprise, vacates his chair to help you.
"Why are you being so nice today?" You ask suspiciously. If he were human, you would say he was dying of cancer or something and trying to atone for his mistakes in the past. You don't think vampires can get cancer, but more importantly you don't see Klaus ever trying to repent for his sins. He gives you a very suspect looking grin.
"Do I need an ulterior motive to be kind?"
"Literally, yes."
He corners you against the counter, but for once you don't feel like you're in danger. He uses his pointer finger to lift your chin up to stare into his too-pale eyes.
"Perhaps I just want to learn more about you. Maybe I'm trying to trick you. Or maybe," he says, "I've just started to like you."
Your heart is beating irregularly and you remember Kol's comment from weeks ago, wondering if you had slept with his brother. You push Klaus away until you can breathe again.
"Well," you say after a moment, "I hope it's the last one."
Klaus just laughs. He lets you have your space and you're grateful.
"Tea?" You ask.
"Please," he acquiesces. You have to brush past him to get to your tea cabinet. You don't make vervain tea, even if it is your favorite. Klaus watches you as you ready two cups and take them to the living room. You each have another macaron.
"So," you say once the two of you are settled in your respective arm chairs, "Any updates on the Salvatore front?"
He hums. "Not particularly. Their witch was scrying for your location."
He says it so casually that you have to take a minute to realize the seriousness of his statement.
"Isn't… that bad?"
"You'll be fine," he says dismissively, "Excluding the Salvatore brothers, the rest of them wouldn't think to hurt you."
"Why?"
His lips curl. "They're kinder than my family. They would consider you an innocent."
You think maybe it was not the right choice to become friends with a family of movie villains. (It's not too late to nip this thing in the bud).
"Will you be okay?" You ask carefully. Klaus smiles.
"How sweet," he comments, "We will be perfectly fine. The Salvatores do not pose much of a threat to my family, while they are incredibly irritating."
"Will I just be stuck in this house forever?"
He inclines his head. "My apologies, love," he says, "Better trapped than dead."
You wrinkle your nose.
"Is it though?" You ask. You don't mean it. Well, at least not fully.
Klaus just smiles. "You're welcome to go outside and forfeit your life if you so wish." You set your cup on your end table.
"I didn't mean it like that," you say, "I just don't know what to do with myself."
"I'm sure you can think of something," Klaus says, amused.
You don't know how to describe the itch under your skin. "If you say so," you eventually say. Klaus looks like he can tell you don't believe him.
"Here," he says. He writes something down on a slip of paper, "This is my personal number in case you get bored."
"That sounds like a booty call."
Klaus just laughs. "I'm sure you would prefer if I sent Elijah over for that," he says, amused.
You flush so hot you can feel it.
"What if you're busy?" You ask, bypassing Klaus's statement, "I don't want to interrupt you from your movie villain plots."
"I'm sure I can scrounge up a sibling who's available."
"What are you, a pimp?"
"More like a baby sitting service."
You laugh. "You know," you say, "I think this is the best any of our interactions have gone. You haven't tried to kill me yet."
"When will you let that go?" Klaus sighs.
"I'll let it go if I ever make an attempt on your life. Fair's fair."
His teeth flash in a threatening grin. "Careful, love, or else I'll take that seriously." You get the feeling that he means it.
"Wow," you say dryly, "Really can't joke at all around here." The hairs on your neck prick up.
He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "I've been told I lack a sense of humor." He drains the rest of his tea. You're long done with yours. He stands up and holds out his hand for your empty tea-cup and puts them in the kitchen for you. It's so surprisingly thoughtful that you start to give more credence to your terminal-vampire-cancer theory.
"I should be off," he says when he comes back, "I'll make sure you're not alone tomorrow."
You offer him up a smile. "Can't wait," you say.
"I'll be sure to get that macaron recipe into your hands at the soonest opportunity."
"I appreciate it," you say, "Thank you, Klaus."
Klaus looks at you for a moment longer, eyes wandering over your face, before leaving. Cold air rushes in your house before dissipating. You're struck by the strange thought that Klaus is genuinely trying to become your friend. And against all odds you find yourself, disgustingly, starting to like Klaus in return.
You wonder if it counts as Stockholm Syndrome if it's just friendship.
Your old psychology professors would probably have a thing or two to say about that.
Hope you guys are liking the fic :-) I was considering not updating on anymore but I got a very nice comment on my Ao3 from someone who found my fic on here first, so I'll keep this up just in case!