Chapter Text
You wrench yourself violently from sleep, unaided. You exist in the space between two moments, unsure of anything before or ahead of you. Unformed thoughts tumble in your head without landing. All you know is that something is wrong. And—
“Elijah,” you breathe.
You scramble out of the bed you’re in— unfamiliar in its details if not its aesthetic— and slam open the door.
A building pressure makes its way into your head, beating against your skull.
Something is wrong. Tremors wrack your body until you’re vibrating with it. You wouldn’t be surprised if your bones cracked open, not strong enough to contain your insides.
“Darling!” Kol rushes out of a hallway to you. “It’s okay, you’re safe.”
Your head clears.
“Where is Elijah?”
“My cockroach brother is completely fine, I promise,” he reassures you.
“Where is he?”
Kol pauses at the urgency in your voice.
“He’s downstairs, I can take you to him.”
You take his hand, gray-faced, and follow him. Pins and needles alight in your limbs as if you’ve been asleep for centuries.
Elijah is not ridden up in bed as you might have anticipated. He looks exactly the same as ever in his pressed suit and crisp shirt collar, standing in the kitchen with his sisters. He is whole and healthy and yours and completely and utterly alright. Like he didn’t take a stake to the heart for you. You remember the soft dying gasp that he made when Mikael wrenched the weapon out of his chest and you remember the pungent feeling of I’m never going to see him again.
You leap into his arms and wrap yours tightly around his neck and you never let go.
Neither Rebekah nor Kol make sarcastic comments, for once. Even as tears trickle down your cheeks and press into the fabric of Elijah’s collar. Even as you fist your hand in the fabric of his shirt, like the bunching material will leash him to you so he can never be out of your sight.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” you say hoarsely.
“Dearest…” Elijah lingers in the pause for a split second, “I will always be alright.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I did this time,” he promises.
You pull away from him, eyes wet.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw the stake was going to miss my heart. Any other wound would have no long term effect,” he says soothingly. Your brow furrows.
“But…” You think to Mikael coming after you and the movement too quick for you to see. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that your loved ones are safe and yours and nothing will ever hurt them gain. You shed your confusion like a coat, abandoned with your worries. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Elijah holds you tightly.
“I wouldn’t allow anything else.”
“Can everyone stop being morose,” Rebekah complains, “We’re trying to plan a party!”
“A party?”
You hope your voice doesn’t sound as lost as you think it does.
“To celebrate our parents’— hopefully final— demise,” Kol answers cheerily, “We’re bringing in catering, do you know any places you recommend?”
“A— a few,” you say distractedly, “Where’s everyone else?”
“Finn spirited Freya away to his house,” Rebekah says, “She was… drained, after.”
A pang goes through you.
“And Klaus?”
Rebekah shrugs. “Not a clue. He’s hidden himself away somewhere to mope, no doubt.”
Bile rises in your throat, like a dragon from its egg.
“What if he’s in danger? Marcel is still in town, what if—”
“Darling,” Kol interjects, “Please relax. Our insipid brother is completely fine. He does this every time something momentous happens.”
“There’s no need to be rude, brother. Today is an occasion for unity in the face of our destruction.”
Rebekah and Kol simultaneously roll their eyes. Elijah politely pretends not to notice.
“Would you like to go out with us, darling?” Kol asks.
You blink, still spinning.
“I—” you say, overwhelmed, “Okay.”
What you really want to do is tuck the Mikaelsons inside of you and never let them go.
Rebekah brightens. “Tremendous. ‘Lijah, you’re in charge of decorations.”
“I presumed as much,” he says dryly.
“Wait, when are we celebrating?”
“Tonight. It’ll just be us and a swimming pool full of champagne.
“There’s no way you’re going to get catering day of,” you say, distractedly.
“I think you’re underestimating our persuasive abilities,” Rebekah drawls.
Right, vampires.
You think you need to lie down again. It feels like you didn’t sleep at all and not for… (What day is it?)
Elijah, as always, notices.
“Perhaps we should let our baker rest first. It has been a trying time.”
“No,” you say abruptly, “It’s okay. I’ll just go get ready.”
“I’ll help,” Rebekah announces, “I always enjoy dressing you.”
You don’t even make your standard response of how you’re not a doll before following Rebekah.
“Are you quite alright?” she questions, pausing in her rifling through her closet. You grip the soft sheets of her bed, balling them up with your fists.
“How are you all so calm about this?”
“Oh darling,” she sighs. “I forget sometimes we’ve only had you for a short amount of time. These things are normal for us. Normalcy doesn’t often make it easier, but it does increase the inclination for parties.”
“It’s your parents.”
“I know,” she says, forced, “But there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“But—”
“Darling,” Rebekah interrupts, “Please leave it. There will be time for intoxicated wailing later.”
You retreat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“I know,” she says and drops her pile of clothes to the side to take your hands in hers, “But it’s over now. We’re all still alive. Can’t we just be happy?”
You’ve never heard Rebekah beg before.
“Yes,” you say quietly, looking into her glittering blue eyes, “We can.”
Rebekah dresses you warmly in tights and a charcoal wool dress. You look like you have money. Well, money you don’t freeload from your immortal partners. Rebekah puts your hair up in a spiral and does your makeup.
“Where are we going?” you ask as she brushes mascara onto your lashes.
“We,” she says, “are going to pick up my champagne order I placed this morning and scout out some caterers.”
A thought occurs to you.
“I may have a recommendation.”
“Oh?”
Kol comes with you on the trip to your old restaurant. You remember a lifetime ago when the three of you made this same trip. Hopefully you won’t get kidnapped this time.
You’ve already fulfilled your quota for the week.
(Month. Lifetime. Eternity.)
“You’re sure you guys can convince them to do a catering order day of? That’s a lot of people to compel.”
Kol balks.
“Compulsion? Darling, please. Give us some more credit than that.”
“We’re very persuasive,” Rebekah says primly.
Privately, you doubt that.
It’s odd being back in a place you spent nearly three years at, hungrier than you are now. Familiar and strange all at once. The youngest Mikaelsons follow you as you slip through the service entrance. You don’t recognize most of the people working. Enough time has passed that restaurant turnover has come for them. But—
Kate’s eyes widen.
“Oh my god, you’re okay!” She sweeps you up in a bear hug, hard enough you hear your spine pop.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stress you out.”
“Stress me out— who the fuck was that guy at my house?”
“If it makes you feel better, he won’t be bothering you.”
Kate looks at you with such a palpable loss for words you can feel it in the air. She looks caught between wanting to shake you until you give her a straight answer and wanting to spirit you away from here so she knows you’re safe.
“Answer this, then. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” you promise, “I am.”
“Wonderful. Second question, are those two one of yours?”
You turn to see Kol and Rebekah animatedly badgering the owner. (Ha.) His face is so red it looks like it’s about to burst.
“Yeah,” you say, “They’re mine.”
Kate makes a comment you will never, ever repeat to any of the Mikaelsons (if only to avoid their egos inflating any more than they already have) and brushes flour off of her apron.
“I know you’re not going to tell me what the hell happened, and one day I will fight you more on that. You free for a workshop next week? This cake decorator is coming into town.”
You smile. Something settles into place.
“I’d love that.”
“Good,” Kate says resolutely, “We can have a piping contest. Loser buys lunch.”
“I think that means I’m going to buy lunch.”
She grins with teeth.
“Now get out of the kitchen, I think your partners are going to make Mike piss his pants.”
“I don’t know,” you muse, “He kind of deserves it.”
“Oh, very,” Kate agrees, “I just don’t want to have to mop it up.”
That’s fair.
Kol and Rebekah are pleased by the time you collect them, fat with the feathers of a canary.
“What did you two do?” you ask wearily.
“We got what we wanted,” Rebekah says primly.
“As per usual.”
“And now,” Kol says, swinging his arm around your waist, “we get to go to lunch.”
You roll your eyes and lean into his warm embrace.
“Let’s not eat here, I think they’re angry enough with us.”
“Oh they’re closing down the restaurant for the rest of the day,” Rebekah says pleasantly, “They need everyone to focus on our catering request.”
“What the fuck did you order?”
“You’re too pretty to worry about such things.”
“Jesus christ,” you mutter under your breath.
The outside is damp with past rain. Gray clouds coat the sky, obscuring the sun. It should be bright out, you think, now that you’ve won. Still, the weather remains dark and damp, tears falling from the heavens.
The door swings shut behind you as the three of you make your way back to the car, gravel crunching underfoot. The sound of them bickering fills the air.
Your phone rings, an unfamiliar number with the Virginia area code affixed to it. Your eyebrows draw together before you pick up.
A man’s voice, tempered with age, says your name as a question. You barely recognize it as your own.
“… Yes?” you say. Kol mimes impatience, hanging over the side of the car door.
Silence crackles on the line.
“It’s been a long time,” your father says.
Some unnamed, turbulent feeling rushes through you until you hear the ocean in your ears, drowning out electronic static.
How dare he.
He hasn’t called you— has never called you— after you left. And he chooses now? When you’re happy? Without them?
“Listen… I know it’s been a long time. This isn’t how I wanted to make this call, but your mom is in the hospital—”
Your hearing whites out.
“And what?” you spit, “She wants to see me?”
You dad, in his eternal, weary, patented religious patience, sighs. “Bean, this could be it.”
“Don’t fucking call me that.”
“Just— please. Will you come?”
You think yourself from even six months ago would have said yes. You would visit that spiteful, vitriolic woman you’re forced to call a mother. You’d visit her surrounded by that chlorine smell indicative of pools and hospitals. She’d be cruel until her dying breath— or worse. She would apologize and you’d be forced to hear it, forced to take it. And you would have done it. Maybe you would now if your loved ones didn’t surround you.
“Don’t expect me at the funeral.”
You hang up, heartbeat in your ears. Rebekah comes up to you to squeeze your shoulder tentatively. The creature comfort doesn’t assuage guilt rising in your throat.
(Useless, baseless guilt.)
You blink away the tears lingering on your lash line, not quite fast enough to avoid a few rolling down your cheeks.
“Oh, darling,” Rebekah says, and embraces you fully.
You hold her back. You feel a press of a kiss on your temples when Kol joins you.
“Lets get you home,” he says, “Your parents have terrible timing. Now we can’t even go out for lunch.”
You laugh, wet.
Rebekah orders pizza to be delivered. Plain pepperoni. The delivery person (upon your request) gets sent off with several hundred dollars in cash as their tip. You eat a slice on a centuries old antique couch in the study with the others.
It’s surprisingly comfortable.
“We are doing streamers, yes?”
Elijah sighs. “As much as I find them tacky, yes. I acquired some in gold silk. It is unfortunately only five mommes, but it will have to do.”
Rebekah rolls her eyes.
“You’re such a snob, ‘Lijah. You never let us do anything fun.”
“I just stated we are going to have streamers.”
“How about a piñata?” Kol asks eagerly, “Can you get those custom shaped?”
“I don’t even want to ask,” you say wearily.
“Live in ignorance,” Kol responds.
Rebekah and Kol are strewn about the room: Kol sprawled on the loveseat opposite you, limbs awry. Rebekah strolls through the bookcases, picking out books at random and flipping through them. Elijah sits at his desk, making a valiant effort to do actual work.
(Decorating is intense planning, you’ve been informed.)
“When are the others arriving?” Rebekah inquires, snapping shut a copy of a book so decayed the spine is nearly falling off.
“Eight,” Elijah answers, “Finn and Freya have already confirmed.”
“I will lay money on Nik not attending,” Kol drawls and stretches. You appreciate the scant inches of skin revealed by his shirt riding up. You manage to look away without anyone noticing. Success.
“He’ll come,” Elijah says, “If he values his life.”
You don’t think he meant to say the last part quite so loudly.
“You want to take the bet then, brother?”
“I have no need of your money.”
“You’re just afraid you’re going to lose.”
Elijah sighs and doesn’t return Kol’s taunts.
You haven’t missed the lack of death threats and sharp objects lobbed Elijah’s way. You wonder if Kol has forgiven him after all. (Wonder what made him do so.)
You suppose nearly dying at their parents’ hands has a way of bringing a family together.
(The spurt of arterial blood; his father’s shocked expression.)
“Found it!” Rebekah says triumphantly, holding up a glittering necklace up to the light. She discards the book she pulled it out of to the floor.
“What is that?”
“My fire opal necklace! Someone—” Here, she lobbies a pointed glare at her younger brother— “thought fit to hide it from me.”
“In my defense,” Kol says, chin tilted up to face her, “you have this dreadful habit of peacocking your neck when you wear it because you think it catches in the light better. It doesn’t.”
“You could have at least told me what book it was in!”
“Kol,” Elijah states calmly, “Did you tear apart one of my priceless first editions to hide a bauble?”
Kol rolls his eyes.
“It was only Dickens, he was a bore anyway.”
Elijah gets a look on his face reminiscent of praying to a higher power for strength. You muffle a smile behind your hand.
“Darling,” Rebekah beseeches you, “would you do me the honor of wearing this to the ball tonight?”
“Are you sure?” you ask hesitantly, “I thought this was just a party. And also just the seven of us. I don’t think that will go with my outfit.”
“You’re obviously not allowed to go dressed like that—” You make the adult decision to not remind Rebekah she’s the one who dressed you— “And there’s no rulebook that states a ball has to be more than seven people.”
“Actually—”
“Shut up, Elijah.”
Elijah’s mouth clamps shut, barest hint of a grin lingering in the corners of his mouth.
“Yes, Rebekah,” you answer, relenting, “I would be honored.”
She grins, a wild thing, and rushes up to press a kiss to your cheek.
“Wonderful. I ordered a dress to go along with it. Good thing I found the damn thing.” She shoots another glare directed at Kol who grins in response. “As your punishment, you have to come carry everything for me.”
Kol’s grin drops.
“Why can’t you do it yourself?” he whines.
“I’m just a woman, I can’t be expected to do anything on my own,” Rebekah says snidely. She whisks Kol out of the room, not before he can press a quick kiss to your lips, grinning against them.
“Be back soon, darling.”
The door slams shut and the study is quiet and still.
“They’re like a hurricane sometimes.”
“Yes,” Elijah agrees, “Though I would add the qualifier ‘always’.”
A smile edges on your lips. The sun beams through the window panes, catching on the dust in the air. It delicately traces Elijah’s cheekbones, finishes at his temple. Flush with blood. Alive.
A car starts out in the driveway.
(You can’t let it go.)
“You didn’t know, did you,” you say.
There’s a beat of silence before Elijah responds.
“Know what, my dear?”
“You didn’t know the stake would miss your heart. You could have died. Would have died. For me.”
“The aim was off,” Elijah disregards, recalcitrant, “I knew I would be fine.”
You shake your head, insistent.
“No, you didn’t,” you say and Elijah’s eyes grow more cold and distant with every word, “It happened too fast. There’s no way you could have known.”
He opens his mouth and you expect to hear familiar lies that slither so easily off his tongue only for him to cut himself off.
“I do not know what you wish to hear.”
“That’s your problem, you know,” you say, rising out of your seat, novel still clutched in your hand, “You always worry about what the other person wants. What do you want?”
A beat of silence.
“You,” he says, hoarse. He wets his lips. “I want you.”
“You can have me, Elijah. Just tell me.”
“No—” Elijah takes in a shuddering breath, unraveled. “No, I didn’t know he would miss.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Because I know my father and I know for certain he would not have fallen short of his goal. He would have killed you.”
“You don’t know that—”
“Yes I do,” Elijah says fiercely, cutting you off, “There was no one else. I had to.”
“You could have died!”
“I almost did!” He shouts, rising out of his seat, chair scraping the floor in a harsh, guttural sound. His words echo in the study, ringing silence following. Elijah presses his eyes shut.
“Another quarter inch,” he continues, quieter, “It would have nicked my heart. And that would have been that.”
You think he only thing worse than him not looking at you is the harsh, clinical tone of his voice.
“Elijah…”
You’ve run out of words to say.
“I don’t regret it,” he says, “Without vampire blood in your system, you would have died a permanent death.”
“And what about you?”
Here, Elijah hesitates.
“With the other side gone, there stood little chance I could be resurrected,” he admits quietly, “It is the closest I have come to my end in many years. But there was a chance.”
Your breath vibrates in your lungs, frozen in time. An ice spike of unrealized terror lodges firmly in your chest.
“Never do that again. Do you hear me? You are not allowed to leave me like that— I don’t care if you have to spike my tea with blood every goddamn day for the rest of my natural life, you are not going to abandon me!”
Elijah looks at you, eyes glittering.
“Alright,” he says.
Alright.
You seize him by his collar to kiss him bruisingly hard. Elijah responds in kind. He presses you against the book cases, your hand fisted in his shirt, crumpling the perfect starched whiteness. You taste salt and abruptly realize you’re crying. Elijah breaks away.
“I’m sorry,” he says, guttural tone to his voice, “I’m sorry for everything.”
“Shut up.”
Elijah’s belt jingles and you need him to—
“Is this how you two resolve all of your disagreements?” Finn asks from the doorway. You shove Elijah away.
“Ah, brother,” Elijah greets, back still turned to him, “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I can see that. Freya’s here too.”
“Hi,” you hear from out in the hall.
“We weren’t expecting you until eight.”
“We thought you might want some help.”
Elijah’s hand pulses at his side.
“As it happens, there will be a decorating team arriving in—” Elijah checks his watch— “eleven minutes. If you would excuse me.”
Elijah squeezes your hand once before escaping out the study door, brushing past Finn. Leaving you with your burning hot face and still tear-stained cheeks alone in the bookshelves.
“I’m going to kill myself,” you mutter under your breath.
Finn looks at you apologetically.
“Apologies. We heard yelling.”
“It’s fine.” You hop down from the book shelf and make a valiant effort to pretend you’re not embarrassed. “How are you?”
“Alive.” He gives a tight sort of smile. “That’s the best we can hope for.”
“I would hope you’d want a little bit more than that.”
“Oh, ignore him,” Freya says, edging into view, “He’s being all morose since he killed our mother.”
She sways and nearly falls into the door. You send Finn a questioning look.
“She’s drunk.”
“Ah.” That’ll do it. “Sounds like she has the right idea. Wanna go downstairs?”
You need to get drunk too after everything today.
(Your skin still crawls from hearing your father’s voice. From sleep. From Elijah.)
((Where is Klaus?))
The parlor is blissfully empty. Rumbles of Elijah’s voice rumbles through the halls and he instructs whatever decorators he hired. (You wonder how much they’re spending on this party for 7 people. Elijah is not one to spare any expense.) There is also, thankfully, a fully stocked bar cart in the parlor.
“Have either of you seen Klaus today?” you ask, settled onto your spot on the couch near Finn and Freya.
Finn looks at you, brows furrowed.
“No, I would’ve expected him to be here. Is he not?”
“I haven’t seen him either,” Freya agrees and knocks back an amaretto sour with visible satisfaction.
You rub your temples. “Great. Has he been kidnapped?”
“More woe to the kidnapper in that case.”
“You’d think he would at least want to let us know he’s not dead.”
“Nik rarely thinks of anyone other than himself, I’m afraid,” Finn says dryly.
You stare mulishly into your vodka soda. “I hope you’re right.”
Where is he?
You do your best to push your (numerous, countless, accumulating) worries to rest. It works for about 24% of them. Not a great success rate, if you’re honest.
“You guys are boring!” Freya accuses, “Is there music in here?”
Your eyes follow her as she fiddles around with a speaker (more technologically advanced than Kol’s vinyl collection, but not nearly as cool) and struggle to keep a straight face. It’s strange being around her and not knowing what she’s feeling. Whatever power existed in you before is gone. Part of you mourns the loss.
“Is she okay?” she ask Finn under your breath, “The others said she was pretty drained after everything.”
“She,” Freya says, “can hear you.”
“Will you answer the question instead, then?”
“I am perfect. Absolutely perfectly perfect.” Her phone connects to the speaker and Freya makes an audible sigh of satisfaction when a stream of pop hits churn out. “I’m even better than perfect now.”
You think there are two options here: Freya is handling the death of her aunt worse than you thought, or she just really loves Lady Gaga.
You suppose both things are possible.
Freya’s hands latch onto your own, pulling you out of your seat.
“Dance with me!”
You laugh, startled, as she twirls you around.
“You too, brother!”
Finn, as always, lovingly obliges. Neither Freya or Finn know any modern dances. (You can’t claim yourself to be very knowledgeable.) You all make do with their scattered memories of quadrilles and Louisiana swing. You spin and twirl until you’re dizzy with it and you can’t focus on anything else besides the warmth of their hands and the sweat on your temples. Alcohol fizzles in your veins, carrying you up in one big bubble.
The three of you link hands, dancing in a poor excuse for a circle, singing along to the music. Or at least you are. Freya knows half the words and Finn is barely trying at all, belting out random syllables. At least he knows the chorus.
“What on earth did we just come back to?”
Freya tilts her head backwards to look at Rebekah.
“Rebekah, Kol— you have to join us!”
“I do not see that in the cards for my future at this point.”
“Party poopers,” you accuse.
“Speak for yourself, Bex,” Kol says, dropping his pile of boxes, “I’m always happy to have fun.”
He slips in between you and Freya, giving your hand a squeeze, and joins in on a particularly bad rendition of ‘Bad Romance’. You laugh in delight as Rebekah, begrudgingly, joins. Your dancing devolves into half a dozen variations, each sibling doing whatever their heart desires and you being tossed around like a carousel.
If this is your future, you contemplate as you’re dragged into a Russian folk dance, then you don’t know what you were so worried about.
“Did you know I was a ballerina for a few years?” Rebekah asks, face flushed. She bends into a low arabesque, nose nearly to the floor, before straightening into a pirouette and spinning. Her heel dips down to give her momentum, spinning and spinning until it makes you dizzy just to look at her. She finishes in a low bow. You clap, laughing.
“You’re a wonderful ballerina.”
“Don’t applaud her, I can do it too!”
Kol hops in the middle of your circle, leg out and low, and spins until you think he’s going to knock his siblings down like bowling pins.
“You two are ridiculous,” you say, but they don’t look offended— cheeks flushed pink and eyes sparkling.
“I would just like to add,” Kol says, “I did hold my pirouette for longer.”
Rebekah shoves him off balance. “I’ll show you longer.”
“Bex, darling, I know you’re jealous of my natural abilities, but that doesn’t even make sense.”
“I’ll show you sense.”
“You cannot keep using that as a retort.”
“Children,” Freya says derisively into your ear, “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.”
“I’m proud of you for not throwing up,” you say, amused. Her nose wrinkles.
“Oh god, don’t even say that.”
You laugh and tuck her into your side. She stiffens for a brief moment before sagging against you.
“— At least I know how to play the cello—”
“— Owning a cello does not a cellist make—”
Freya looks at them with a weighty and infinitely sad gaze.
You wonder what would make her happy.
You throw your hand in the air, wrenching your shoulder out of socket.
“… Yes, darling?” Finn asks.
“Is it time to get ready yet? It’s nearly six.”
Rebekah makes a sound you will not refer to as a yelp.
“Lord.” She shoves Kol off balance. “Look at what you did now.”
“What did I do?”
“Darling,” she commands, turning to you, “come with me, I’ve got to get you ready.”
“Do I get any say in the matter?” you mutter, extracting yourself from Freya.
“Absolutely not,” she says cheerfully.
Sounds about right.
You follow Rebekah, still tipsy, to her room. You eye the overly large box in her hands.
“Do I get a choice in what you’re dressing me up in?”
“Absolutely not.”
She shuts the door behind her.
“I had a whole spa event planned,” Rebekah says, pouting, as she starts rolling down your tights, “Now there’s only time for part of it.”
“You do realize I can undress myself? You don’t have to do that.”
She looks up at you, predatory, from her spot kneeling at your feet.
“I’m aware,” she says and you swallow.
Rebekah draws you a bath with rose water and chamomile bubbles, paints a face mask on your skin when you get in. She ties your hair up for you, nail scraping the back of your neck. You shiver.
“What did the rest of your spa day entail?” you ask.
You see Rebekah’s smile in the reflection of the mirror.
“Don’t worry. I’ll save it for another day.”
“Well now I am worried.”
She traces over the back of your neck again, this time deliberately. Something hot clenches in you, made liquid from the alcohol still in your veins.
“Nothing you won’t enjoy.”
She leaves the bathroom for you to face the extent of your sexual frustration alone. Evil, wretched woman.
There are nice smelling soaps out for you, perfumed with flowers and oils. You use half a dozen, if only to try them. The heat relaxes you, drawing out your worries into the water, evaporating into the air.
Elijah is unharmed, everyone who wishes your loved ones harm is dead (well, nearly everyone), you’re having a party.
You are well fed and well loved and nothing can hurt you here.
Strange optimism infuses you.
Rebekah returns to clean the face mask of your face with a damp cloth. She drains the bath.
“Do I get to know what I’m wearing?” you ask dryly, tying a silk robe firmly in place (thank you very much).
“Be patient,” she scolds, “You’ll see when I’m done.”
She paints makeup on your face and you let her. Blush. Mascara. A muted red lipstick. It’s a calming feeling, the brushes tracing over smooth skin, Rebekah so close to you that you could count every fleck in her iris as she focuses intently on blending.
“You’re good at this.”
Rebekah snorts. “I’d hope so after this many centuries.”
“Did you ever wear that lead paint makeup?”
“Oh yes. Lead, arsenic, asbestos. It’s a good thing we’re immortal.”
“Christ.”
“We can at least be thankful I never fell victim to plucking my hairline. Can you imagine how long that would take to grow back?”
You laugh, smudging your eyeliner.
“No,” you say, “I can’t say I can. If it makes you feel better, I’m sure you’d be just as beautiful with a higher forehead.”
Rebekah grimaces.
“I’m content as it is now.”
You smile and press a kiss to her forehead, lipstick smudging on her skin.
“Good.”
Rebekah wrinkles her nose. “You’re lucky I haven’t done my makeup yet.”
You laugh, and she finishes your makeup and lodges thick pins in your hair to keep it in place. You predict a headache in your future. You admire your reflection in the mirror, coiffed and bright-eyed. If nothing else, though, you look beautiful.
Rebekah brings you back into the bedroom to reveal your dress with the utmost spectacle she can muster. It still doesn’t do it justice.
“Rebekah…” you say, “It’s beautiful.”
Your dress is iridescent with flecks of oranges and blues and pinks, changing color in the light. Silk lingers beneath layers of gauzy material that form translucent sleeves and a low neckline.
“It is, isn’t it? I wanted to see you in it the moment I saw it. Here.”
Rebekah takes your robe and lowers the dress onto you. Her fingers brush your skin as she meticulously buttons each and every mother-of-pearl button adorning the back.
She holds the fire opal necklace up to your throat.
“I’m glad I managed to find this,” she muses, “All the better Kol couldn’t remember what Dickens novel it was in. He probably would have hidden it again.”
Rebekah latches it at the base of your neck.
“It suits you,” she says.”
You turn your head to the side, and she’s inches from you, looking at you with her clear blue eyes.
Her finger traces your throat.
“I won’t bring this up again, as I suspect you would find it distasteful,” Rebekah says quietly, “so I will say it only once. I am sorry you received the parents you did. You were brave on the phone.”
Your stomach twists.
“Thank you,” you manage to say, “I… I still don’t know if I’ll regret it.”
“There are things to regret either way. Living your life for you is never something that should be shameful.”
You smile, a tiny thing.
“Thanks Rebekah.”
She clears her throat, expression returning.
“Now, I have to get dressed too and my gown is a surprise.”
“Are you kicking me out?” you ask, amused.
“I am kicking you out.”
You leave Rebekah’s room unceremoniously and somewhat amused. The halls are quiet. Distantly, you can hear the creaks of the Mikaelsons walking on old floorboards, soft muttered conversation if you listen. Or maybe you’re imagining things.
You could seek out company. Part of you wants to be alone with your thoughts.
The manor, now that you’re somewhat more familiar with it, is not as expansively big as you once thought. It’s still enormous, but you have a better handle on your surroundings. The building stretches from North to South, sun rising over the front of the house in the morning. Most of your time has been spent on the first two floors.
There’s still much to explore.
You wander past empty bedrooms and the study, wander your way up to the top floor. At the top of the stairs, there’s a bay window overlooking the trees cover the hill. It’s getting dark out already, still early in the year. You realize you don’t think you’ve been on this floor before.
You open the door to your right.
You don’t find Klaus in his studio, but find something nearly close enough. He’s been here recently, canvas propped up on his easel still shiny. Not dry quite yet. (Though, with oil, that means anything.) You step closer, dwarfed by the huge canvas. You recognize it. Thick hatched charcoal background. It’s what he had been working on in New York.
Now, though, the dark background recedes in the luminescence of a red sun burnt in the middle. It is so large it takes up nearly a third of the surface area. It is unlike Klaus’s other paintings— more Caravaggio in style— and instead remains abstract with thick strokes. It feels like freedom. Like relief.
Like the burning sun.
(If you couldn’t find Klaus, at least you know he’s okay.)
You close the door to the studio behind you.
The rest of your exploring results in little more than empty rooms and old art, framed in gilt extravagance. No one ever accused Klaus of being subtle.
The others are waiting for you when you return downstairs. There’s a beat of silence when you appear at the top of the stairs, glittering in silk. Rebekah looks on in smug satisfaction, wrapped in a blood red dress that spills where your flows.
“You guys clean up nice,” you say dryly. Finn smiles wryly.
“I would say the same, but you always look wonderful.”
“Flatterer.”
Finn just smiles.
“I can’t believe Elijah’s making us wear these,” Kol moans, tugging at his collar.
“You can’t have a proper celebration wearing a hoodie,” Elijah says crisply, walking into the foyer. His eyes light upon yours for a lingering second.
“Ball,” Rebekah corrects, “Is it time?”
“I do believe it is.”
Elijah reaches out his hand to you. You take it.
The ball room is decked out in Elijah’s gold silk streamers, room glittering with candlelight reflected between mirrors and crystal. It feels like stepping into an enchantment.
“Elijah,” you breathe, “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s quite alright,” he says.
Catering is set up on the side, near a (live!) orchestra quartet. There are mini quiches and creme brûlée and tiers of cream puffs. There are all of your favorites you were never allowed to eat. (And far, far too much for the Mikaelsons to eat on their own, even with your help.)
(You sense leftovers in your future.)
“Care to dance?”
You look up at Finn and smile.
“Didn’t have enough earlier?”
“Never,” he promises.
You take his hand.
The orchestra strikes up a waltz, which is thankfully within your capabilities. Even you can mess up stepping in a box. Hopefully.
“I feel bad Elijah put all this together just for us.”
“Don’t worry too much,” Finn says dryly, “It’s his favorite pastime.”
You suppose that’s fair.
Finn’s hands are warm in yours. He has always been good to you. More stable than you could reasonably expect from a Mikaelson. You think of him quietly helping you; Freya; his siblings. You think of him killing his mother, white-faced and raw.
You know relationships are not made up of obligations. You cannot shake the feeling that you owe him.
“What are you thinking about?” Finn questions, leading you into an underarm turn.
“That I’ve missed you. Can we spend some time just us soon?”
He smiles, gently, and you think to when you first met and had no idea who he was.
“Of course,” he says.
You smile.
You get unceremoniously tossed to Rebekah who doesn’t take pity on you and your lack of dance skills and makes you learn a tango.
(— “It’s only eight steps darling, even you can do this—”)
Kol, at least, treats you better by doing all the hard work himself.
Well. Better is a broad term.
“Put me down Kol!”
He laughs as he spins you in a circle, lifting you so your feet can’t touch the ground.
“Say please!”
“Please—” you say but it’s undermined by your laughter.
Kol is grinning when he finally lets you back down.
“Jesus Christ, have you been watching Dirty Dancing or something?”
“Not recently,” he remarks.
You laugh despite yourself. Kol grins back at you.
“Are you going to teach me a new dance too?”
“You’re saying my lift didn’t do it for you?” he mocks, “Allow me to show you another one.”
“No! That’s alright. I’m good.”
“Really? It’s no trouble.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” you say under your breath.
Kol twirls you until you’re dizzy with it. He only takes mercy on you after your face goes hot.
“You’re lucky I didn’t eat before this,” you say, catching your breath.
Kol pulls you flush against him, one hand resting on the small of your back and other holding yours. “I’m sorry,” he says, pouting, “Will you forgive me?”
“You don’t have to bat your eyelashes.”
Kol flutters them. You roll your eyes skyward.
“Did you get Bonnie her grimoires yet?”
“Oh yes,” Kol says airily, “”Would you believe she didn’t thank me at all?”
“Yes.”
“People these days. No manners at all.”
You snort and privately hope Bonnie is enjoying her victory.
“Would you like any champagne, darling? There’s plenty.”
“Please.”
Kol grins broadly, glitteringly happy, and you think you fall in love with him all over again.
He spins you into Elijah’s arms. “Have fun darling,” he calls, “Enjoy it while you can because I’m going to steal you away tomorrow!”
“… You don’t happen to know what he means by that, do you?” you ask Elijah.
He looks down on you with his deep brown eyes, amused.
“I’m afraid I don’t. It seems you should get packing.”
You huff a laugh and fall silent. You want to talk to him about earlier, but not when his siblings surround you.
(You think Elijah would appreciate you glossing over the subject anyway.)
You clear your throat.
“So what are your post-parent plans?”
Elijah spins you out, waiting patiently for you to twirl back into him.
“In all honesty,” he confesses, “I do not know. It has been a long time since I’ve had this level of relief. I think I may even take a vacation.”
You smile widely. “We’re are you thinking?”
His brow furrows. “I’m afraid I didn’t get that far.”
“You could always go to the beach.”
“Perhaps I will.”
You think of Elijah stripped of his suit and put in swim trunks. You snort.
Elijah looks at you, amused.
“What is it?”
“Sorry, I’m just trying to imagine you not wearing a suit. I’m having some difficulty.”
“I do have other clothes, you know.”
“I would love to see proof of that.”
It’s Elijah’s turn to roll his eyes. (In his defense, it’s more a vague fluttering of the eyelashes than a true Mikaelson eye-roll.)
“I have something for you,” Elijah says. You think you detect a note of hesitation in his voice. “You are welcome to refuse it if I am overstepping or if it is not something you want.”
“You’re scaring me a little, Elijah,” you say dryly, if only to mask the way tension alights in your shoulders.
“I’ve secured a volunteer position at your library. You’ll be given a monthly stipend and will be in charge of helping plan and run events. It’s two to three days a week.”
You falter mid step.
“Elijah… Why would you even think to look for something like that?”
He hums.
“You mentioned you were bored now that you were no longer working. I felt it was important for you to have things outside of us.”
Oh Elijah.
“I’ll think about it. Thank you.”
His hand is warm in yours. The two of you turn around the dance floor. You think about working at the library— your library. It was always so peaceful there. Spending a few days outside of the house might do you some good. You’ve always been a little (a lot) worried about getting sucked into the Mikaelsons so much you forget you’re a person outside of that. These worries have mostly assuaged. Still, it would be nice to have a barrier in place.
(Nice that Elijah was the one to suggest it.)
“Here’s your champagne, darling.”
You blink at Kol and smile. You take it, stepping out of Elijah’s careful embrace.
“Thank you. I think I might take a break from dancing. If I don’t eat at least a dozen cream puffs tonight I’m marking this evening off as a lost cause.”
“Far beat for us to keep you from it.”
You smile. “Thank you for the dance, Elijah.”
“Hey,” Kol protests, “What about me?”
“You don’t get any thanks, you almost made me puke.”
“Semantics.”
The champagne is light on your tongue, cream puffs only mildly heavier. You get through six and figure you can come back to finish the job later. The Mikaelsons are on their way to blasted drunk. (You can’t fault them for celebrating. They deserve it.)
But something’s missing.
Freya is not with her siblings, vanished in between dances. (You would ask one of her siblings where she’s gone, but you know the feeling of needing to be alone.)
Still, you can’t help but worry. She can’t have gone far.
The foyer is empty, same with her room. You trace your way back to the ballroom, brow furrowed, when you catch a flash through the window in the corner of your eye.
The night air is cold. Your dress does nothing to protect you from the wind.
“I was wondering where you were,” you say as you approach. Freya turns to look at you. With not being able to taste Freya’s emotions now, there’s no cheatsheet to understand how she’s feeling. You didn’t really it was something you depended on until now.
“I needed some air,” she says.
“Do you want me to go?”
“… No. It’s okay.”
You sit quietly with Freya, looking through the glass into the ballroom. Her siblings dance and drink and carouse. As Freya should be doing.
(She looks like the loneliest person on earth.)
“Sometimes I miss my siblings when they’re right in front of me,” Freya admits, maudlin, “I’ve spent so long wanting to find them.”
There’s a brief moment where you pause and wonder if you should respond. You don’t want her to regret telling you these things in the morning.
(Don’t want her to tell you just because she has no one else to tell.)
“You have them now,” you settle on saying.
Freya scoffs, shaking her head. “There’s too big a barrier between us. Finn is the only one who remembers me from our human years. Even then he’s hanging onto a memory, not a person. I was a toddler then. I remember more of Dahlia and sleep than I do of my family. And they don’t know me at all.”
Through the window, the string quartet plays.
“I will never have the kind of bond with them that they have with each other,” Freya says, hushed and heartbreakingly sad.
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” you say. Freya turns to you, disbelief carved on her face.
“I can’t think of why it would be.”
You sigh and look through the thick glass to the party inside. Rebekah’s dress bleeds and spills in crimson rivulets in contrast with her buttoned up brothers. In contrast with Freya’s deep azure gown. (With yours: iridescent and glowing.)
“Your siblings… have a complicated history with each other. Even I can see that. They’ve betrayed each other a thousand times over, in a thousand different ways. You get to bypass all of that. You’re a fresh slate.”
“Maybe,” she says. She doesn’t sound like she believes you. Not yet.
You hesitate.
“Would you like to go on a walk?”
She looks at you for a moment.
“Sure,” she says, “Let’s go.”
It’s colder away from the house, without the walls to block the wind. You shiver in the biting air.
Freya’s brow furrows.
“Are you cold?”
“A bit,” you admit.
Freya twists her wrist and a wall of warmth comes over you. You can’t feel the wind now.
“Better?”
“Much.”
The property surrounding the Mikaelson’s mansion is beautiful even after the winter. Small things are beginning to poke their heads out of the soil. (More hints of something to come than anything substantial.)
“I’ve always loved the spring,” you say, “Finn’s helping me plan a garden.”
Freya hums. “He’s good at that, I’ve noticed.”
“Very. I’m hopeless, so it’s very welcome.”
“Maybe he can teach us.”
You smile at her. “Maybe he can. Have you been staying with him?”
“I visit often, but no. I got a house on the other side of town.”
“Didn’t want to stay at the manor?”
“I… I didn’t want to ask. I thought it might be best to develop our relationship with a bit of space.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “You may be right. You know you’re always welcome at my place.”
She smiles wanly. “I’d like that.”
The two of you walk through the Western part of the wood, silent except for the rustling of bushes as you pass.
“I wanted to apologize to you,” Freya says, stilted, as you pass by a bare willow tree. “For… for trying to hurt you. For putting Nik under the spell. I was so terrified when he told me he thought he could have children. More terrified when the tests confirmed it. I— I didn’t know what to do. I’m so sorry.”
Part of you eases at her apology.
“Thank you. I want you to know that I… well I guess I could never understand, not really. But I know why you felt you had to do it.”
Freya is quiet for a moment.
“Do you think you’d want kids?”
“Do you?”
Her expression aches.
“Very much so. I don’t know when. Losing… Losing my baby still hurts, even if it was centuries ago. It wasn’t centuries to me.”
“You have time,” you promise.
Freya looks at you so sadly and gratefully. You wonder how anyone could find it in them to hurt her.
“Freya—” you start and trail off. You don’t know how to put into words your feelings, things you know to be true.
Instead, you kiss her, slowly enough she could have pushed you away.
Could have.
Your skin still tingles with lost electricity where she touches you, voltage of dead batteries.
She looks at you with glassy eyes as you pull away.
“Me too?” she asks.
“If you’d like,” you say.
Freya’s eyes burn bright.
Rain starts, bouncing off of Freya’s protective bubble.
“Would you like to go in?” you ask.
She smiles.
It’s early in the morning when you finally get back to your home. You’re tired, but in a worn kind of way where you don’t want to let go of awareness.
Instead, you make cookies.
Butter, sugar, flour, vanilla. White chocolate and macadamia nuts. You preheat the oven, creaming the butter and sugar together by hand. Warm notes of sweetness and vanilla rise and heat your face.
You scoop them out onto a tray with your mind calm and empty with contentment and the lingering effervescent bubbles of champagne, feet worn with dancing.
(It is not often you are up this late.)
The cookies go in for 15 minutes, come out golden brown and soft in the middle. You never let cookies cool completely before trying one. (Just because you’re a baker, doesn’t mean you can’t break rules.) You eat one with a spoon, white chocolate smearing in the corners of your mouth. Molten chocolate warms you from the inside out. You put one in a ramekin and take it outside. You sit, legs crossed, on your porch swing, dress splayed around you. It’s dark and quiet outside. The rain stopped hours ago, it seems. Ground still damp and soft. The sky is beginning to lighten from its deep midnight black to charcoal. It’s not much longer until sunrise.
You wonder where Kol is going to take you today.
Someone calls your name.
You turn.
Klaus stands at the edge of your porch, indescribable expression on his face. His skin is flushed, but his eyes anemic and gray.
“Klaus—” You don’t manage to finish whatever you were thinking of saying. All you can feel is the potent relief that lurches in your chest.
“I am grateful you are okay,” Klaus says in a hoarse whisper.
“Of course I am,” you say, half lying.
He walks to you and you’re frozen in your seat, unable to move in fear of cracking. He makes no move to speak: no apology for tying you to a bed, nor reprimand for escaping and coming anyway. (You didn’t really expect the former, glad of the latter.)
“Do you want dessert?” you ask instead, “There are cookies in the kitchen.”
He smiles and laughs, a small thing in his chest.
“No thank you. May I sit?”
You move your skirt. “Of course.”
Klaus sits with you, gently rocking the swing. His warmth presses through your dress, into your skin.
“I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” you say, breaching the silence.
“I found myself needing to be alone. Please don’t take offense.”
“I don’t.”
You’re quiet again. You think you know how Freya feels, being alone when they’re right in front of you.
“I wanted to apologize,” you say quietly, “for not realizing Freya put you under a spell. I should have known.”
“If my family did not realize, there was no chance you could have. You do not owe me an apology.”
“Still—”
“My dear,” Klaus interrupts, “I am not upset with you. I have no right to be, and it is not your responsibility to guard my life from my siblings. Freya and I have spoken. she is aware of what will occur if she tries anything similar.”
A pang goes through you at the idea.
(You have another Mikaelson to think about now.)
“I’m glad you’re okay now.” A heartbeat of silence. “Are you okay?”
He turns to look at you, eyes turning bluer in the rising light.
“I think,” he says slowly, “that I am.”
You take his hand. The sky lightens to a deep indigo, softens into rose.
“I’m glad you found me, Klaus. I owe my happiness to you. Before… all of this, I had virtually nothing in my life. No friends, no family. I was just so tired. This is the happiest I have ever been.”
He takes your chin and makes you look at him, his face close to yours.
“You owe me nothing,” he says fiercely, “Whatever happiness you have is a pale imitation of what you bring to me.”
You fist your hand in his shirt.
“Please don’t leave again.”
“I will do my best,” he promises.
“Will things go back to normal now?”
He hums.
“I am not sure how much of a normal we have.” You quiet, but Klaus continues. “There will be less to worry about now. It is not often my family remains in one spot. I suspect we will follow wherever you go. Or drag you along, if you’re willing.”
You half-smile.
“I suppose it’s time I’ve left the country.”
The corners of Klaus’s lips quirk up in a smile. He pulls you into him so you’re pressed up against him, his warmth sinking into your skin.
“I’ve missed you,” he rumbles. You feel it in your bones.
“I’ve missed you too. I’m glad you’re alright.”
His hand traces a pattern on yours.
“I am only sorry I couldn’t be with you in the way you deserved the past week. Winning a war takes more energy than anticipated. I was hesitant for others to see how much I care about you.”
“I know,” you say quietly, because despite it stinging in the moment you could tell what he was doing, “Marcel is gone now, right?”
He looks at you intently. “Yes,” he says, “Is that an issue?”
“No,” you say quickly, “I… I was worried they wouldn’t leave and try to hurt you.”
“Ah,” he says, amused, “Worried about me, were you?”
“Yes.”
Your response seems to take the wind out of his sails.
“Apologies.”
“It’s alright,” you say, leaning your head back to look at him, “I found your painting. I knew you were okay.”
He smiles, amused. “So you discovered my studio, then.”
“It wasn’t locked,” you say, embarrassed.
“It’s alright, love. There’s nowhere in the manor you’re not allowed to go. I have promised to share my life.”
A breeze goes through you and you shiver. Klaus wraps his arms around you.
The sun crests the budding trees, still wet with rain.
(“I love you” you say.
Klaus answers.)
The two of you sit on your porch, watching as the sun rises bright and orange in the sky. The knots you’ve twisted yourself into start to pick apart. Always so worried about the future. Escaping. Saving money. The Mikaelsons leaving you of their own accord or in death. You doubt these worries will untie themselves completely. But now there’s time for them to loosen. New worries will take their places: worries of what to cook for dinner, of family, of love, of eternity and how to spend it. There is time, now.
(Really, nothing but time anymore.)
Spring lingers, incandescent, on the horizon.