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klaus mikaelson

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Are you coming over?

It's the text that makes her chew on her lip, that makes her type four answers and delete them and then type again and then delete that, because it's not so simple as yes or no, and she's spent the last four hours going what am I doing and being weirdly girl-power-self-affirming because she's making a choice for herself, but then wondering what the hell Bonnie and Elena would say, and then wondering what Tyler would do, but she's not thinking about Tyler, because she's not letting her think about Tyler, because- because. Because she's not. Because she doesn't love Klaus, she loves Tyler, but this thing she's got isn't dating, and-

And it's sort of crazy. Of course it's crazy.

But he sends her a text asking her if she's coming over, and she starts tearing through her clothes after she goes back and forth, but she just sort of gives up, and ends up in leggings and a t-shirt that's belted like a dress and flipflops, but she's got makeup on and she's trying to balance between not looking like she tried too hard or too much, and looking nice.

It's a delicate line, and as she's walking to his room, she walks halfway, and then turns around and walks back, and then stopped again, turning back, because she's going to do this, and when she gets to his room, she hesitates but the door's open and she's got a pillow under her arm because it's hers and she just goes in. "I'm spending the night," she informs him, and she looks at him like What're you going to do about it? and she sort of flops into one of his chairs, folding up her feet, like she wasn't here like six hours ago.

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"Caroline," he calls her, softly, because she is so far away, and he can feel it, he knows it, somehow. "Let me," he requests, his hand wrapping around her washcloth. He wants to be the one to wash her, less because of the symbol, although that, too, and more because he just doesn't want her to close in on herself.

"I'm okay," she said, her smile small, but when he took the washcloth, she let it go. "Really, I'm clean and everything." She shrugs one shoulder, but she makes the mistake of glancing at his shoulder and she looks away, biting her lips together. Does it hurt? she nearly asks, but she swallows the words, forcing that smile.

"You know," she says after a second, and her voice is bright. "Someday, I will officially stop being so weird about stuff. You need to wash your hair." She leans past him to grab the shampoo, and holds it out to him with raised eyebrows, expectant. Because there's only so many ways she can change the subject and deflect, but she will try them all.

"As long as you don't stop being you," he murmurs, and the washcloth is now full of soap and running over her skin. It isn't about her being clean, it's about contact and keeping it going, no matter how much he wants to get out of there and drink something.

When she holds up the shampoo, though, he sighs, but with a smile, because he's about to humour, and he puts the cloth away to grab the shampoo, tilt his head back and pour some on his hair, quickly rubbing it in.

"Of course I'll be me," she says, and it's too quiet and not really lying to his face, but, well. She's doing her thing, and ignoring stuff like a champ. So much so, in fact, that she laughs, reaching up to brush the bubbles free before they get in his eyes, and then she finishes washing off and her hair's pretty blood free, so they're good there.

She watches him expectantly, and she's recovered enough that the small smile's grown into a larger one, and she's not going to look at his shoulder, or anything, but be glad she got laid and he's acting normal and not creepy and she's got - well, she's ignoring the feelings, too, because hello, hormones, but he's maybe not a bad guy at all and there are worse places to spend your nights and Caroline Forbes can rationalize anything and she's sort of proud to do it.

"I'm staying," she tells him, like he didn't already know that. "Okay?"

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't," he assures her, because it never even occurred to him that she might leave unless he managed to piss her off again. He seems to be good at that, after all. But he's glad that he hasn't yet, and after he rinses his hair and body he steps out of the shower, and grabs his towel and another for her.

A little extra vampire speed thrown into it - or as much as he can get now - and he's dry, or close enough, including his hair, still moist but not actually wet. A kiss pressed to her temple and he's off to the main room, so he can get some blood from the replicator, and good or not, he's drinking it all down without a wince or a flinch.

She's not as fast, on purpose she's not as fast, because she walks out with the towel wrapped around her, with she stands and watches him for a long, long moment, watches him down the blood without even making sure it's blood, and she knows he's needed it for too long, and she doesn't understand why he waited, why he showered - but more than that, she feels that sinking in her stomach, and she moves from the doorway back to the mirror, to blot dry her hair with a towel and stare at herself in the mirror, before brows furrowing.

She smiles, and she knows it doesn't look right, but she turns away and once she's only damp instead of dry she pads back into the bedroom, moving to grab another one of his t-shirts, not saying a word. Then, when he's stopped, she speaks quietly.

"Why didn't you drink before the shower? I would have waited, you know that." Or, at least, she hoped he knew that.

"I could wait," he answers, and he's halfway through his second bag of blood. His wounds have started itching even worse, which he takes to mean that the healing has picked up, or maybe that's just wishful thinking. "I wanted to wait."

It's as easy as that, and he goes back to the blood, finishes it within seconds, and drops the empty tag in the trash. He moves back to her, and wraps his hands around her waist. "I swear to you, love. I wanted it, or it wouldn't have happened."

"But I didn't want it," she said. "I was trying not to, I- I never wanted- I'm not that person." I'm not him. "I don't bite people during sex. I don't, even though I want to, because-" She stopped then, before her brows furrowed. "I wasn't going to," she finally says, her voice small.

"If you don't want to bite me again," he tells her, and tips her head back slightly, so he can keep her gaze, "then you won't. But I see no reason to stop if it makes you feel good. I'll heal."

"Because I don't want to be that person," she says thickly, and there's no explanation, just that same strained question. "I don't want to talk about this. Can we just not? Please?" Nevermind that she'd asked him about the blood, that it kept circling around because she was thinking about it.

"We can just go to bed. And you should eat more."

"I know what I should do, Caroline," he tells her, and he is this close to snapping, because he isn't used to teenagers, save from his sister, who seems to still be one a lot of the time, and he would probably have fully snapped at her. But she's right, and he trails his hands off of her regretfully, to move back to the replicator, and get some more blood.

"Fine."

You know what? Fine. Of course he knows what to do, he knows everything, he knows what they should do in bed, he knows how to kiss her and what he's looking for and how to be charming, and she just presses her lips into a thin line, and she's not talking to him, but she is not going to walk of shame it back to her rooms, and she instead moves to his bed and slips under the covers, turning away from him as she stares at the wall. Because- because, he's infuriating, and she's on edge already and it sort of makes her want to throw up, but whatever, right? Right. He can take care of his own gaping wound, he asked for it.

The atmosphere in his room is thick with it, her anger, her resentment, and this isn't what he had in mind when he said he would be disappointed if she didn't stay. So he feeds, and once he's fed enough - or as close as he can get to it without an actual body to feed from - he comes to the bed. He's still naked and that's just fine by him, but instead of getting under the covers and joining her, he sits beside her, and reaches his hand out to lay over her leg, and waits until she'll talk to him.

She doesn't talk for a minute, five, ten, because she's rolling words over in her mind and it's taking her that long to put them together into a sentence that's not pity me, it's why. Because why was safe, and she's not asking for his pity.

"He bit me too many times," she said quietly, not looking at him, not reaching for his hand, just staring at the wall. "And he'd feed on me while he- while we slept together, and then he'd compel me again so I didn't care and so I'd forget. I don't want to be like him. I never want to be like him."

Klaus is suddenly very glad that he waited, when she speaks and it is so much more than he expected. So much more, and it makes his blood boil over with anger.

It takes a few seconds before he can speak without it filtering into his voice, although he doesn't sound like his casual self either. "Who?"

"Damon," she says like it's obvious, and she shrugs one shoulder. "He was- I mean, I guess he was sort of my-" And then her brows furrow, and she speaks carefully. "We were dating for a while." Which was to say, she was his mindless walking snack buffet with a heap of sex and larceny on the side, but she really hates thinking about it.

"It was along time ago. Before- I didn't... " She stopped again, and then, shortly. "He compelled me." And then she stops, because that's where her thinking about it stopped.

He would bloody kill him. And not quickly either, not mercilessly. Klaus knows, rationally knows, that it is nothing he hasn't done before himself, but this is Caroline they're talking about, and he cannot think rationally.

"That was nothing like that," he hears himself tell her, and it has to be him talking but most of his mind is still flashing neon ANGER, or is it DANGER, signs. "You didn't compel me, Caroline. You couldn't compel me."

She half rolls, and she looks up at him. "That's not what matters. I mean, it is, but- but I don't want to think about him when I'm with you, and he-" Her eyes cloud. "He hurt me," she said softly. "And I don't- Okay? Unless you really want it, I mean-" She licked her lips.

"I don't want to be like him, or think of him. Of then."

"You're nothing like him," Klaus tells her, and leaves his hand on her thigh, looking down at her. His whole body language is miles away from what he is feeling; he's very good at compartmentalising. Boxing his anger away and focusing on her, nothing in his posture even slightly oppressive.

"But if it makes you think of that, it doesn't have to happen again," he goes on, and his thumb strokes her gently through the cover. "We're in control of what we do, Caroline."

"I don't like hurting you like that," she said quietly. "Even if you tell me to, I feel like- like you don't have a choice. That oh, I'm drinking your blood or whatever, and it's not about you, it's about the thing we are." Her brows knit, and she laughs just a little. "Which is funny, because I don't think we'd be here if we were normal."

She pauses, and then says slowly, carefully. "I like you. I... don't want to hurt you, or- I mean, yeah, sometimes im going to ask you to do stuff you don't want like the other night, but I don't... " She trailed off because she couldn't figure out what to say, and she leaned up on one elbow, reaching to smooth his damp curls off his forehead.

Klaus honestly isn't sure what she's saying anymore, but he knows what he is, and he knows what he'll take. He also knows that she's eighteen, and she has to figure it all out for herself.

"It doesn't have to happen again, love," he tells her again, not moving as she brushes his hair.

"Hey," she says softly, and she's searching his eyes with hers as she sits up, and she just- she doesn't know why, but she picks up his hand, and presses a kiss into the palm of it. "It's late," she says quietly, not looking away as she lets his hand go. "C'mon," and then she touches his cheek, and it's clear that she's thinking still, and she's quiet and gentle and that's who she is, deep down, where people can't see. "Bed?"

"Bed," he echoes, and agrees, even if he doesn't feel like sleeping. Still, he slips under the cover and pulls her into his arms, presses a kiss to her forehead.

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