Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The letter arrives early on a Tuesday morning by overnight courier. It’s postmarked New Orleans.

She doesn’t open it until Wednesday afternoon.

--

Sometimes, in the quiet moments between sunset and dawn, when her girls are asleep upstairs, and she sits alone, a glass of wine in hand, Caroline thinks of Klaus.

Klaus remains - an enigma. Centuries old, yet still so raw, a gaping wound of obsession and emotion, and after all this time, maybe she can understand his mania. No creature, dead or otherwise, could face centuries of feeling and remain fundamentally unchanged by it. 

Something to look forward to, she supposes. Either that, or the death of emotion altogether.

She’s facing a multitude of choices, each one worse than the last: the death of her husband, the death of her children, while the years leave her unmarked - and still, she can't decide which is worse.

When she closes her eyes, he stands before her. “It’s death, love. It’s always death.”

She can feel him at her shoulder, a lingering presence, too close for comfort, yet not close enough for any sort of significant contact. A breath, before he withdraws. She can still feel the memory of him. It’s stronger, on nights like this, and she misses Stefan with a pang so fierce that it hurts - he was always good at this, dealing with the past. Knowing when to let go. Moving on.

“Klaus.” She breathes out, slow and deep, lets her fingers trace the stem of the wineglass in her hand. In her minds eyes, he takes the seat opposite her, cubes of ice swirling in a whiskey filled crystal tumbler. “I’ve never understood. Why did you choose me?”

He smiles into his glass, and it’s languid, self-indulgent, amused. It’s charming and he knows it. “Why not?”

“That won’t work on me.” His smile falters for a moment, before his eyes narrow, and placing his glass on the table between them, he leans forward. The smiles returns and it’s darker, filthier than before.

“Are you sure?”

He closes the distance between them, perched against the coffee table, until she can smell that comforting mix of whiskey and leather from the straps he wears around his neck, until she can imagine the heat of him. He takes the glass from her hands.

In the hushed quiet of her living room, she indulges in it, the idea.  The fantasy. A slip of her morality – as his hand reaches out to trace the line of her cheek and he brushes his mouth against hers, a gentle caress that is at odds with the violence that she expects from him. She doesn’t turn him away, and he moves to her jaw, her throat, pressing slow, open mouth kisses to every patch of open skin until he reaches her clavicle.

“Just be honest with me, Caroline. You want this, too.”

He grins against her skin, and she can feel the sharp points of his teeth as his hands snake up her shirt, taking all that he can, and she lets him, she lets him have it all.

When she opens her eyes, the memory of him is gone and she is alone.

--

Her eyes find the letter on the mantelpiece, and even in the dim light that filters into the room from the streetlamp outside, she can still make out the elegant script.

Yours, Klaus.

Once upon a time, she would have been tempted. Like Elena, she would have followed the flame, been enthralled by it. He would have consumed her.

But ultimately, she won't call. Caroline will not be devoured like Elena was by the men she loved.

She finishes her glass, leaves it on the table as she heads upstairs to her room. She locks the door behind her.

--

Her reply is drafted, but never sent: do you still think of me the same way, Klaus?

Chapter Text

It’s been seven years since the letter when Caroline gets a call.

The next day, she arrives in Paris with little more than a family name and a partial address for an estate on the outskirts of the city.

It’s an old family, with generations stretching far back across the centuries. It doesn’t take her long to locate the grounds of the château, perched on a hill overlooking the city. It’s a beautiful estate, surrounded by vineyards and set apart from the bustle of metropolitan life.

When she reaches the house, the front door hangs on its hinges, a deathly stillness in the air. It’s too quiet for such a large estate.

She doesn’t have to step inside to realise she is too late.

--

She finds him on the steps of a small, privately owned art gallery that's tucked away in a corner of the city, secluded, and that's for the best, she thinks, given the nature of her business here.

It's been fifteen years since she has seen Klaus Mikaelson.

There's a smile on his lips: death sits at his feet, and his mouth is stained bloody red. Her hand is at his throat and the cries of his victims echo throughout the halls of the gallery - and yet his eyes are soft on hers when he speaks.

“Hello, love.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment before her grip relaxes. “Klaus.”

There’s blood on the collar of his shirt, and when she takes in the scene around them, she realises she recognises it. This is the Klaus she knew once, the one that terrorised Mystic Falls, and it’s almost startling to see him return to the familiar patterns of cruelty after nearly a decade.

It’s not without cause. Rebekah had briefed her on the details of what had happened with Elijah, and she can see the impact it’s had on him, the hard edge to his movement; his actions here notwithstanding.

Klaus has always been better at vengeance and it's clear to see he’s still at war. Bodies litter the steps of the gallery, blood stains on stones over three centuries old, but there's something methodical about the scene, as staged as it is, gore and viscera splattering across the tile.

She watches him as he leads her through the rooms of the gallery, navigating the carnage with ease, and begins to suspect that there's more to it - more to this, all of this.

Klaus may not be as lost as he first appears.

“This killing spree you’re on - it’s not random, is it?” Her words draw Klaus to a stop, and he turns back to meet her stare. He holds her gaze, lips quirked at the corners, and the details start to come together. There’s a purpose to all this violence. “You have a list.”

“Our family,” he says instead, sidestepping the point, “has many enemies.”

The pieces click into place. “Elijah.”

Her image of Klaus shifts, again: the kaleidoscope of personas that make him what he is. He can be many things, myth and monster among them, but underneath all the faces he wears, there's a man. A man who can be cruel as well as kind, who can love with an intensity so fierce, it frightens her.

But this loyalty - that devotion - this, she has always admired.

--

But she can't forget what he is.

--

The sightless eyes of the dead stare up at her until she covers them with a dust sheet, but the room still stinks of death, of the blood cooling against the ancient furniture. It should sicken her more than it does, but she’d come to terms with the conditions of her immortality years ago, and she’s well aware of the cost.

Klaus watches her as she takes stock of the room and gets to work, tearing another sheet into sections to soak up the blood. She can feel the weight of his gaze, lingering, almost predatory.

He steps in close when she approaches him, cloths in hand, and gestures to the bodies.

“I thought there'd be more.”

When she glances back at him, his eyes are bright, a smile twisting up his lips.

“I didn't know we were keeping track.”

She holds out a cloth and his smile grows as he takes it. His fingertips brush her palm, hot against her skin until she pulls her hand away. His eyes never leave hers as they move to the glass cabinets lining the walls, and she keeps her gaze pointedly forward until he glances away.

(He’s not good for her, and he knows it.)

His tone is nonchalant when he says, “as flattered as I am for the company, I have to ask: why are you here?”

“Your sister sent me. It's Hope.” He inhales softly and she gentles her tone almost without realising it, glancing back to meet his gaze. “You're needed back in New Orleans.”

His eyes are wide, and he looks almost - vulnerable. He swallows as he glances away, fingers clenching around the cloth in his grip.

“I understand.”

She watches him as he steps back from the glass and scrubs a hand across his face, leaving smears of crimson on his cheeks. It’s striking, this moment; the juxtaposition of what he is and what he could be.

She brushes the thought aside; buries it deep.

--

Seeing him in the flesh like this, after all this time, forces her to admit something: they have a connection, a connection that remains, even with the years that span between them.

When Klaus leaves the city later that evening, he leaves a trail of destruction in his wake. Caroline stays: she still has work in the city, her little stint as a private investigator aside. As she navigates the pavilions of the city, she hears the bells of churches, the cries of the families as the city mourns the massacre.

They serve as a lasting reminder of who and what Klaus Mikaelson is, and her resolve firms.

Chapter Text

Time moves on, stretching out before her in an endless stream of years. Her girls are grown, the school flourishes, and she finds herself with an abundance of time. Eternity doesn’t seem that far beyond the realms of her imagination, anymore.

Inevitably, she finds herself drawn back to New Orleans.

This time, it's different: it's not some plot, some unforeseen consequence of a decision made centuries earlier. It's family; his family and by some strange twist of fate, it's hers also - her student, his daughter, her ward.

--

Klaus Mikaelson is an enigma, all smiles and teeth when he turns up in her office, and even after all these years, she still finds herself caught up in the push and pull of him.

It's been over a decade since Mystic Falls has seen a member of the original family, but the wounds are still fresh, the memories rooted deep. They may have forgotten his face, but his actions are well-remembered, and she notices the care he takes with his name in the confines of the school.

It's not enough for Alaric, and if she's being honest, it's not enough for her either, not with what he's requesting.

"You need to give me more details, Klaus."

He follows her outside when she goes for air, his expression edged with a sharp emotion she can't quite place. He looks smaller, somehow, in her late husband's jacket, and she realises there's something more to this request, something he's not saying.

"What is this magic you're planning on using?"

Klaus waits a long moment before speaking, his expression carefully neutral. "You've heard of the Hollow, I presume?"

Her breath catches in her throat. Klaus watches her react to this, his eyes like steel as he holds her gaze and continues, "it's killing my daughter. I mean to seperate it from her and take it into another vessel before it does."

"How?"

The smile that twists his lips is vicious, with no room for any other emotion than spite and anger, and so she doesn't recognise the subterfuge behind it, the details he withholds from his plan.

It's only later that she learns the truth, the whole truth - and by then, it's almost too late.

--

(Caroline acts. It's what she does when faced with an impossible situation- she acts, does anything except just sit by and let this play out the way Klaus wants it to.

It doesn't take her long to track down the number, her fingers trembling in their grip around the phone. Elijah’s voice is soft when he answers the call, lower timbre edged with concern.

“Caroline. Is everything alright?”

“It’s Klaus. He's going to take the hollow into himself and use the white oak stake."

She hears a sharp intake of breath, before -

"thank you."

- the line cuts off, and she's left with a dial tone and a blank screen, and the quiet in the secluded confines of her office is almost suffocating- )

--

It's only at the end, when Caroline returns to New Orleans to settle a longstanding debt, that she can finally put into words the changes she sees in Klaus.

He's older. Somehow more damaged, but also stitched back together. Still angry, but the fiery heat of it has been tempered, by time, by regret. He’s a brilliant beacon amidst the mesh of people and colour of New Orleans, as much a part of the city he helped build as the streets themselves.

In this moment, he's all too human.

They have both lost much over the years - too much. She can’t imagine the weight of that; and a part of her understands his resignation, his surrender to this.

Another part of her prickles at the thought of losing someone else, whatever they may be - starcrossed almost lovers, enemy turned friend.

(This is the not the way it was meant to end.)

But in the end, it doesn’t matter how she feels.

Klaus Mikaelson is going to sacrifice himself to save the life of his daughter.

She can’t stop him - she won’t. Not when he’s doing the right thing -- when he’s proving himself to be the man she thought he could be.

But she can’t watch him die.

--

She kisses him anyway.

Chapter Text

In the end, it's time. It’s time and time, and years and years, until nearly a century has passed since the Salvatores brothers had returned to Mystic Falls. Her girls have grown and started families of their own, and she begins to feel adrift amidst it all, endless and unchanging.

It takes her too long to realise that there's nothing left for her in Mystic Falls.

“Then what's keeping you?” Bonnie’s hand in hers is strong, although the slight tremor in her grip gives her away. She has aged well, the magic in her veins boosting her vitality, but there is a natural order to things, and as powerful as she is, not even Bonnie can escape that reality. Her friends age, and the people Caroline knew, the people she grew up with, loved, move on. Pass over.

“I don't know.” Bonnie’s gaze is all-knowing and too wise, easily seeing through the lie. Her features show the impact of their combined years. “This place - these people - they're all I've ever known.”

“All the more reason for you to leave.”

She leaves her on the bench outside of the school she built brick by brick, the wind in her hair, and she doesn't feel the chill in the air, winter’s bite.

The next day, she has her things packed into a single suitcase. She takes a taxi to the airport.

--

Paris is beautiful.

The city, the culture, the art. The city doesn't sleep, bursts of music and colour. She walks through the hallowed halls of the Louvre alone and tries not to think of the people she has lost, the people she would have loved to share this with.

A hundred years is a long time. The ring on her finger weighs as heavy as the lump in her throat, and she leaves before she causes a scene, smothering the emotions until shes alone again in her room, and they crest over her, shuddering and all encompassing like a wave.

On her third day, she receives a gilded invitation in a flowering script. It's been decades since they’ve written, but she can still recognise his hand.

She stays in that night, spends many hours considering the letter before she opens it. It’s an invitation to the opening of a new exhibition at the Louvre, signed with an elegant K.

It’s not subtle, but she’s come to expect that from him.

--

“Klaus.”

You're not dead, is what she wants to say. But then again, she already knew that; some part of her had always known.

He's dressed in black tuxedo, white bow tie at his neck, the very picture of that night half a century ago, and he’s alone. She wasn't sure if that would be the case. She doesn't ask about Elijah.

“I’d heard that you’d left the falls.” His eyes glitter, gaze intent. He hasn't changed, even after all this time. “I thought you could use a guide.”

“You're offering to be my chaperone.” She raises a brow, sips delicately from her glass.

“I am.” He holds her gaze for a long moment, a small smile playing on his lips. He tilts his drink towards her. “If you'll have me.”

There’s a charged moment between them. The music changes, and he offers her his hand.

She takes it.

--

His breath is hot against her cheek, his palms warm and solid in their grip, and it doesn't take long for her cheeks to flush with genuine enjoyment as they twirl across the floor. They dance this song and the next, and the next, until she’s breathless and laughing.

They don't talk about the past. He has his reasons, carries the weight of his decisions. She has her reasons too.

He keeps to his word - they attend parties, go shopping, it's light hearted and fun. She enjoys letting go, shaking free of all of it, until she is just - Caroline. It’s the first time she’s felt like herself in years.

And Klaus is -

Everything he promised to be.

--

There are changes, if she looks close enough; evidence of trauma. He bears the brunt of it without complaint but she can see the signs of wear, his smile frayed at the edges, as if it's there to please, not reflect. It's almost as if he's assuming a role, playing at himself and occasionally the facade slips, revealing the damage beneath.

What happened to you, Klaus?

It's a question she won't ask; some secrets are best left alone.

--

She finds his eyes on her more often than not, and finally asks him, “What is it?”

“It’s nothing.” He smiles at her askance look. “I’m glad you’re here. With me.”

She levels him with a steady look. They’re sharing breakfast at a small rustic cafe overlooking the Seine, the early spring sunshine dappling the courtyard in a pale white lattice. Another peaceful morning, like so many they’ve shared together, except - for the look in Klaus’ eye.

He clasps his hands together, leans forward until he’s caught her gaze, and says, “I want you to go on a trip with me.”

“Business or pleasure?”

His eyes gleam. “Pleasure, of course.”

This is a step they haven't taken before. His focus never wavers, eyes flickering over her features, trying to parse out her decision before she's even made it. “Where?”

He smiles, slow and wide, and it ignites that feeling inside her that she’d almost forgotten. “London.”

Chapter Text

It's been three months since he found her in Paris, and a week since they landed in London.

Caroline loves it here.

London is a vibrant mix of people and colour, a melting pot of culture and tradition. It doesn't take long for her to fall in love with the old city - with the history steeped into the old brick and the warren of streets and alleyways, the logic of which has long since been forgotten.

They’re sharing dinner in a private room on the 44th floor of the Shard, elbows brushing as they sit side-by-side in front of the wall to wall windows that look out onto the city.

They've been together for over a month now, and she still can't quite figure him out.

As the sun sets and the room descends into a darkness broken by the flicker of candlelight set into alcoves above the door, Caroline asks, “what is it, exactly, that you want, Klaus?”

He doesn't answer her immediately, regarding her carefully over the rim of his glass. His eyes are as dark as pitch in the low light, unreadable as the set in his jaw.

Finally, he says, “I thought that was obvious.”

She raises a brow. “Enlighten me.”

“I want you. All of you.” He says it matter of fact, as if he's not just made an outlandish declaration. Damn him, he's as charming as the devil in a suit. “And for you to want to give it to me.”

Her breath catches in her throat. He holds her gaze, fingers light around the stem of his wine glass, before his lips twist into a long, slow smile and he takes a sip of wine. 

-- 

That night, she dreams of him. Soft caresses, gentle kisses that drag on long through the lazy hours of the morning, the kind that linger on her skin for hours after she wakes. 

A knock on her door greets her in the morning, and Klaus looks - refreshed, is a word for it.  He looks like the sun, standing in her doorway, and it’s not fair, she decides, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, that he can come away from this unscathed.  

A small smile teases at the corners of his mouth as he leans against the frame, eyes lingering as he takes her in a long, sweeping glance. 

“You look as if you slept well.” 

She spares a glance at the mirror adjacent to the door - she looks the same as she always does, the same as she has since she was seventeen. 

“Well enough.” She pauses, taking him in, seeing if there's anything more to it. There's always room for his schemes, but he's already moved on. 

He offers her his arm. She takes it. If he notices the splashes of colour that stain her cheeks, he doesn't mention it.

“The city awaits.”

Chapter Text

As the summer heat rolls into the low-lying hills of Rome, Caroline travels to Venice alone.

She loses herself amidst the winding streets, and it's the same as it was those first few weeks in Paris, exciting and new, and she feels alive. She buys new dresses for the later summer months and invents herself anew as Catherine.

On the canals, she thinks of her mother and the stories she’d told about backpacking across Europe in her youth, the nights spent in sleeper-carriages and cheap hostels, the people she’d met.

It's a complete surprise later when she stumbles into someone she’d never expected to see in a place like this.

“Rebekah.”

--

The last time Caroline had come face to face with Rebekah Mikaelson had been in the woods outside the Salvatore estate nearly a century ago, leaves in her hair, lips kiss bruised and sore, although they won’t be for long. One of the many perks of immortality, if you can overlook the bloodlust and aversion to sunlight.

She’d been young, younger than she’d known at the time,

“I see Klaus found you.”

Rebekah’s gaze is as sharp as crystal, almost as sharp as the set of her mouth.

“It’s not what you-”

Rebekah raises a hand, cutting her off before she can finish.

“I don’t want to hear it. You’re free to make your own mistakes.” She glances her up and down, and a smile quirks up the edge of her lips. “As numerous as they may be.”

She hesitates. “I will offer one piece of advice, though.”

“I wouldn't,” she begins, leaning in closer, all traces of good humour leaving her expression. “Forget what he is. He can only change so much after a thousand years. Whatever you think he may be, remember that.”

There's a story there behind her gaze, one that speaks of centuries, but she looks away before Caroline can parse out the nuances, flicking her hair over her shoulder in a cascade of gold.

She goes to leave, but pauses at the last second, considering her over her shoulder.

“You're more than he deserves.”

--

There’s a thousand miles and boundless time between that moment and now.

“I’d heard rumours that you’d left the falls. I guessed that you were travelling with my brother.”

Rebekah is dazzling in an elegant white dress, sunkissed by the Italian summer, and beautifully mortal. The years have treated her well - better than most - and a diamond dressed in white gold glitters on her finger. She looks, in a word for it: happy.

Then the truth in her words hit her. “You knew, then. That Klaus-”

She levels Caroline a steady look. “When you’ve lived as long as we have, there are only so many places you can go without being recognised.”

“Does he know?”

A sad smile crosses her lips, and she glances away. “No. It's for the best, I think. For all concerned.” There’s a pause, but before Caroline can think of a response, Rebekah offers her arm. “But since we’re both here, care to join me for a drink?”

They head to Piazzo San Marco, turning away from the square to follow a winding side street until they reach the hotel Rebekah has been staying in. It’s an architectural marvel, a brilliant contrast between classical venetian architecture and designer interiors, and it suits her, the blend of the old and the new.

They've never been close, far from it, but after all this time, it's nice.

In the quiet of the evening, Rebekah lowers her glass and regards her carefully.

Finally, she breaks the silence, her tone carefully controlled. “How is he?”

“Damaged. But recovering.”

“Do you know how-"

She shakes her head, “no.”

It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth either. Over the last few months, she's gotten pieces, small details, started to piece the mystery together. Magic was involved, ancient magic.

Rebekah is quiet for a long moment, seeming to come to a decision.

“I know we’ve had our differences over the years, but I want you to know.” She waits until Caroline meets her gaze. “I’m grateful for what you’re doing.”

“Nik needs people. He can’t survive without family. Thank you, for staying with him.”

She smiles and it’s soft, and there's a look in her eyes that speaks of the centuries they’ve spent together; loved together; lost together.

She picks up her bag and leaves. An hour later, Caroline does too.

--

She calls Klaus that evening. He's here within the day.