Chapter Text
March 22, 1898 – French Quarter, New Orleans
There were few things Elijah Mikaelson enjoyed more than order.
Order, and perhaps the warm bite of good bourbon after dusk had fallen. The fire crackled politely in the hearth, casting golden light over the French oak floors of the estate. The mansion, nestled discreetly in the woods of the French Quarter, was still. Tidy. Safe. Books lined the mahogany shelves like disciplined soldiers. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner, the hour just shy of midnight.
Elijah stood by the liquor cart, pressing a crystal tumbler to his lips. He took a slow sip, savoring the heat. His suit, dark and tailored, was immaculate—as always. The silence stretched comfortably.
Klaus was seated by the window, legs crossed, a heavy book open on his lap. He flipped another page without looking up. “The humans are quiet tonight.”
“Mmm,” Elijah agreed. “They’ve learned.”
But Klaus didn’t respond. His brow furrowed.
A beat passed.
Then two.
“Elijah,” Klaus said sharply, straightening in his chair. “Do you feel that?”
Elijah turned, lifting a brow. “Feel what—?”
The explosion hit like thunder.
The western wing of the house erupted in a wave of heat and screaming. The glass in the study shattered, and firelight turned the hallway to a tunnel of flickering gold and ash. Human servants shrieked somewhere in the distance—bones cracking, chandeliers crashing to the floor
Klaus was already on his feet, the book falling to the floor with a thump. Elijah set his glass down with infuriating calm.
Fire raced up the corridor, but didn’t spread beyond a certain point—as if held there. Contained.
Controlled.
Deliberate.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Klaus growled.
And then—
Laughter.
Low. Smooth. Smug.
Like sin wrapped in silk and dipped in arsenic.
Footsteps followed. Slow. Purposeful.
And then a voice, sweet and venom-laced:
“Hello, my love.”
Klaus’s entire body went rigid.
Elijah turned, fingers twitching at his sides.
The smoke parted like theater curtains.
And Stiles Stilinski stepped into view.
“Really?” Klaus snarled.
Stiles didn’t even glance his way.
“Stiles,” Elijah said, voice clipped but not cold.
That got him a look. A look .
Stiles’ eyes lit up, golden and foxy. “Elijah,” he cooed, stepping into the room like he owned it. “Still dressing like you’re attending a funeral for your emotions. But mmm, you wear it well.”
Elijah didn’t reply. His posture stiffened, but he didn’t back away.
Stiles tilted his head, curls swaying. “You’ve been ignoring me. It’s rude, you know. Three years, no hello? Not even a severed limb or enchanted dagger? I was starting to think I wasn’t missed.”
“You weren’t,” Klaus said flatly.
“Why are you here?” Elijah asked.
Stiles pouted, stepping closer. “I missed the scenery.” He reached out and, without asking, smoothed the lapel of Elijah’s suit. “And I missed you. Well, mostly your jawline.”
“May I?” he murmured, already reaching out to smooth the lapel of Elijah’s jacket. His fingers ghosted up, straightening the tie with exaggerated care.
Elijah didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
His fingers moved upward, brushing Elijah’s tie, fixing it like a lover would. Then to his throat, trailing gently.
Elijah didn’t move. But his breath hitched.
“Still wearing bergamot,” Stiles murmured. “You always did smell expensive.”
For a moment, they were close enough to kiss.
Elijah’s breath caught.
“Stiles,” he repeated, firmer this time.
The hand didn’t drop.
“You’re not welcome here.”
Stiles pouted. “But I brought fire. Isn’t that a housewarming gift?”
“Stiles,” Elijah warned.
“Hmm?”
“You set our house on fire.”
Stiles looked around, unconcerned. “I redecorated.”
“You murdered our staff,” Klaus snapped.
He grinned, eyes flashing with wicked pleasure, then turned—finally—toward Klaus.
“Oh,” he said brightly. “You’re here too.”
Klaus snarled. “Of course I’m here, you lunatic. It’s my house.”
“Was your house,” Stiles corrected cheerfully.
Klaus moved—fast—but Stiles was faster. In a blink, he was in front of Klaus, fingers glowing faintly with coiled power. He touched Klaus’s shoulder—and the hybrid crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.
Klaus hit the ground with a grunt, rage twisting his features.
“Yikes,” Stiles whispered, nails dragging lightly beneath Klaus’s eye. Blood beaded. “You’re looking older. And not in a dignified way.”
He turned, coat flaring dramatically.
“Honestly, Nik, if I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it ages ago. But there’s something so tragic about watching you unravel yourself.”
Klaus snarled from the floor. “Why are you here?”
Stiles didn’t answer right away.
He was looking at Elijah again. Something unreadable flickered across his face.
“Do you remember the fun we used to have?” he asked softly. “When I could show up unannounced and it meant something?”
Stiles dusted off his hands with the satisfaction of someone who had rearranged furniture and egos alike.
“You didn’t even try to run this time,” he said lightly. “Didn’t throw anything. Didn’t beg. You’re getting boring, love.”
“You,” Klaus spat, struggling to rise, “are insane.”
“Thank you,” Stiles beamed. “I try.”
“Anyway won’t see me for a while,” he said, glancing at Klaus and Elijah. “Try not to die of boredom.”
He began to walk toward the door.
“Wait,” Elijah said.
Stiles paused. “Yes, my darling?”
“Why won’t we see you?”
That grin returned. Slow. Sinister.
And with a snap of his fingers, he was gone.