"This is a truce," he says before she can run, handing her a glass of champagne.
She sizes him up, weighing all the things he's been to what he is now, a beast hidden in gentleman's clothing. "Fine," she says.
His hand slides over the table, not to cover hers but only to connect their fingertips, as if love for a monster were something you could transmit by touch, a sort of contagious disease.
"You've changed," he says.
She tilts her head, considers him. For the first time of his life since she craved something other than sweet peas he feels self-conscious about his appearance, the red dahlia at his bouttonière.
"You haven't," is what she decides on. He doesn't know if that's something else he should be sorry for.
When he finally talks to her it's where they belong - in the whodunit dark of an alley, where only the moonlit angles of her face emerge, fierce. "I found you first," he says.
"I don't belong to you," she says back, the darkness forcing her voice down to a whisper. "Or to Klaus, for that matter."
His thumb steals a carress over the plush of her cheek. "I know."
The answer seems to confound her; she flounders.
"Good night, Katerina," he says.
It's been a long time since he wished for human slowness - still, that night, he finds himself wanting to know if the hand she reached was to touch him or to make sure he was gone.
-
There is still the overwhelming urge to protect her, when he sees her face crop up in the countries she breezes through in her flight. Sometimes he wishes he had the courage to go to her, slip his arms around her waist and say, soothing, "You can stop running now." He wishes he could mean it.
But Klaus will never stop hunting her, not now that his pride was wounded, and there's nothing Elijah can do, because as strong as his love for her is, his love for his family is stronger. Always and forever. No, he corrects himself - it isn't love, it's obligation, it's twisted and dark; it's a root that will never be torn out. It's a gangrene.
But maybe that's what love is. Maybe he's the naïve one, after all.
-
Because she isn't a frail princess, or so he comes to realize - she never was. He finds her on a street corner in Firenze, where she definitely shouldn't be but is anyway. He watches as she lures a leather-jacketed young man right into her arms and sinks her teeth into his neck, drinking with long, drawn-out breaths.
He watches for as long as he can before stepping out of the shadows, towards her. She wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand, and for the first time since she's appeared he notices that she doesn't look lost, that she doesn't look confused.
"Katerina," he croaks out, his tongue accented with the heavy Bulgarian he stole from her.
She smiles. "Elijah."
He searched for her for a long time, intent on dragging her back to his brother with chained hands, screaming. He wanted to break her fangs and her neck. He wanted to destroy her.
But she doesn't care. She's Katerina Petrova, he understands. She's fearless.
She strides forward in the Italian night, and she kisses him. He had never imagined kissing her back like that: like sharing a meal, like burning, like being human again.
She licks her lips afterwards, red from so much more than blood. "I've wanted to do that for a long time," she says, her eyes impenetrable, neither cold nor sweet.
-
He holds her breath under a blade.
"You won't kill me," she says.
"No. But I can make you pay."
And maybe he's forgotten what, exactly, he's supposed to make her pay for this time. Maybe she's the only one of them who keeps track, because he keeps taking all those quests for immortal revenge as a way to get her close, to see her profile the moment before he jumps, her lips heaving with contained breath.
She looks at him, the jar of a thousand stories, diffracted, divided and yet truer than anyone he ever met. "You love me," she says like a surprise gift.
"Yes," he answers as the blade descends, and it drowns in her screams.
"This is a truce," he says before she can run, handing her a glass of champagne.
She sizes him up, weighing all the things he's been to what he is now, a beast hidden in gentleman's clothing. "Fine," she says.
His hand slides over the table, not to cover hers but only to connect their fingertips, as if love for a monster were something you could transmit by touch, a sort of contagious disease.
"You've changed," he says.
She tilts her head, considers him. For the first time of his life since she craved something other than sweet peas he feels self-conscious about his appearance, the red dahlia at his bouttonière.
"You haven't," is what she decides on. He doesn't know if that's something else he should be sorry for.
When he finally talks to her it's where they belong - in the whodunit dark of an alley, where only the moonlit angles of her face emerge, fierce. "I found you first," he says.
"I don't belong to you," she says back, the darkness forcing her voice down to a whisper. "Or to Klaus, for that matter."
His thumb steals a carress over the plush of her cheek. "I know."
The answer seems to confound her; she flounders.
"Good night, Katerina," he says.
It's been a long time since he wished for human slowness - still, that night, he finds himself wanting to know if the hand she reached was to touch him or to make sure he was gone.
-
There is still the overwhelming urge to protect her, when he sees her face crop up in the countries she breezes through in her flight. Sometimes he wishes he had the courage to go to her, slip his arms around her waist and say, soothing, "You can stop running now." He wishes he could mean it.
But Klaus will never stop hunting her, not now that his pride was wounded, and there's nothing Elijah can do, because as strong as his love for her is, his love for his family is stronger. Always and forever. No, he corrects himself - it isn't love, it's obligation, it's twisted and dark; it's a root that will never be torn out. It's a gangrene.
But maybe that's what love is. Maybe he's the naïve one, after all.
-
Because she isn't a frail princess, or so he comes to realize - she never was. He finds her on a street corner in Firenze, where she definitely shouldn't be but is anyway. He watches as she lures a leather-jacketed young man right into her arms and sinks her teeth into his neck, drinking with long, drawn-out breaths.
He watches for as long as he can before stepping out of the shadows, towards her. She wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand, and for the first time since she's appeared he notices that she doesn't look lost, that she doesn't look confused.
"Katerina," he croaks out, his tongue accented with the heavy Bulgarian he stole from her.
She smiles. "Elijah."
He searched for her for a long time, intent on dragging her back to his brother with chained hands, screaming. He wanted to break her fangs and her neck. He wanted to destroy her.
But she doesn't care. She's Katerina Petrova, he understands. She's fearless.
She strides forward in the Italian night, and she kisses him. He had never imagined kissing her back like that: like sharing a meal, like burning, like being human again.
She licks her lips afterwards, red from so much more than blood. "I've wanted to do that for a long time," she says, her eyes impenetrable, neither cold nor sweet.
-
He holds her breath under a blade.
"You won't kill me," she says.
"No. But I can make you pay."
And maybe he's forgotten what, exactly, he's supposed to make her pay for this time. Maybe she's the only one of them who keeps track, because he keeps taking all those quests for immortal revenge as a way to get her close, to see her profile the moment before he jumps, her lips heaving with contained breath.
She looks at him, the jar of a thousand stories, diffracted, divided and yet truer than anyone he ever met. "You love me," she says like a surprise gift.
"Yes," he answers as the blade descends, and it drowns in her screams.
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