She wouldn't leave him. He taught her everything she knows: the manipulation and the taste for fine clothing and finer meals, the hunting in dark forests and cloying cities, the jumping through centuries as though they didn't exist. He taught her to be a phoenix, and to always rise stronger; he taught her never to deny herself anything.
She'd like to say she taught him something in return, but if she did, it's only between the lines: sleeping uncoiled, his arm thrown over her waist, without jumping at the slightest noise; calm, sometimes, to admire the fragile stillness of beauty.
She wouldn't leave him. She'd be afraid he'd die, without disciples: without anyone to believe in him, she likes to think that he'd just fade away.
*
When photography is invented, Rebekah is fascinated by it. There's something almost magic about it, not their dark, indigenous blood magic, something else. Human magic. Klaus despises it, just like he despises everything that's human, but the set-up makes Rebekah shiver, the dark sheet you have to duck under, the muffled "Keep still," and then -- flash. Immortalized.
Klaus buys her dresses and jewels to pose in and Rebekah pouts for the camera, now doubly immortal; she feels like the flashes add to her little stock of power, something she can keep locked in until it turns to diamond and then use to carve her name in her enemies' flesh.
In the end, Klaus buys her a photography studio, a little, glitzy thing in Paris with a dark chamber and plush velvet sofas. He gives her the key, leads her to the door in a blindfold, his arm draped possessively around her waist.
"Klaus," she breathes when she sees -- just a second before a triumphant smile slices her face in two, of course, and then she -
she looks him in the eye and he's standing there, her brother before all, Klaus Mikaelson, she thought this name was ridiculous at first but now it sort of fits, and
she strides forward and hooks her elbows over his shoulder, kisses him like she's forgotten how to, like she wants to drain him of blood. He bites her lip, says she must really like photography, but
they are tangled and inseparable, undiscerning, beautifully misguided, two creatures, and they love each other like only Mikaelson siblings can love. Badly, but with panache.
*
Eternity has been kind to them. Klaus laughs and trips her onto the bed, pins her down and kisses her, blood still dripping from his fangs. He's ecstatic like always after hunting, he wants her and she wants him back, after all they're parallel, same blood same father same mother same everything, same devouring love for each other, same always and forever that is a beautiful, beautiful lie, same -
They kiss the same way, too. They kiss like they want to consume and confuse all at the same time, they want to burn brighter, higher, faster. Humanity is kindling.
"Do you ever miss it?" she asks after they're done, his head resting on her breast.
"No," he says without asking what she means - he knows. It irritates her that she does, makes her look weak in his eyes. Did he never read a story other than his own?
"Are you sure?" She sits up and in a second she's heaving over him, her breasts are grazing his chest and his wrists are pinned to the bedpost, the student teaching the master, yes, yes, her lips are red and wet but there are questions, concerns about the durability of forever.
"Yes," he growls. It'll mean no, later, but for now it's still yes. He's sure of everything then. Her, himself - everything that matters, at least.
She'd like to say she taught him something in return, but if she did, it's only between the lines: sleeping uncoiled, his arm thrown over her waist, without jumping at the slightest noise; calm, sometimes, to admire the fragile stillness of beauty.
She wouldn't leave him. She'd be afraid he'd die, without disciples: without anyone to believe in him, she likes to think that he'd just fade away.
*
When photography is invented, Rebekah is fascinated by it. There's something almost magic about it, not their dark, indigenous blood magic, something else. Human magic. Klaus despises it, just like he despises everything that's human, but the set-up makes Rebekah shiver, the dark sheet you have to duck under, the muffled "Keep still," and then -- flash. Immortalized.
Klaus buys her dresses and jewels to pose in and Rebekah pouts for the camera, now doubly immortal; she feels like the flashes add to her little stock of power, something she can keep locked in until it turns to diamond and then use to carve her name in her enemies' flesh.
In the end, Klaus buys her a photography studio, a little, glitzy thing in Paris with a dark chamber and plush velvet sofas. He gives her the key, leads her to the door in a blindfold, his arm draped possessively around her waist.
"Klaus," she breathes when she sees -- just a second before a triumphant smile slices her face in two, of course, and then she -
she looks him in the eye and he's standing there, her brother before all, Klaus Mikaelson, she thought this name was ridiculous at first but now it sort of fits, and
she strides forward and hooks her elbows over his shoulder, kisses him like she's forgotten how to, like she wants to drain him of blood. He bites her lip, says she must really like photography, but
they are tangled and inseparable, undiscerning, beautifully misguided, two creatures, and they love each other like only Mikaelson siblings can love. Badly, but with panache.
*
Eternity has been kind to them. Klaus laughs and trips her onto the bed, pins her down and kisses her, blood still dripping from his fangs. He's ecstatic like always after hunting, he wants her and she wants him back, after all they're parallel, same blood same father same mother same everything, same devouring love for each other, same always and forever that is a beautiful, beautiful lie, same -
They kiss the same way, too. They kiss like they want to consume and confuse all at the same time, they want to burn brighter, higher, faster. Humanity is kindling.
"Do you ever miss it?" she asks after they're done, his head resting on her breast.
"No," he says without asking what she means - he knows. It irritates her that she does, makes her look weak in his eyes. Did he never read a story other than his own?
"Are you sure?" She sits up and in a second she's heaving over him, her breasts are grazing his chest and his wrists are pinned to the bedpost, the student teaching the master, yes, yes, her lips are red and wet but there are questions, concerns about the durability of forever.
"Yes," he growls. It'll mean no, later, but for now it's still yes. He's sure of everything then. Her, himself - everything that matters, at least.
*
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