warnings | fluff, a lil bit of sadness but not too much, klaus being an ass
note: this is my first fic in this entire fandom, and i really do hope i do his amazing character justice. :)
masterlist
A marriage to a Mikaelson was unheard of. They did not love others, too concentrated on their own family to make it any bigger, and those unlucky enough to fall for one of them would surely find their demise rather quickly.
Rebekah was never able to keep a man, her brother, Klaus, always making sure of such. No man was good enough for his sister, you see, so therefore the only option for them if they were to suddenly fall for her, was to die. He did not see a grey area, where they might love her, be with her because of her, no. He was a man of black and white – one either loved or hated someone, and rarely did he see love as an option.
Klaus himself wasn’t one to love. He did not believe in such things, too selfish and arrogant to care for anyone more than he did for himself. It was a game of self-preservation, something he’d say when he tried to justify it, there was no time for such silly little matters. Family was the most important, anyway, and as far as family came for Klaus, they, too, were easily pushed out of the picture. If they bored him, got in his way one too many times, they were greeted with a dagger to the chest and a few decades in a box, carried wherever he went. He did not ever let them go, but he did not let them live alongside him, either. Truly, Klaus Mikaelson was the loneliest, most broken sibling of the family, and his case was a curious one.
As for the eldest brother, Elijah, he was the one that rarely fell. He did not try to jeopardize his connection to his family with such matters of love, but truly, there were times he could not help himself. A woman of perfection, a woman that absolutely held his immortal heart in her hands, a woman he would give his life for, would be one such occasion. There was one woman, though, that could not keep him. She was a human, from when he was a much younger vampire who had not yet lived through a millenia of torture and sacrifice and bloodshed, and he had fallen harder for her than he could have imagined. However, his brother, Klaus, saw to it that her life was a living hell, being so involved with the Mikaelson’s and their horrible past. He was the reason she died – blamed for murder, accused of witchcraft which she had no part in, and therefore burned. She was burned, and along with her, Elijah Mikaelson’s heart. For centuries after, the eldest brother did not connect with anyone. He did not care for anyone in that certain way.
Then, came along another woman, three centuries later. Once again, a woman of perfection, someone Elijah could not even compare Aphrodite herself to. She was beautiful, she was intelligent, she was everything that Elijah had ever asked for in a woman. Above all, though, she was recklessly in love with the Original, regardless of his true self, regardless of the baggage he carried in the form of a little brother. Elijah claimed her as his own, and for ten years, the two were inseparable, completely and totally in love. The family had taken a liking to her, fallen for her as a sister.
And then Klaus took that all away from him. A nasty fight, a blood-filled feed from the hybrid after she had touched a nerve. Elijah was unable to help, unable to do much to stop his brother because of his own ailments, and she was on the brink of death. Once Klaus had finished drinking from her, her body dropped, head falling hard against the ground. Elijah would not lose her to Klaus, would not lose another woman that he loved to his angry younger delinquent brother. He bit his own wrist, forced her to drink his blood. She would heal, he told himself, she would be able to get back up and he could take her away from all of this. But as soon as she was well, Klaus decided he was not finished. With no regard for his older brother’s begging to leave her be, to leave her out of his rage, he snapped her neck.
He solidified her fate, in only a moment. She awoke later that night, fed, and forever sealed the letter on who she was to become. Elijah mourned for her first, trying his best to calm her fear of becoming something like Klaus – a monster with barely any humanity left in the tiny, lifeless heart that beat in his chest. Another decade passed before she was finally okay with herself, another decade spent with the love of her life.
She proposed to him, one night under a dark, moonless sky, that they should marry, that she was tied to him and that his siblings saw her as family. He was… reluctant at first, for fear that she would be caught up in far worse, but she bargained, made him realize that she was already caught. So, on the twenty-second year of their eternal relationship, she took his last name. She became a Mikaelson.
She and Elijah were like a King and Queen above the rest of the family, regardless of her humility, her humanity that ran thick through her veins. They fed, yes, but she was in control, standing by the side of her love with the most powerful feeling surging in her chest. Pride. Pride in what she had, pride in who she was, pride in who she loved.
And then he was gone. For forty years, the King and the Queen, quick to forgive, loving, and violent when challenged, ruled with and over the small family, and then just like that, the Queen was alone and her King was shoved in a box with a dagger in his chest. Klaus had taken from her everything – her family, her love, her lifeline. He took her humanity, her forgiveness. And he ran.
Years were nothing when your life was eternal, this was true. Forty years were a mere four to a vampire. A century only a decade. For another century and a half, the lone Mikaelson stayed to herself, became nothing but a shadow. Her ring – a silver band with Elijah’s name engraved on the inside, with a blue gem in the center to allow it to be a daylight ring, was cold on her fingers, but never removed. She loved him. She would not leave him. She would be there the day he woke.
She tailed Klaus, followed him wherever he went, but never in person, and only with a locater spell. Once he arrived in Mystic Falls, she caught word of the havoc he wreaked, heard of the times he woke his siblings and then put them back down as if they were nothing. Then, he fled to New Orleans. When he arrived, she heard of it rather quickly. She was furious.
“What do you mean he’s back in New Orleans?” She yelled to Marcel, who stood against the railing of the upper level of the compound, a rather joyous party going on beneath them.
“He’s back, Y/n,” he said lowly, “I don’t know why, I just know that he is.”
“He will not live to leave,” she growled, fingers gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles went white. She took a breath in, soothing the anger that ran through her chest and made her blood boil. There was a moment of silence, and then she looked down at her hands, her grip loosening, “If he’s back, that means so is…” Tears burned at the back of her eyes, her lip quivering.
“That means so is Elijah,” Marcel finished for her, looking down at his hands. When he looked up again, she was staring out into the crowd, lost in her thoughts. A gentle hand fell on her shoulder and he gave a small squeeze, thumb rubbing against the bare skin of her collarbone. “You will find him again.”
She looked at Marcel and smiled, but it quickly faded. “Yes.”
A century and a half without her husband had left Y/n Mikaelson cold. She did not know love like she did with Elijah, did not know desire or want or passion. She knew happiness, yes, but it was a fleeting one that ran when she was alone to sleep in the bed she should have shared with her Elijah.
A tear slipped from her eye, and she shook her head, “I will not be weak.”
Marcel said nothing, looking over his trusted friend, something of a mother to him, gave her one last squeeze of the shoulder, and nodded. “I have to go speak with the reason this party is happening tonight,” he said, referring to the people who were very willing to deliver money into Marcel’s hands if they could have just a sample of what his empire held. “If you need anything, you come find me.”
She watched as Marcel walked into the party, blending well with the crowd. This was his element – had been since the first time Klaus had left New Orleans with his siblings, and was now. She smiled, briefly, at hearing his booming laughter, but it almost instantly faded whenever her focus shifted to who had just entered the party.
Elijah Mikaelson.
His hair was shorter than she’d remembered – a haircut that was not at all offensive to her. He looked healthy, not a day over twenty-two, as he always had. Her heart surged at the thought of hearing his voice again, at holding him again, but something in her made her feel cold, with a white kind of ice sitting in the back of her mind. She saw him, standing there, looking around, likely for Marcel, and she panicked. Just as his eyes turned to where she was standing, she was gone, having raced off somewhere that he wasn’t going to even bother looking. She noticed the furrow in his brow, the slight wrinkle that formed just at the top of the bridge of his nose in confusion, and she smiled, sadly.
He was gone by the end of the night, and Y/n had not been sure where, but she knew she could likely guess where Klaus would have gone if he did not have the compound to come back to. Marcel found her after the party was over, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stared herself down in the mirror, thinking, hoping, hurting.
“You saw him tonight, didn’t you?” He asked, leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom.
“Yes,” she said quietly, rubbing the water from her face and sniffling. “He looks just as he did a century and a half ago. Handsome, but with a haircut.”
Marcel snickered, eyes falling down as he shook his head, “That is the perk of our curse, you know. The whole ‘never-aging’ thing.”
She laughed small, “Yes, I’m aware.” There was a beat of silence, “I’m… I’m afraid, Marcel.”
His smile had faded, a look of worry and care in his eyes as his eyebrows creased, “I know, Y/n. But you know he still loves you–”
“How am I supposed to know that, Marcel?” She asked, her voice no louder than a whisper, water pooling in her eyes once more. “How am I supposed to know that I even matter anymore. This is not the first he’s been awake in the last three years, it’s highly likely he found another woman to catch his–”
“Hey, hey,” he walked over to her vanity, crouching down beside her and placing a warm hand on her thigh, “enougha that. You wanna know somethin’?”
“Hm?”
“He had his ring on– the wedding band you showed me. He was wearing it,” his eyes bounced between hers, and she let out a breath, a sob almost, and she began to cry. He stood, pulling her into his body and holding her to the best of his ability. His hands stroked through her hair, and he planted a soft kiss to the top of her head, “He still loves you, Y/n. You have time to see him. Take the opportunity when it presents itself. Go to him.”
She would heed his advice. But it would take time. After the first night of seeing him, for three or four nights after, she could not bring herself to even leave the compound, for fear of seeing him bouncing about in the French Quarter. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him – no, God, never that. It was simply that she wasn’t sure he wanted to see her. What if he only wore the band because he’d forgotten to take it off, or perhaps it doubled as a daylight ring for him as well, and he was unable to locate the other one that usually resided on his middle finger.
Perhaps the latter scenario was a bit ridiculous, in hindsight. But, nevertheless, she was terrified, yet she yearned to see him again.
After a week, she finally found it in herself to leave, walking out onto the streets of the French Quarter. It was really to go to Rousseau’s, because she’d been craving one of Camille’s signature “secret” drinks, and she figured that it would be best if she owned up to the idea that she was going to have to face him at some point.
As she entered the establishment, her eyes landed on a man sitting at the bar, stealing Cami’s attention. The bartender smiled, looking up at whoever the mysterious man was through her lashes, and Y/n wore a devious but adoring smile. Then the man turned to the side, for just a moment, but it would take nothing more than a second for her to recognize such a profile.
Klaus.
Anger bubbled up again, thick in her veins and loud in her mind. She was going to hurt him, she was going to snap his neck and make him suffer for a second, even if it was just a minor inconvenience to him. And then Cami looked up over his shoulder at her, she waved, and Y/n was stuck. She was going to have to go to the bar and say something to her friend, and she was going to have to face Klaus.
Or she could act like she wasn’t Y/n, she could play coy, dumb. But it would never work. Klaus knew her too well.
Taking the agonizing steps to the bar, she let out a sigh and gave her friend a small grin, “Hey, Camille.”
“Y/n, please, what did I tell you about calling me that?” She laughed, throwing her towel over her shoulder. Klaus’s head snapped to the right at hearing the name, and he wore a devilish grin when he saw her.
Y/n pretended not to notice, continuing to smile and make small talk, “How’s it been?”
“Well, it’s been rather slow, to be honest. Customers in and out but only the regulars – must be something about the Quarter this time of year,” she laughed.
Y/n nodded, agreeing before Cami said she would be right back with the drink Y/n liked most. Sighing, she sat down and stared at her hands.
“Y/n Mikaelson,” Klaus muttered under his breath, accented words stabbing at her ears, “long time no see, sister.”
Her eyes flitted from her hands to the bottles lined on the wall in front of her, her jaw clenching tightly. She scoffed lightly, then turned to him with a sneer, “Spare me this conversation, Klaus. I do not wish to hear your dreaded voice.”
“But you do wish to see Elijah, yes?” He prodded. He always prodded.
“That is not your concern,” she said, voice flat. “Nothing I do is of your concern.”
Camille came back with her drink, and Y/n thanked her, asking for a to-go cup instead of a glass. Cami pulled one from behind the bar, taking the glass and pouring the drink in for her. She thanked her again, sticking a straw through the top of the cup and pulling away from the bar aggressively.
“I can take you to him, you know?” Klaus offered as she walked away, turning around in his seat.
“Yes, I know you can. But I would rather take a stake to my heart than trust you,” she said, words spoken over her shoulder.
“That can be arranged!” He called, standing from the barstool and following her to the door of the bar. “Y/n, you do want to see him don’t you?”
“Of course I do, Klaus!” She yelled, staring him directly in the eye and gripping her plastic cup, “But as I said – it does not concern you. Nothing about me concerns you. You made sure of that the minute you took the love of my life and shoved him in a goddamn box and ran,” she paused, her chest heaving from the words spat like venom to the blonde man in front of her, “like the coward you are.”
He scoffed, looking away from her, “I do apologize, sister, but I am sure Elijah would love to see you. He has missed you.”
Her heart skipped a beat, and her brows furrowed, her lips parting. It took her a second, but then she whispered, “I will see him on my own terms. You will not have any part in it.” She turned over her shoulder and walked out of Rousseau’s, tears beginning to well in her eyes once more. She was frustrated, that was for sure – she just gave up a solid chance to see her husband again, but if Klaus was involved, she would give it up again and again until the hybrid decided he was too bored to be bothered.
Another few days passed before she saw any of the Originals. It almost made her forget there was even a chance of seeing her husband again. Almost.
The compound was full of vampires needing guidance, freshly turned and older alike, confused and hurt and alone. The Nightwalkers were her favorite to deal with, for no other reason than they were still kids at heart, still young and wanting to live the life that no longer existed for them.
She had just sent them out to have their little soiree about the French Quarter, a once in a blue moon event, when she heard the whispers that were all too familiar. She did not see where he had gone, nor where he had stopped, but she knew he was there. She knew he was watching. Her heart leaped to her throat, and she thought of the ridiculousness of this meeting, but then she could not bring herself to keep the hopeful smile off of her face. Perhaps Marcel had had something to do with it, or Klaus – as much as she doubted the idea that he would help her in any way, shape or form.
Sighing to herself, she leaned forward against the railing, hands as far out as they could reach, her eyes looking up to the windows in the roof. A smile traced her lips and she said, quietly, “You know I was never one for a game of hide and seek.”
“And I have never been one to lose such a game,” he whispered in her ear, his hands ghosting over her hips. As she went to move back, he was gone again, and she laughed.
“Elijah,” she said, another giggle tumbling from her lips, “I am not good at this game! You know this!”
“All the more reason to keep playing,” he called from a different corner of the room, making her attention snap to it. He was not there, of course, but one could hope that they would beat Elijah at a game like this. She could always hope.
“My love,” she said, twisting the ring over her finger, “I have missed you.”
The whispers echoed through her mind again, and when she turned away from the rest of the room, he was standing at the window, back to her. Tears stang at her eyes, just like every other time she thought of seeing him, touching him, and she said his name quietly. He turned over his shoulder, eyes focused on the ground before he looked at her.
A smirk, the smirk she had grown so fond of, was drawn on his lips and his brown eyes were soft, staring at her through his lashes. She stood for a moment, staring, breath caught between her mouth and her lungs. She could not begin to describe the fluttering feeling erupting in her chest and her stomach, could not begin to understand why seeing him after so long made her start to cry. She could only comprehend that she needed to make sure this was real, that this was no dream or spell or hex from a witch.
Her boot hit the ground softly, her best attempt at closing the gap between the two. Elijah’s eyes dropped to the ring on his finger, his thumb subconsciously twisting it around. A nervous tick he was never able to break, something she found an intimate familiarity in. He matched her steps, slow and careful before he was almost chest to chest with her, his brown eyes dancing between her own, his hand ghosting over her cheek and his fingertips just barely gracing her skin. She craved his touch, craved feeling any contact from him.
“My love,” he said quietly, his voice deep and raw and vulnerable, “it has been… much too long.”
Her hand came up to his, pressing it to her cheek as she cupped it with her own. A breath escaped her husband’s chest, his thumb caressing her cheekbone as he admired each of her features – wholly unchanged, but entirely foreign to him, almost. “Yes,” she said smally, “yes it has.”
She stepped impossibly closer, cupping his face with her delicate touch and pulling him to her lips. It was small at first, the kiss they shared. But it quickly escalated, a century and a half of built-up tension and sorrow and longing and love releasing itself as quickly as it could. Elijah’s hands fell to her hips, then kept traveling, one planting itself on her lower back, the other on her head. Her own palms ventured, taking in the fabric of the suit he wore, the prickly fuzz of the scruff that had begun to grow on the side of his neck.
Her back hit the wall in a moment, her fingers in his hair and her legs hiked up on his waist. They did not say much – there was no need. Everything that needed to be said could be saved until later, until the matter at hand was resolved.
Desire was a beautiful thing between a couple that had lasted for over two hundred years.
It was not long before they found themselves in her bedroom, sweatied and naked in her bed, tangled in the sheets that were always meant for the two of them. Her head rested on his bare chest, his fingers tracing her skin in abstract patterns as he stared at the ceiling, and occasionally glanced at her beauty.
“I like your hair, love,” she said quietly, a giggle attaching itself to the last word.
He let out a huff of a laugh, head falling to the side before he looked at her as she propped herself up on his chest, “Why… thank you. I figured it would be more than fitting for the times.”
She smiled, placing a kiss on his chest, then another, then another, all the way up until she reached his mouth. “You do not know what it has been like without you, Elijah.”
“I am,” he breathed out, looking over her features as best he could, trying to memorize something he’d seen time and time and time again, “terribly sorry. You know I would never leave you, I gave you my word and I do not break my promises.”
“Yes,” she smiled smally, “I know this. I am not angry with you, my love. I have never been. But a century and a half does weigh on a woman, if you’d believe me.”
He laughed again, a smile that was intimate, especially for her, gracing his lips, “I’m afraid I do.”
She scoffed, hand flying to her chest in mock offense, “Are you saying I look old, Elijah! That is– that is unforgivable Elijah Mikaelson.”
He let out a rather loud chuckle, hand rubbing up and down her arm, “My darling, you haven’t aged a day – your beauty is as timeless as vampires themselves. Though,” he sucked a breath through his teeth, “a few wrinkles have presented themselves where they–”
“That’s it!” She called, climbing on top of him, grabbing the pillow she had been laying on and threatening to hit him with it. He only gave her his smug grin, and she quirked a brow before smacking it off of his face with her feather-filled weapon. He let out a grunt, trying to defend himself to the best of his ability but unable to sit up. “You may be immortal, but no one can survive an onslaught of pillow, darling.”
“Oh yeah?” He challenged, grabbing the pillow and stopping her swing, looking at her just underneath it. She tried to push against him, but it was no use – he had the upper hand. She ceded, letting the pillow drop as she took in her husband for the millionth time that night. He gripped her around her waist, pulling her into his torso as best he could with how close they already were. His lips fell to her neck, sharp teeth grazing the skin lovingly. She sighed into his touch, body almost jelly in his hands. Planting a few soft kisses along her collarbone and shoulder, he lifted his head and looked her in the eye, pushing a few strands of her from her face, “I love you, Y/n.”
She pressed a kiss to his lips as softly as she could, a promise to make to him, “I love you, Elijah. I will always love you.”
He looked so vulnerable at that moment, mouth slightly agape and eyes darting over every inch of her they could see, “Always and forever,” he muttered. Then he looked up at her again, seeking the approval, the affirmation that only she could give him, that he only ever required from her.
