Trying Something New [for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jackcaptainjack]
Jan. 31st, 2013 01:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lovewhentheyrunIt was a strange sensation for Klaus, finding himself uncertain of things he didn't want to be uncertain about. He'd always known who he was. Instead of asking, he told people where he stood. Fine, a lot of it was bravado, but it was self-deluding bravado. Anything that entered his orbit that defied the story he told about himself, he got rid of, or neutralized, tucked away somewhere out of sight. He loved best from a distance, without the messy emotions of other people demanding different things from him than he wanted to give.
Some of that, at least, he'd begun to realize before they put him in that box. Some. Elena's words had lingered, and his need for her blood had mocked him, and now, maybe, he was just trying to prove someone wrong.
Except...he didn't really know how he fit. His siblings had grieved. They seemed glad to have him back, after a while of shouting at him. Elijah, of course, hadn't shouted. Elijah rarely shouted. And by the time Elijah was over the worst of the poisoning, Rebekah and Kol had stopped shouting, too.
Jack...made things messy, though. Made Klaus's place uncertain, almost. They liked Jack. Elijah probably did more than that, but while occasionally Elijah wore his heart on his sleeve, other times he was impossible to read. Now was such a time. Klaus wanted things to be like they'd always said they were (whether they were or not). Family above all.
He wasn't sure that was the case anymore, and if it wasn't--where did he fit?
Of course, it would be far easier if he, too, didn't like Jack. But he did, which was annoying in its own way. He didn't want to like him. He wanted to fuck him and get it over with, and leave him in no doubt of where he fell in the pecking order of Elijah's affections, but Klaus was in doubt (and had been for a century or two, so, really, that was nothing new), and while he suspected so, too, was Jack...he didn't see a way to resolve it.
Jack calling him out hadn't much helped.
Rebekah had petted and soothed to the best of her ability, but Klaus had mostly spent the time since painting in the attic room he'd converted to a studio years ago because of the fantastic light from the skylights and the glass doors that led out to a rooftop terrace. He was there, now, frowning at a canvas with paint on it that had, as of yet, failed to form itself into anything recognizable. The bottle of vodka sitting on the table with his paints, half empty, was its own sort of testament to his mood, but. One could only expect so much.
Some of that, at least, he'd begun to realize before they put him in that box. Some. Elena's words had lingered, and his need for her blood had mocked him, and now, maybe, he was just trying to prove someone wrong.
Except...he didn't really know how he fit. His siblings had grieved. They seemed glad to have him back, after a while of shouting at him. Elijah, of course, hadn't shouted. Elijah rarely shouted. And by the time Elijah was over the worst of the poisoning, Rebekah and Kol had stopped shouting, too.
Jack...made things messy, though. Made Klaus's place uncertain, almost. They liked Jack. Elijah probably did more than that, but while occasionally Elijah wore his heart on his sleeve, other times he was impossible to read. Now was such a time. Klaus wanted things to be like they'd always said they were (whether they were or not). Family above all.
He wasn't sure that was the case anymore, and if it wasn't--where did he fit?
Of course, it would be far easier if he, too, didn't like Jack. But he did, which was annoying in its own way. He didn't want to like him. He wanted to fuck him and get it over with, and leave him in no doubt of where he fell in the pecking order of Elijah's affections, but Klaus was in doubt (and had been for a century or two, so, really, that was nothing new), and while he suspected so, too, was Jack...he didn't see a way to resolve it.
Jack calling him out hadn't much helped.
Rebekah had petted and soothed to the best of her ability, but Klaus had mostly spent the time since painting in the attic room he'd converted to a studio years ago because of the fantastic light from the skylights and the glass doors that led out to a rooftop terrace. He was there, now, frowning at a canvas with paint on it that had, as of yet, failed to form itself into anything recognizable. The bottle of vodka sitting on the table with his paints, half empty, was its own sort of testament to his mood, but. One could only expect so much.
