Chapter: Five - The Value of Good Interior Design
Word Count: 3229
Rating: PG 13 - references to violence (this is not fluff and rainbows people)
Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson, Bonnie Bennett
Disclaimer: Vampire Diaries belongs to L.J Smith and the people who brought it to TV
Summary: Grams always said everything has a purpose
Author's Note: It's back. After many months.So I sat down and I opened up Uneven Ground thinking I might get a sentence or two out. And then BAM – this entire chapter came flying out. I know you all have been waiting for it so here you go. Thank you thank you thank you thank you for all your patience. I hope that the wait was worth it. I can’t promise you regular updates because of work but I can say that the next few chapters are very firm in my mind so it shouldn’t be another 3 months before I update again! I plan to work on it later on this week. Thanks again, your continued support means so much to me!
After what could pass for breakfast, Bonnie thinks they will get down to business.
She doesn’t expect him to reveal the entire master plan he obviously threw together at the last minute, but she thinks he will at least give her some reason as to why he has decided to keep her around. She has many possibilities running through her mind - perhaps he wants a witch at his beck and call, perhaps he wants to trade her to her friends, perhaps he wants to torture...
Well...Bonnie would rather he just tell her instead of letting her mind run wild.
Instead, he takes her on a tour of the house, walking at a leisurely pace through endless rooms, commenting with enthusiasm on design concepts and why he chose each particular piece of furniture. With each room, she finds her frustration building and much like the night before her powers are keenly in tune with her mood.
Great, she is going to explode again.
All because he wants to talk about crown moulding.
She manages to hold off until they are back in her room. He is speaking slowly now, extolling the virtues of Queen Victoria furniture when she feels that last thin thread snap. She still has presence of mind not to level her power in his direction but she cannot say the same for the rather large vase sitting on the ‘Chippendale’ table next to him.
The vase explodes into a thousand little pieces, as if propelled by some force within. The shards fly through the air with some falling at her feet. Most land around him. He has stood still, as if frozen, waiting for the remnants of magic to reverberate around the room. Her body is seething from once again losing control, but she feels better - as if she has leveled off.
If he is smart he will not continue to provoke.
Unless it is because he is smart that he continues to do so.
If he keeps this up she will short circuit in no time. Maybe that is what he wants - her powerless and cowering in a corner. How easy she will be to manage if she exerts herself to the point that she cannot even so much as call forth the tiny flame of a candle. She will not let him do that to her - no matter the level of self-control she will have to employ to make it so. She is capable of rising above his subtle and not so subtle jabs - if he wants to discuss at length why he chose egg shell over cream for the base color of his bedroom then she will sit there and listen.
Perhaps ask why he had not chosen lace instead.
She lifts her chin a little as he brushes bits of ceramic off his shoulders. As he turns his head to look at her, she can see that a small piece has embedded itself in his cheek. Her newly found path falters just little as she watches as he digs his finger into the open wound to pop the debris out. It falls to the floor and the wound is quick to heal. She feels an odd mixture of relief and disappointment; relief because there is no lasting damage from her loss of control but disappointment that she has not left a mark on him that would serve as proof that she had hurt him, even just a little.
“Not my favorite,” he drawls as he wipes the traces of blood from his cheek. “But an antique none the less.”
Bonnie makes no comment as to her guilt in destroying it, instead merely shrugging. “The pattern didn’t go with the overall theme of the room.”
He leaves her in the capable hands of his mindless minions (in her room of course).
She sits. Tries to be calculating and stews instead.
Still not the slightest clue as to what he plans to do with her.
She should have known really. He is a far cry from a Bond villain, giving away his entire plan as he twirls his mustache and laughs manically. Klaus will wait until the last moment to let her in on it no doubt. If it gets to that point, she knows it will be too late for her. She has visions of him telling her he plans for her to die just seconds before the throws her into the face of an oncoming train.
Dramatic, perhaps – but accurate.
So really her only option is to be proactive.
Instead of sitting around and trying to weave through the complex mind of a man who has fought and won nearly every battle he has engaged in, she needs to think simple. Think exit strategy. In the end, this is just a house. Walls and a roof. Wood, stone, brick. Not infallible.
Besides - she is a witch.
Who by all accounts really should be dead by now. The fact that she is still living is a testament to her ability to weasel her way out of certain death. So with that in mind, she will figure something out. Having reset her determination yet again, Bonnie leans back in the chair, lets her body relax. No sense in becoming so tense that she can barely move. She is already thirsty not to mention hungry but she knows better than to ask. Her antics at breakfast have ensured that for now – there will be a price attached.
She lets her eyes roam the room as she contemplates, falling on paintings whose names she cannot remember (obviously she had paid strict attention when he was giving the tour), skipping over expensive furniture, before they come to land on the table where the ritual is still laid out as if to taunt her. For a moment she scoffs at the mess.
But then she sits up straight in her chair.
The mess may just be a blessing in disguise.
The candles – well, candle really. Only one has retained enough wax to be of any use.
She was wonders if that is an oversight on his part or if he truly doesn’t understand just what some wax and string can mean to someone like her. She takes a deep breath, feeling something…excitement. Genuine excitement because she has an idea that just might hold water.
She stands slowly, trying to keep her feelings inward. The last thing she needs is for someone to find her dancing with glee around a fat candle that has already lost half its shelf life. He or she would call Klaus immediately and it would be over before it had begun. She crosses her arms over her body, mindful that she is being watched. Although she is trying to be inconspicuous, the girl (the girl of course – she has come to be a symbol, a reminder of what will happen if Bonnie steps out of line) is just outside the doorway, no doubt having been told not to move from that very spot unless Bonnie does something worthy of tattle-taling.
Let’s hope there is nothing suspicious about admiring her own handiwork.
Bonnie comes to stand by the table, glancing down at what remains. Her stomach clenches a little at the sight of the blood, dried and stuck fast to the table. Likewise, most of the wax has spread out over the surface. She doesn’t think the piece of furniture can be saved.
“I hope it’s another antique,” she mutters before she can stop herself.
Apparently speaking is tattletale worthy. For the sentence doesn’t even get out of her mouth and the girl is in the room. “What did you say, Miss Bennett?”
She turns her head to look over her shoulder, her eyebrow rising slightly. Miss Bennett? He instructed them to call her Miss Bennett? Oh he is having far too much fun. She wants in on the action (actually she wants out of course, but if she can do so in a way that metaphorically spits in his face, she is all for it).
“I was just thinking that this needs to be cleaned up,” Bonnie says, realizing it is time for a bit of thinking on her feet. She glances down at the makeshift altar once more. “I mean, it’s a biohazard really. To be stuck in this room with all this dried blood.”
The girl makes a face. “I suppose…it would be unpleasant.”
Bonnie nods, glad to see that there is some ability for independent thought. Then she realizes that Klaus doesn’t have the time to fully program himself a robot. The fact that this is the only reason why this girl has any sort of lucid ability saddens her. “Uh, yeah, it is. And seeing is how I am going to be here for a while…” She is of course smart enough not to suggest anything otherwise. Let the girl keep on thinking that she is not going to put up a fuss. “…I would be much happier if it was cleaned up. You can just get me a cloth and I’ll…”
“I can do it,” the girl says and there is a sort of sharpness to her tone that tells Bonnie cleaning up after her is one of many minion duties.
“I know you can,” Bonnie assures her. “And I am so grateful. At least, well, at least let me help you.” She is still thinking on her feet when she adds. “To help cure my boredom.” The girl takes a second but nods. There, Bonnie has learned something new. This girl is hardwired to keep Bonnie as comfortable as possible without springing her loose. She doubts Klaus has meant for her to keep her entertained but that is an issue with his instruction – wording means everything. She gives herself a mental pat on the back for finding a loop hole as she waits.
The girl returns with a few clothes, some soapy water, a cleaning product or two. None of it will save this table but that is not her goal. In fact, Bonnie reaches for her goal first, closing her hand around the candle and pulling it free of the wax bed in which it rests. She is careful not to covet it for even a moment; she merely sets it aside on the fire mantle place to hopefully be forgotten.
By the girl.
She turns back to the table to find the girl already examining what is left. “Uh, this…”
“…looks impossible I know,” Bonnie finishes trying to keep her voice full of camaraderie. Keep her thinking that they are on the same side – which unfortunately means playing on ‘Team Klaus’ for the time being. “But my Grams told me that a little time and a lot of elbow grease can work miracles.”
The girl nods, almost tentatively and then they put that to the test.
Bonnie dips her cloth into the hot water and immediately covers one of the five blood pools. For a moment she leaves it there, wondering just who it is she is cleaning up after. Rebekah…Finn; the one who was no longer with them…Klaus. She is surprised at the jolt she feels when she extends her hand across the table to pull back on the cloth. She knows the magic she used to complete the spell was powerful, more powerful than anything she has ever done really, but she hasn’t realized until just now how much of a scar it has left. Even if the table could be saved, it will never be the same. She almost wishes it could now – so that every time Klaus brushes against it he would get a nice little jolt that would remind him of why he is still here.
He is still here because of her.
She saved his life, dammit (not by design of course), and this how he repays her.
By making her a prisoner.
In this room (she thinks that if she can pull this off, she will leave this room in tatters as a form of protest).
She channels that frustration into scrubbing at the blood pool until she is sure she has nothing between the table and the cloth. Pulling it back, she surveys the smooth surface. Just as she suspected. The table is an antique, therefore not covered in the sort of chemical finishes that exist now. The blood has seeped into the cracks and pores of the wood, ensuring that there will also be visible proof of its use. Bonnie glances over at the girl. “My Grams was also big on the saying that not everything can be saved.”
“Your Grams sounds like a real smart woman,” the girl quips as she lets her rag fall into the bucket.
It hits Bonnie then – what would Shelia Bennett make of all this? Surely she would be disappointed that Bonnie has been pulled into the world of the supernatural so deeply, but she has a feeling her Grams is keeping an eye on her this very moment. Perhaps acting as her personal cheerleader. With that in mind, Bonnie is more determined than ever to try something, try anything.
The passive routine worked the previous night because there had been no control left in Klaus, but he seems his old self today – so, no more lying down and just taking it.
“I could…well, maybe the table can be moved,” the girl suggests as she gathers what she is has brought. Bonnie nods, her eyes flickering to the candle. It still sets on the mantle. Bonnie doesn’t even think the girl has seen it.
She is exiting the room, no doubt to get rid of her of their failed attempt at cleaning and then go back to her perch. Bonnie still has the cloth in her hand, stained with the blood of an original. It is automatic to raise her hand to call the girl back so she can take it away as well but at the last moment, Bonnie realizes she shouldn’t be so quick to give that up.
Everything has a purpose – hadn’t Grams said that often as well?
Still the girl has caught her movement. “Something else?”
Thankfully, Bonnie has tucked her hand behind her by the time they make eye contact. “Just your name.” Thinking on her feet again.
“Amelia,” she answers.
“Thanks for your help, Amelia. I appreciate it.”
More than you know.
Both the cloth and candle get tucked into the seams of the couch while Amelia replaces the cleaning supplies. Bonnie can’t take the chance that Amelia will find either in her possession. While it might look harmless to her, it would be reported back to her ‘boss’, who would find it anything but benign.
She concedes that she will have to wait until night when those in his employ seem more lax in their watch of her (if this morning’s near escape is any indication).
Which means there is a good chance she will have to come face to face with Klaus again.
You have plan; a goal, Bonnie.
No matter what he says or does, remember that.
He doesn’t reappear until late in the afternoon. She is stretched out on the couch her arms under her head. Try as she might to do the opposite, she has been drifting in and out. When he crouches down beside the couch, her eyes are closed. But she can feel him there. It is as if her body reacts to him and goes on red alert, jolting her out of her slumber. Her breath catches in her throat to see how close he is, watching her with near rapt attention.
“It’s impolite to stare,” she finally says, her voice still laced with sleep.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I am proving to be an inconsiderate host in many respects I see.” And then he smiles when she presses her lips together to refrain from shooting back. “I am told that you missed lunch. You must be famished.”
She sits up, mindful of her stolen treasure. She is surprised at how paranoid she is that he knows just what she has (but he can’t). “Look, Klaus, I am not…”
“There are no strings attached to dinner,” he states and she has to give him credit for knowing just where her mind had been headed. “Which is a lovely chicken dish by the way. I am told it is the chef’s speciality. I find that most food tastes the same whereas blood…”
“Lead the way,” Bonnie says curtly, standing to her feet. To avoid the hearing him speak of the nuisances of tasting each blood type, she even takes the arm that he extends. There is a brief hint of victory on his face – but then again he obviously hasn’t picked up on her newfound pattern of conceding where necessary.
They take their places at the table. She even thanks him for holding out the chair. She doesn’t deny that she is starving now (not to mention the thirst). When the food appears in front of them, she has to stop herself from just digging in because it smells that damn good (then again, a greasy burger from the Grill would be a slice of heaven right now too and she once got food poisoning from one of those things). She forces herself to sit up straight as the production plays out. She is handed a wine glass, the liquid a deep red. Alcohol – that won’t help her thirst. Still, she thinks that one sip just to wet her lips won’t hurt. That is until she truly realizes what she is holding.
Bonnie sets the glass down, her eyes immediately going to him. “This is blood.”
“Is it?” Klaus makes a show of lifting his glass, swirling its contents and inhaling deeply. When he looks back to her, there are dark veins under his eyes (which have taken on a yellowish hue). He grins, his canines obvious. “So it is.”
She has to bite the inside of her cheek not to call him on his ridiculous behavior. Instead she watches as he sips it with all the grace of a wine connoisseur. Her appetite, while still there, is greatly diminished. “I can’t drink this. Make them take it back.”
He looks around and so does she. The room is empty save for the two of them. “Oh dear, it seems they have scampered off. Ah well, enjoy,” he drawls. Without another word as to why he can’t simply call them back, he begins to eat. She takes a moment to just sit there, still processing what this entire exchange means, and just what she can take away from it.
In an odd way, she feels that she should be flattered that he went to all this trouble to stage this idiotic moment. He would have had to lay out meticulous instruction to make it work just so – and that tells her something: she has gotten to him. He felt the need to push back. Although he may seem calm, underneath there is something that she has done that has directed his actions.
Now she has to work overtime not to smile, not to gloat.
She, little Bonnie Bennett, so often overlooked, has wormed her way under the skin of the big bad hybrid.
As she lifts her fork, she deems this a victory dinner.
(without the fine wine of course)