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victoodles · 5 years

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Fleur Sauvage

yeehaws but softly. back again, read it on AO3 and i hope you enjoy

Arthur is uncomfortable.

The sleeves of his stupid tuxedo are too tight and the cotton of his stupid bowtie is too itchy against his neck. But mostly, it’s because he’s surrounded on all sides by pompous displays of how the other half live.

Arthur has been encircled by wolves before, ravenous beasts of varying shapes and sizes. Unfortunately this time around he can’t shoot his way through the pack. If he had a say in the matter, he would take fangs and claws over coiffed hair and expensive suits any day of the week.

But he doesn’t. He rarely does, so here he stays.

The air is heavy with cigar smoke and foreign chatter. Arthur always presumed other languages would have an essence of beauty to them. Though as he overhears these gentlemen prattle on, cackling at their own self-proclaimed witticisms, he finds it to be extremely grating. Dutch insists though, as he is prone to do, that they continue to meet with the true master of Saint Denis.

Angelo Bronte.

A man with all the charm of a cottonmouth snake and twice as deadly. Every word that falls from his mouth is dripping with so much venom, Arthur is surprised listening to him hasn’t been fatal. Among those words is the promise of money; a key to freedom from the shackles of a modern word.

Now Arthur is the one to insist that Dutch reconsider his faith in this “parasite", as Arthur so fondly described. Dutch disregards it, telling him that home is just “one more score” out of reach. Arthur thinks that these grandiose fantasies are going to get them in over their heads more so then they already are. Hosea shares the sentiment but their unconditional loyalty has them tethered to this plan for the time being.

Angelo cackles from his perch on the manor’s balcony. He finds himself (both literally and figuratively) above the party-goers and that seems to fill him with malicious glee. They are merely bugs under his expensive shoes, and he’ll go well out of his way to stomp on them.

He sorts through the crowd one by one, expressing his contempt and expansive knowledge of Saint Denis’ denizens. Each one has a filthy secret that Angelo pours forth like fine wine. A jeer follows every name until his gaze falls upon a certain young lady, arm secured around Hosea’s.

“And who is this? I’ve never seen her before,” Angelo turns to his men with a smirk, “I’d certainly remember one so pretty.” Arthur tracks Angelo’s leering gaze to you, and his ire is sparked like flint. Taking a step forward to act, he aims to silence this lecherous cretin permanently.

Unfortunately, he is promptly stopped by Dutch’s hand, a silent plea to contain himself. It’s a small one and Dutch hopes Angelo doesn’t notice, they’re already on thin enough ice. Thankfully, he doesn’t.

“Is she one of yours?” It’s posed as a question but Dutch knows he expects an answer - the right answer.

“Yes,” he answers immediately, “she’s like a daughter to me.” Dutch is careful not to give out too much information but still emphasizes you are no part of their meeting. “Just wanted to show her a good time away from the debauchery of our lifestyle. We think she deserved it, didn’t we Arthur?”

Every muscle in Arthur’s body is wound tight, ready to fight if you’re put in Angelo’s crosshairs. He clenches his jaw and manages to grit out an affirmation.

Another smirk spreads across Angelo’s lips. “Is that right?” He says something in Italian to his men, most likely a derogatory comment, before turning his attention back to the outlaws.

“It’s quite a crime to keep a flower like that out of reach. Such a beauty should,” he pauses to take another drag of his cigar, licking his lips lasciviously afterwords, “be enjoyed by all.”

Angelo seems to revel in the heat of Arthur’s rage; he’s garnered what you mean to him by reactions alone. Arthur’s trigger finger is suddenly restless; he wishes he had the sense to conceal a weapon. Dutch speaks again before Arthur sets this whole party ablaze.

“We shall keep that in mind, Signore Bronte. Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Dutch begins to lead Arthur back inside.

“Yes, yes go! Enjoy, my friends!” He says with a dismissive wave before he returns to his own festivities. Angelo wears a mask of gracious host but Arthur can see the cracks in it, revealing the true monster underneath.

That doesn’t matter right now though. Arthur needs to get back to you.

As the two of them head back downstairs (Arthur a little more briskly in contrast) Arthur starts up with Dutch. “I told you bringing her along was a bad idea,” he growls. It’s clear Dutch doesn’t have the patience to placate Arthur right now.

“And I told you that we needed her! She still can speak their pretentious language. Discover leads that we couldn’t with our “barbaric” intellects.” Dutch says sardonically, paired with a roll of his eyes.

“Dutch,” Arthur warns but is once again interrupted.

“I will keep her safe, son. As I have done for all of us.” Dutch smiles fondly then. “You’ve got yourself quite a woman there, a true sheep in wolf’s clothing. I gather she won’t need much assistance from either of us.”

Arthur is momentarily rendered speechless. It was true, you were beyond capable of fending for yourself. But he still did not want to take any chances.

A man who held the world in the palm of his hand? What could someone with that type of power do to a woman closely associated with a (potential) enemy gang?

Arthur didn’t think himself overly imaginative but he could picture possible outcomes vividly. Too vividly.

One of many servants opened the main doors before those thoughts could evolve into more grotesque nightmares. Arthur is cruelly reminded of the events transpiring just beyond. However his racing mind is thankful for the distraction. He finds on the other side a dapper Hosea and Bill, looking even more miserable than himself.

But no you.

Arthur opens his mouth to inquire and Hosea has the answer before he can ask. It seems everyone’s in the habit of cutting Arthur off tonight.

Hosea tilts his head towards the courtyard. “Down there. She’s getting a head start on the mingling,” he informs his frantic son. Arthur’s feet carry him so fast he barely catches Dutch’s request to stay out of trouble. Wishful thinking but he’ll try his best regardless.

To Arthur, you stand out amongst the throng of people, clear as day. Your pink dress (you tell him it’s peach) compliments you completely. From the way it hugs your waist to the roses embroidered along the skirts. How fitting of a design, a wild rose with her own kind.

An array of golden hair pins - courtesy of Miss Grimshaw’s heydey - keep your complicated braid in place. They shine like stars in the lamplight, twinkling faintly with every turn of your head. Your decolletage is bare of any jewelry, save for some cream colored lace along the sleeves of your gown. Arthur is oddly more distracted, eyeing the exposed skin hungrily.

Your beauty doesn’t hold a candle to any of the satin clad or feathered fan socialites. You are elegance personified and he aims to immortalize that within the confines of his journal later.

Arthur makes his way forward, drawn to you as he often finds is the case. Obstacles in the form of other guests stand in his way and he wades through them. He doesn’t mean to push and shove; he is quite colossal when next to these dainty women. An apology comes in the form of a flute of champagne as to not stir up any more trouble before he presses onward.

Your company is being enjoyed by the mayor himself and his entourage. The gentlemen are enraptured by whatever it is you’re regaling them with. Hanging onto every pretty word and starring at you like you hung the moon. Arthur finds himself in the same position more often than not.

Laughter, airy and delicate, tugs at Arthur’s heart as he approaches. It envelops him; it’s a warmth he still isn’t accustomed to, especially in his line of work. But you coax him into it, and he learns his hands are still capable of gentleness.

You notice Arthur, a grin playing on your lips, and you stop mid-sentence to acknowledge him.

“Oh Tacitus, my darling,” You coo, waltzing up and wrapping your arms snugly around Arthur’s neck. He fights to contain his guffaw at your act: the high society primadonna. It’s your favorite role to play whenever Hosea needs you for a swindle. And you play it exceptionally well.

A kiss is placed on his cheek, tantalizingly close to the corner of his lips. It’s a promise of more to come.

The mayor and his colleagues chuckle at this impromptu display of affection. “It seems your new bride is quite taken with you. What a shame for us, eh gentlemen?” The mayor asks, feigning disappointment which earns him a wave of laughter. You titter yourself, finding a new place around Arthur’s arm this time.

Arthur looks at you bemused, but humored. You take that as your cue to subtly fill him in on your little game. You smile affectionately at Arthur before turning attention back to the mayor. “I’m terribly sorry my good men, but my heart utterly belongs to my Tacitus,” you keen, dramatically casting a hand over your chest. If he wasn’t an actor in this play, Arthur would quite enjoy watching the performance.

"Mon coeur, it is broken!” The mayor jests and you playfully swat at his hand.

“Ne sois pas bête!” You tease back.

This French tit for tat goes right over Arthur’s head but he does understand something. Dutch was absolutely right in bringing you along. Not even an hour later and you already have a major city official wrapped around your finger. Color Arthur impressed (and slightly jealous). But then he remembers he is your “husband” after all, and the petty emotions are assuaged.

“And,” the mayor finally turns his focus to Arthur, “whose pleasure is it to have this delight of a woman for a wife?” Arthur sheds his skin of an outlaw and adapts, following your lead.

“Good evening,” he says smoothly, extending a hand out. “Tacitus Gilgore.” The mayor seems pleased at the gesture and eagerly shakes Arthur’s hand. You’re beaming at Arthur’s side at the interaction.

“Well it certainly is a pleasure Mister Gilgore. Henri Lemieux, mayor of this fine city.” There’s a hint of disgust in his words; Arthur doesn’t blame him. Henri gestures to his surrounding accompaniment and begins to introduce them. Arthur tunes it out - they don’t matter. Finding the mayor was his goal, not these buffoons.

Though his attention does perk up at the mention of a familiar name. “And this is Monsieur Evelyn Miller.”

“Like the writer?” Arthur inquires, earning another giggle from you.

“Yes darling,” you chirp enthusiastically. “He wrote all those books your father positively adored.” Your conversation takes a turn. “Tacitus is the sole inheritor of his father’s oil company,” you inform with a coy smile. A few of the men raise their eyebrows, impressed. The mayor included.

“Ah an oil proprietor?” Henri inquires. “Well, congratulations are in order. A beautiful wife and a flourishing business? You sir, are a very lucky man.” He reaches out and takes Arthur’s hand firmly in his.

“I look forward to speaking more with you, Monsieur Gilgore. But for now,” he relinquishes his hold on Arthur, “why don’t you and your young bride enjoy yourselves?”

Arthur places his now free hand on the small of your back. The satin feels soft under his calloused palms but he yearns more for skin to skin contact. Time and place, unfortunately.

“I think we will. Thank you for your hospitality, good sir.” Arthur takes his leave with a tip of his head before he escorts you away from the crowds. He thinks he deserves some semblance of peace for now. While the excess of unwanted company isn’t ideal, as long as you’re there he feels calm.

An impressive gazebo at the apex of the courtyard is devoid of any guests. It seems the majority of them strive to be in the limelight of this affair for reasons Arthur can’t seem to care about. Regardless, he is grateful for the temporary isolation as he leads you there.

The crowd begins to progressively wane much to Arthur's delight. A few still linger and you placate them with your arsenal of bonjour's and merci's. Once again Arthur finds himself grateful for you. He's reached his "mingling" threshold for the night a long time ago. Your's on the other hand seems to have just begun as you keen and wave to every passing sir and madam. It's rather amusing and Arthur chuckles lightly.

"Another minute there and I think he woulda' handed you the key to the city," Arthur teases. It's a rare occurrence for his bark have no bite, just playful nips You welcome it eagerly.

"That would've been ideal. I could have given it to Dutch so he can sell all of Saint Denis for a few mangoes." You respond back coolly. Arthur snorts.

"Seems like a fair trade."

You nudge him for his cheekiness. "Mind your tongue, Gilgore," you jab. He concedes to your wishes (as always).

"My apologies to my lady." Arthur's inner gentleman (the one he vehemently refuses is there) is showing. You want to say something, acknowledge the sides he wants to reveal.

But now isn't the place for him to sink into that place of vulnerability. The predators here are too hungry. So you continue on as if it were a game still, keeping things lighthearted.

Placing a finger to your chin, you pretend to mull his words over. "I suppose," you begin, twirling out of his arms and swiftly dashing up the gazebo's steps. "I can forgive you," you spin around a column, "if you come sit with me for a moment?" You plop down on one of the many benches facing the river, tapping the empty space next to you.

Arthur finds your impishness endearing, but now isn't the time. There's work to be done, people to mislead, men to k-

You can practically hear the discordance in his head. "Just for a moment," you plead, hoping it will alleviate some of his tension. It does, and he wordlessly complies as he sits down with you.

While Arthur doesn't claim to be an expert on the finer things in life, he is awestruck at the view. The gazebo seems to be on its own wooden isle in the middle of the water, surrounded on all sides by flowers. Gentle waves lap at the platform and it creates a steady, lulling rhythm. Petals drift lazily along the river, continually cascading down from the gentle push of an evening breeze.

The swamp he detests is transformed into an ethereal landscape as the lanterns’ reflections sparkle on the water’s surface. It appears that the rich can even buy the better parts of nature as well. Who would’ve thought.

The two of you are settled in comfortable silence, admiring the picturesque scenery as the party’s twittering becomes mere background noise.

Arthur speaks first. “So,” he begins bashfully. In this suit, he looks as awkward as he feels. A familiar hand on his knee, while slightly flirtatious, is a kind reminder he can be himself. It’s a freedom he still has trouble getting accustomed to at times. He lets his shoulders relax, “You think yer folks are around ‘ere somewhere?” It’s a question made in jest and you answer with a dry laugh.

“My parents wish they could be invited to a mayoral affair,” you say with a scoff. “Would’ve tried to sell me off twice as young if it meant they could eat the leftovers.” Though you try to hide it, Arthur picks up on hurt in your voice.

You hear it too, and you turn your head away from him for a moment. On instinct, you look out to the shoreline and see the manor you once called home. It's the same despite the ten years that have gone by: imposing and grand. You wonder if mother and father are awake, scornfully starring over at what they have continually failed to achieve. A jovial party serving as a painful reminder. The irony makes you feel a little bit better.

Walking up to that house every day for sixteen years had instilled fear into your core. Now, it was just an ugly scar across Saint Denis. The pain wasn't permanent, but you would always remember it. You're regarding the house apathetically, not being able to bring yourself away.

Arthur notices and begins to worry. “Hey,” Arthur begins gently, tracing circles over your knuckles. His voice summons you back and you look at him expectantly, gaze tender. You render him speechless; he’s ensnared and the simple control you exude over him has his nerves singing.

Arthur manages to compose himself and finds a way to bring your smile back. “What will people think if they see my beautiful wife so upset?” Again you laugh, this time sincerely. He finds himself smiling back, "They'll say I'm a beast of a man."

Tears threaten to spill from his sincerity. You try to shoo them away. “Oh lovely Tacitus,” your accent is back full swing. “You are just the kindest husband. How in this cruel world did I find myself so blessed?” While the titles are just pretend, he’s finding himself addicted to their honied sweetness. He wants more and your lips have the power to temporarily quell his want.

Leaning closer, falling further in love.

His lips are a whisper away, practically feeling the heat of your blush radiating off you. There’s a crowd of people just beyond a few white pillars but he doubts anyone is paying them any mind. And if they do, well, Dutch didn’t specify his distaste for getting into an upper class brawl.

“I ask myself that question every day,” Arthur says reverently, a hand coming up to rest on your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut as his places his lips against your own with a gentleness reserved for you. This is a song and dance he is pleasantly more accustomed to, moving against you effortlessly. Each pass of his lips draws a sigh from you satisfied than the last.

Inhibition rears its ugly head again once Arthur thinks he actually has the luxury to enjoy himself. He pulls back slightly, much to your dismay but you don’t pursue. Like a deer, you don’t want to startle him. Instead you wait, a patience that Arthur is grateful you provide.

Arthur almost forgot why they’re here, and loyalty has always come before his happiness. “I gotta,” he mumbles. “Gotta do something for Dutch. I-” his words fall short when you silence him with another kiss. It appears chaste, but there's a fire behind it that’s nipping at his lips as the tip of your tongue traces over them.

Your poor cowboy would deny himself everything, so long as Dutch said the word. So you took some of the weight off his already bad shoulders for him.

Arthur’s eyes go comically wide as you withdraw from him, hand sliding down between your breasts. Realization (and relief) sweeps over him when it returns with a small envelope in tow, labeled "Classified".

“What? How did you-”

“I wasn’t just talking to those old men for the caliber of their conversation,” you simper, tucking the envelope securely back into your bosom. “Managed to pilfer these documents pertaining to Cornwall off poor Monsieur Lemiux,” you purse your lips in a faux pout. Arthur continues to stare at you in awe.

You may have been planted in a gilded garden, but you had uprooted yourself, new roots digging their way deep into the forest floor. Growing thorns and blooming within the wild: free and untamed.

Wolf in sheep’s clothing indeed.

“So,” Arthur’s musing is ceased by you. Let him enjoy himself, as many this night have told him do. Yes he was on a mission, but let him have a moment to breathe. With you.

“Worry about what you ‘gotta’ do for Dutch later. But for now-” you lean in and purr against the shell of his ear, “let’s just be.”

The softness of your words is paired with a clap of man-made thunder cutting through the sky followed by a brilliant array of colors. Fireworks begin to dance across the night and gasps of wonder fill the air. The stars are met with blooms of blues, greens, and yellow to rival them. It's quite the spectacle; Arthur had never seen fireworks before. He had only heard Hosea' numerous tellings about taking Bessie to see them. The concept fascinated him; gunpowder igniting but instead of death, it brings magic.

But as they continue to burst, casting vibrant shades of gold and red across your face, Arthur thinks he’s found a new kind of magic to believe in.

#vic's fics!#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #i hate this but i did my BEST

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cupcakemolotov · 5 years

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A Wild Ride

Klaroline AU Week: Day Three (October 9th - Wednesday): All Human

This is totally a bit rushed and I will probably have to do sneaky edits later, but I managed to get this done. I’ll take it.

The carriage wheels bounced painful over a screaming Damon Salvatore. For a single heartbeat, Caroline considered regretting her impulsive choice of shoving him out the door. But he had been bleeding and she refused to let him ruin this dress after everything else he’d left in shambles in her life. Thankfully, her companion had realized her intention and his firm grip kept her from tumbling out of the carriage with Damon.

Glancing across the carriage once the door was firmly shut, Caroline righted herself and glared at her remaining companion. “Your brother is a menace.”

Sir Klaus Mikaelson’s brow lifted as his gaze swept her disheveled figure, and Caroline arranged her skirts, pointedly ignoring the heat in his eyes. “You’ll find no disagreement from me, love. Still, I cannot imagine even he thought you’d reduce Salvatore to carrion pickings in such a dramatic fashion when we are driving at such… speed.”

She scoffed, refusing to let his words, the glint of admiration in his gaze, affect her. The hint of dimple in his cheek said he might have seen something anyway. “Should I have waited for you to deal with the situation? Difficult, with one arm.”

His mouth tightened in displeasure at the reminder of his injury. Since he’d received the stab wound unnecessarily defending her only a few weeks ago, she supposed she could stop needling him about it. Particularly when their acquaintance had become quite profitable. Or it would, as long as they’d stayed just out of the reach of the local Sheriff.

Damon being the last bit of a plot that had taken them the better part of a month to execute. But now their last enemy was dead, and all their plans had all come to fruition. Caroline wiggled back against the hard bench, and tried not to wince at another hard bounce of the carriage.

While her numerous skirts added a layer of cushion, but Kol was driving at breakneck speeds. And while she approved of putting a fair amount of distance between them and the body they’d left behind, she hardly wished for a broken bone to go along with their escape. It would be weeks before a Marshall was brought in to hunt them, and they would all be long gone by then.

The tight set to Klaus’ jaw said the jolts also hurt his arm, but she’d learned he’d only allow so much fussing, as he rudely insisted on calling her concern. Since she’d already pointed out his limitations once and preferred to fight with him when she wasn’t in danger of losing teeth, she supposed she could keep from mentioning his injury. Again.

“Besides,” she dared after a moment. “He deserved a far more ignoble death. It’s a pity we couldn’t provide one.”

A tip of his head, as Klaus agreed with her. She’d been quite clear about her reasons for wanting Damon’s death. His murder had been a very firm requirement in her bargain. Thankfully, the Mikaelson brothers were far from squeamish.

Underneath them, the carriage finally slowed a hair and they were no longer in quite so much danger of being tossed about. Relaxing now that she no longer needed to brace herself so firmly, Caroline glanced out the window, wondering what lay before them.

She hadn’t expected to feel so… disappointed once the adventure had ended. Oh, they still had a far but to go before they went their separate ways. Klaus had been dropping unsubtle hints about escorting her as far as Boston should she wish it. Kol has minutes far to many innuendos, but she had long since learned how to tune him out.

Sir Klaus and Sir Kol Mikaelson has been an unexpected addition to her life. The night they'd interceded when they’d thought she’d needed their help, they’d claimed they were looking for their brother. A Duke who had left the family in dire straights with his abandonment. They’d apparently done a fine job of faking his death in good old England, but wanted to confirm the job done.

She’d been quite surprised when it turned out that the brother was a Duke in truth, off plotting the downfall of his family with his American mistress. Somehow she allowed them to tangle her in their schemes, and in turn they’d provided the aid in hunting she’d been lacking.

Not quite a month later, and Finn lay cooling in his grave. Damon Salvatore would be a meal to whatever creature found him first. And as an added bonus, the gold they had stored beneath their benches would make them quite wealthy.

“An unfortunate ending,” Klaus said finally into the growing silence between them. “but an ending nonetheless. But tell me, Caroline. With our scheme coming to an end, what are your plans?”

She turned and frowned. “What do you mean?”

Klaus’ brow tilted, amusement in his eyes. “You’ve been rather quiet about your intentions now that you’ve had your revenge, love. Surely a quiet life back East doesn’t appeal to you after you’ve tasted so much freedom.”

Caroline studied him with narrowed eyes. She did not believe that Klaus intended to betray her now. Not after everything else this past month. Their uneasy alliance hadn’t truly developed into something like trust, but she saw where it could become a partnership. If she wanted it too.

“Perhaps,” she agreed easily enough. “Home would be a bit… sedate. But far less likely that my brand new wealth will lead to bloodshed or my neck in a noose.”

His mouth tightened. “It is unlikely anyone left alive could give a good description of you.”

She laughed. “I am hardly the only pretty blonde, though my sudden blessing of money could be a bit difficult to explain. Though a dead husband is something many wives have in common with me so far west. And you? Back to the chill of your English Hills?”

“There is unfinished business yet,” Klaus agreed. “A few more promises to keep.”

She nodded. “And then back to the boring life of a gentleman, I imagine.”

He made a low noise. “I doubt Elijah would allow either of us to be so underfoot. And neither Kol nor myself are likely to settle. While we should perhaps make ourselves scarce from your most charming of continents for some time, there are other fortunes in different cities to find.”

It was a strain to keep her jealousy off her face at his words. She spoke a smattering of French, had gleaned a fair bit of Spanish during her hunt for Damon. But the life he spoke of, moving from city to city and plundering what they found, that was far more difficult for her. There would be no cover of a mail order bride to aid her as she moved about once she left the west.

Though being a supposed widow would help.

Klaus’ lips curved, something tempting and coaxing about his gaze. “You could come with us.”

Her brows rose as she didn’t try to hide her surprise. “Why on earth would you want that?”

“Your clever,” he said immediately. “Quick on your feet and mean, when the mood takes you. I’d much rather have you on my side than find myself working against you one day.”

“Have you thought this through?” Caroline asked in exasperation. “The West is a bit more… lax, about certain matters, but there is no good reason for a single woman to be traveling with two brothers. Whatever would we tell people?”

A lift of his good shoulder. “That’s easily fixed with a minister, love.”

Her expression turned scandalized. “You want to pretend to be married? We already tried that and it was a full disaster.”

Caroline was extremely particular about her space and having Klaus invade it had been… daunting. Twice, they’d been forced to share a room and it’d been an experience. She’d never been so close to a man before. Waking to Klaus, sleep-warm and long limbed, the firmness of his body taking up most of the space on a mattress that hadn’t been nearly large enough…

Keeping to herself had been far more difficult than she have through. The temptation to touch him, to see what the steady strength of him, injured or not, had felt like beneath her fingers had been heady. That he was deviously clever had been a delightful bonus.

Klaus’ laugh was deep chested, but the gleam behind his eyes was intent. “I didn't plan on it being fake.”

Her spine stiffened. “And this is your idea of a proposal?”

The crease of his dimple deepened. “So it is the manner of my asking that offends you, but not the offer?”

Caroline glared at him. “Why would I marry you? I haven’t even decided if I like you yet.”

“Now, Caroline. We know that isn’t entirely true.”

She refused to blush at the dip in his voice. The reminder of those moments where the air between them had grown warm and filled with tension she’d had no words for. Not wanting to discuss any of it just then, she lifted her chin.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Why would you marry me?” Klaus repeated. The curve of his smile turned wicked. “I can think of a number of reasons. But to start, it gives you a way off this continent.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t need you for that. I’m certain I’d find a way on my own, eventually.”

Loud laughter from the front of the carriage told her that Kol was avidly listening. She was amazed he hadn’t butted in with his two cents. Kol enjoyed little more than needling everyone.

“That,” she said in exasperation and with mostly false irritation while she glanced towards where Kol would sitting. “Is quite the detriment.”

“You know you adore me!”

Caroline rolled her eyes and leaned back. Klaus wore the familiar expression of exasperation and the low simmer of his temper. It was a look she knew he wore most frequently around Kol. But for all of her exaggerated complaining, the younger of the two had become something like a friend. Albeit a very annoying one.

Still.

She wasn’t sure she was ready to let this go. Running her teeth along her lip, she made an impulsive decision. Damon was dead, her mother’s ghost put to rest. For once, her future was about her.

And maybe that could include Sir Klaus Mikaelson.

“You have until we reach Boston.”

Klaus’ brows creased with a hint of confusion. “To do what, love?”

“To convince me that I want to marry you.” She narrowed her eyes in warning. “And to plan a far better proposal than your last attempt.”

The sound of Kol’s uproarious laughter did nothing to stop the rising flush in her cheeks at the sudden glean behind Klays’ gaze. The way his gaze dipped to trace her mouth before returning to her wide eyes.

“With pleasure, Caroline.”

#kcauweek2019 #my fic #klaroline #klaroline fanfiction #klaroline drabble

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lookatthedawn · 6 years

Text

While in Bangkok

Breakfast at the hotel is a very formal affair. The dining room is big and well decorated and there is a plentiful buffet. The headwaiter speaks good English and is quite solicitous, although a bit intimidating. He wants to make sure that everything runs smoothly and that's good, but I need a little more space. A table at the corner is occupied by a sour-looking French couple. At another table sits a group of Asian ladies who could be Thai or from another country nearby. They're noisy and demanding, but I'm grateful to them as they hijack the headwaiter's attention. My usual beverage of choice is tea, but I want to try the Thai coffee. I find it a lot like the Vietnamese; extremely strong and sweet. Also, very small. After it's gone, I'm still thirsty, so I have a big cup of tea. Many people in Thailand speak English, some quite well. On the way to the Grand Palace, I get directions from an Englishman with lovely blue eyes, then a couple of locals are happy to direct me to the train station. From the station, I take a tuk-tuk whose driver convinces me that the best way to see the city is by boat. He shows me the route on the map which covers a great part of what I want to see. He can't tell me the price of the boat tour but his own fare is quite low. I like the tuk-tuk as it offers an affordable way to see the city. As we arrive at the pier, I'm surprised that there's no line and no one waiting to go on a tour.

The tuk-tuk driver directs me to a woman sitting at a table, who will make a special price for me, which is two thousand Baht. I think I misheard, so I ask how much again. Two thousand Baht, she repeats. I tell her I don't have that kind of money and start to walk away. She lowers the fare to 1800, I tell her no, thank you. Sixteen hundred, she says, is her best offer. The driver is still around, trying to convince me as well, but I'm already on my way out. He offers to take me wherever I want to go, but I decline.

I want to see a Buddhist temple we passed by, but in Bangkok, you find Buddhist temples and Seven-Eleven stores in every corner. I stop at one of these temples for a bit of peace and quiet away from the heat. It is white with a red and gold roof decorated with precious stones in the front. Everything is clean, neat and peaceful. Dozens of statues of the Buddha sit behind glass windows facing a patio. At a table on the right side of the temple, two monks sit and talk. I greet them and they reply amiably but as I don't speak Thai and they speak precious little English, so we communicate with smiles and nods. I usually feel quite comfortable around Buddhist monks. Something about their lifestyle appeals to me. I have a thousand questions for these two, but for now, the language barrier means my questions will remain unanswered.

After a while, I exit the temple and take a taxi to the Grand Palace. In Bangkok, the taxis have the most wonderful shade of pink, something between magenta and fuschia, and drivers drive on the left side of the road. It's a busy Saturday afternoon and the area around the King's Palace is blocked. The driver, who speaks English with ease, makes light conversation. He asks where I am from and we talk about soccer a little bit, then he speaks of his country; he has a few complaints, mostly about the cost of living, but overall he is quite proud of his homeland and the new king. He drives me as close as he can to the Palace and I jump out. I see men and women dressed in black going toward the palace and feel inadequate in my jeans and red, sleeveless tunic. I think of the long-sleeved shirt in my bag, in case I have to change into something more somber. There is a narrow passage leading to the palace area where security is tight. They check my ID and my bag before letting me in. There are a few people, tourists like me, wearing regular clothes, but most visitors are in groups, wearing black and walking purposefully. The marine, the army, and the navy are massively represented. A sign at the palace's gate says that the King's Palace will close earlier, because of the death of the king. I bemoan my timing as I connect the dots of the sights around me; the people in black, the many official cars, the soldiers, the monks and all the signs praising the king. The mood is both festive and somber, as the tribute to a well-lived life. I don't know much about the king, but I suspect he was quite well liked.

I leave the area near the palace and find a pier with shops around. I'm looking for a fridge magnet from Thailand. On January, when my son Marcelo went to Europe, he had the bright idea of collecting magnets from every country visited. He proudly displays his collection on our fridge and I have decided to do the same. Thailand will be my first if I can find one. I walk around the shops and find shoes, hats, and t-shirts, but no magnets. On this pier, there is a line to get in the boats. The price for the boat tour is around six hundred. Four hundred and change before 4 p.m., but this is 4:10. It strikes me as odd that prices for the same tour -- even though the first was individual and this is in a group -- can go from 2K to 600 hundred Baht. I watch the long line of people getting into boats as I try to make up my mind whether to buy the ticket or not. In the meantime, I sit in the shade and rest, while watching the people and the breathtaking view of the city. I decide not to take the tour. I walk out of the pier and back in the streets. There's food for sale everywhere. Fruits, juices, smoothies. Small shops, doors that are no more than two meters wide, selling every kind of food and clothing. No magnets, though. I come to another pier, which looks like a well-kept plaza, pleasant and tourist-friendly. This is the third pier I visit and it offers quite a contrast to the other two. The first one was poorly maintained and smelled strongly of fish. The second and busiest catered to tourists but was disorganized and the staff was not very friendly. The pier where I now stand is elegant, with a restaurant overlooking the Chao Phraya River, big pots of flowers, and polite people. I imagine the price of the tour to be exceedingly high. When I ask, I think I misheard. "Forty Baht." "Excuse me? How much did you say?" The smiling clerk pushes a table with different prices. For the ride I want is, indeed, forty Baht. "The next one leaves in twenty minutes," he adds in clear English. I buy the ticket and wait for the boat to arrive. This is a hop-on-hop-off boat, for which you pay for the whole day or buy a one-way ticket like I did. The ride offers a chance to see much of Bangkok for little time and money. It is not only for tourists but a safe and pleasant type of transportation for Bangkokians commuting from work, school or just going out shopping. I try capturing the moment with my phone camera, but I can never catch the breeze, the sounds and smells as the boat glides over the Chao Phraya River. I'm aware that this is a singular moment, one I'll remember many times when I think of my time in Southeast Asia. Yes, I was there, I shall say, and it was worth it! I hop off at Yannawa and walk toward Silom. The streets are busy with traffic, vendors, and buyers. I wonder if other cities in the country are as busy as Bangkok or if the whole country conglomerates here. I make a mental note to research. That is what visiting a different country does; it ignites the mind and incites our curiosity. Who is the minority in this country? Who do they blame when things go wrong? Who is the scapegoat? What are their problems? What I see is a pretty homogenous people, going about their business boisterously but peacefully. I search my brain for news I might have heard from Thailand. Was there any terrorist attack on its soil? Earthquake? I find nothing. The place reminds me of movies with Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker, where a lot is happening right under the surface, but the regular man and woman don't have a clue about it. Is that the case here? "Be careful, his bowtie is really a camera."

In Silom I enter Robinson Department Store, which is a chain of megastores, sometimes standing alone, other times in a shopping center. This one is in a shopping center, which includes a supermarket, cafes, clothing stores, etc. I spend much time in this mall, looking at products and prices, then sitting at a cafe to rest for a while.

I don't know what I thought about Bangkok, but I definitely didn't think it was so large, busy and well organized as it is. I see a fair number of tourists and Westerns living here. Something like 8 million people live in Bangkok. And yet, traffic flows without conflicts. Unlike Hanoi, drivers don't honk as much and the people are polite and helpful. I find quaint little shops in picturesque villages. Art galleries, cafes and restaurants look delightful in the late afternoon's glow. I stop at Mama Mia Bangkok, a busy diner on a side street where I'm served the richest vegetable soup I ever tasted. The restaurant has tables on both sides of the narrow street, which the waiters cross constantly while carrying trays with hot dishes and cold drinks. There are more tourists eating here than there are Thai customers. While waiting for my soup, I pull out my laptop. The humdrum in the background is perfect for writing. In the meantime, night falls over the city.

After searching in a number of stores I finally find magnets at a stand of a street vendor. It's the first one I see and it's dirt cheap. As soon as buy it, however, they appear everywhere. I explore the city on foot, amazed by Bangkok's modern and creative architecture. It's hot and humid, but there's a constant breeze that makes walking around a pleasure. At a bridge over the train station in Silon, a girl wearing a costume poses for a photo shoot. She's not the only one. In fact, the place seems to be quite popular with photographers. Most people on the streets are in their twenties, usually with a group of friends, having a good time. If they're in a group, they keep to themselves but if they're alone they politely greet me. There are many Westerns around, and most of them look like well-adapted residents, not tourists.

If you ever go to Bangkok, pay close attention to which airport you're arriving and departing. I arrived at Suvarnabhumi Airport, but I will be leaving from Don Mueang International. This airport is smaller and the staff is quite friendly. As I am flying first thing in the morning, I spend part of the night in the airport, and I'm far from the only one. There are people sleeping everywhere. At a busy charging station, I meet and befriend Carl, Kazild, Kevin, and Cynthia. Each of us is from a different part of the world, traveling to another, completely different place. At that airport, what unites us is that we need to charge our phones. Carl and Kazild are best friends originally from the Philippines but raised in Hawaii. They're on their way to Hanoi, Vietnam. Kevin is from Pennsylvania and he's flying back home, and Cynthia, who is from Argentina, has just arrived from Myanmar and is flying to Japan. All of them have been around and have interesting tales to tell. Just by looking into their eyes you can see a world of places and people, of which they're happy to share, though no narrative can fully bring to others the intensity of the experience itself. After talking of places, people and how to find the best lodgings, we settle on politics, and I find that, though our backgrounds are quite diverse, our views are similar. Soon it's time for Kevin to board his plane. One by one we go our own ways, but we promise to stay in touch. As I depart from them I wonder about their expectations and thoughts toward their destination. It took courage for each of them to embark on this adventure and I'm impressed -- and jealous -- of their experiences. I wish them all the best. My batteries are fully charged and it's time for me to go too. I stop at the exchange booth and turn baht into riel, then eat my last guava before heading to my gate. Goodbye, friends! Goodbye, Thailand!

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