author's note: this fic is pretty much the brainchild of Amanda (aka habrina on tumblr) who - a million years and several months ago - so desperately wanted a klaroline/pushing daisies au, unwittingly making me realize that heck YEAH i want it too.

you don't really have to watch the show to understand what's going on here (but i'll be staring at you disaproving of your life choices because whimsical narratives! charming characters! offbeat murder-crime solving escapades! cinematography that'll blow your ass right into your couch and make you sty there for another episode or eight! see also: chi mcbride) (and do i even have to MENTION lee pace?)

tldr: watch the show when you can. you are missing out on a gem. also, first touch - life, second touch - death. you'll get it later.

big thanks to my beta empirically-speaking on tumblr, and DJ for pretty much making me feel better about everything i ever write ever, including this.

enough rambling, let's get to the fic.

1. a humble abode where both our routes meet

—

There's a certain time slot on Tuesdays between six and eight that business picks up. More coffee to be brewed, more pie to be had, more faces to remember—because if it's one thing The Pie Hole promises, it's that it wraps you up in a wonder of blueberry and butter and cream, and will never let you go.

(No but really, that's what it says on the menu. Rebekah can't even…whatever.)

Rebekah has given up trying to figure out why it's always on Tuesdays that more stains appear on her apron, why there never seems to be enough coffee going around despite putting a new pot up every fifteen minutes, why the tip jar disappears from the counter halfway into the two-hour bench. She usually finds it in the storage room in the back, with Matt huddled over it, counting quarters and dollar bills. She promises (read: threatens) not to tell Klaus if he splits the loot and hands over all the fivers.

She doesn't really mind it. Tuesdays are good days. Tuesdays are the days Klaus doesn't seem to be worked into his bones, and sometimes he even comes out of the kitchen to catch up with Marcel over the counter or to make sure nobody's stealing from the bloody tip jar again (Rebekah averts her eyes, Matt suddenly becomes interested in the till).

By nine, it turns around into something mellow and the new faces file out to make room for the regular ones: there's Professor Saltzman and his droopy tie, trying to smile uncertainly at her but always looking away before she can smile back. The Salvatore brothers who take twenty minutes ordering their usual peach cobbler because they're too busy firing passive-aggressive quips at each other from behind their menus or taking turns casting furtive glances at the petite brunette in the corner there, who enjoys her blueberry slice piping hot with a side of cream.

Rebekah goes back to wiping the counter and just waiting around until closing time, gives her brother an absent-minded peck on the cheek.

As she's hanging up her apron, she asks, just to make sure, "Are you sure you don't want to co—" to which Klaus will respond, "I'm fine where I am, Rebekah".

She turns out the lights and leaves the diner with Matt hand-in-hand, and when she looks back she can see her brother's silhouette through the blinds, working steadily into the night.

.

.

Rebekah has days off on Mondays, which is when Matt can be found working overtime. Between the Pie Hole and the Grille, he actually finds himself making ends meet – nothin' like paying the bills early.

Klaus has, on more than one occasion (and more than two with knives) yelled at them about the emptying of the tip jar, but he's never really exacted those threats, so Matt figures it's safe to keep poking his nose back in. It's not that he's not grateful to Klaus for the reluctant blessing of this job (he really is), but it's not like Klaus needs the extra bits or anything. He's been to their place, like, maybe three times, and dude's loaded. Rebekah always drags him real quick through the foyer and up the grand staircase—yeah, they call it the grand staircase—so he doesn't really have enough time to gawk or anything, but he sees enough.

And like he's said, Klaus doesn't mind. Sure, he brandishes knives and threatens to shove Matt's head into the oven, but he still lets Matt leave with his pockets stuffed with loose change.

Monday turns into Tuesday, and so it was then, at 7:15pm that he's rifling through the big glass jar that the doorknob of the room jiggles and turns. In skulks Kol, his hands powdered and his apron askew.

"You're not Bekah," Matt says flatly.

"You've good observation." The way Kol is staring reminds him of those documentaries he used to watch as a kid – the ones where Vicky would shut off the TV right as the panther crouches low, fur rippling, hind legs just springing to attack. "Right, jig is up, you know the drill: hand over those bills or you will never see the light of day."

Matt thins his lips and straightens his back against a mop. Kol comes and goes as he pleases, often over-baking the pies and messing up people's orders. He drops drinks out of spite and steals from the till, which to Matt – despite he himself stealing from the tip jar – is Major Asshole Behaviour. When he feels the need to, he leans over the counter at one of the regulars and says something Matt can't quite hear (probably something rude as hell), and while Klaus fumes and grates at losing yet another customer, Kol just picks at the bits of their uneaten pie and eventually, leaves.

Matt wonders why Klaus hasn't fired Kol yet, but whenever he brings it up, Rebekah always finds that she has something to do, like cleaning the windows. Which have already been cleaned that morning.

Three times.

Elijah comes and goes even less than Kol does, but never to work (as if). He goes over the books and checks to see if everything's working, and spends the rest of the time at his reserved spot with the day's newspaper and a cup of coffee (black no cream no sugar thank you). Matt sometimes brings him a plate of ginger cookies to soften him up some, as he does now, to bring up The Kol Thing.

"Now now, Matthew," Elijah says and rustles his newspaper pointedly, "I don't ask where it is you and Rebekah disappear to between the hours of six and eight on Tuesdays, do I?"

Matt would then shuffle away, wondering why no one was getting the point.

The point that: Kol seems to be able to get away with everything, and Matt, who happened to be in that unfortunate position with such unfortunate timing with such unfortunate choice of words, was about to find out why.

"You're a lunatic and a shit pie maker," Matt says, pocketing his findings. "So no."

"And you, dear boy, happen to be in an unfortunate position, with such unfortunate timing, with such unfortunate choice of words." In the dim lighting of the room, Kol's face contorts into something ugly, something monstrous.

Oh, Matt thinks.

.

.

Klaus sighs over Matt's limp body, his lip curling up with distaste at the way his neck bent at his shoulders. Rebekah's crying had died down into a soft whimper to silence, and she sits on the floor with Matt's torso cradled in her lap, black mascara tracking down her face.

"Rebekah, I…"

She shakes her head violently. "I don't want to hear it. Do it."

"I don't think you'd like—"

"Who the wanking hell cares what I'd like?" she damn well screams at him, her lips bloodless. Her shoulders aren't shaking and neither are her hands, but her eyes paint an ache in his throat, a rising in his chest. He swallows it down. "My boyfriend is dead, flat out dead, and you're worried I wouldn't want to hear how he died?" If her eyes were mad with grief before, now they're furious. "Fuck you."

Klaus wants to roll his eyes, Stop being such a drama queen, but the way Rebekah clings to Matt's dead body makes him swallow the "He was going to die anyway. One day. The same way the sun rises and sets, the way the wind plucks out silver songs out of a wind chime, the way you're always late on Friday night shifts. It is nature, and it is life. Life, as it goes, goes. And things that go eventually have to—" speech he'd given on more than one occasion.

(On those occasions, his face has been slapped, shoved, or slammed before doors, which is why he's never gotten a chance to get to the end of the speech, which he was just pulling out of his ass, anyway.

Which he supposes is kind of a good thing, the whole interruption bit.)

But it's his sister, and she's upset, so he acquiesces hastily, bending down to touch Matt.

There's a zap of light where Klaus' forefinger touches Matt, and he sits up with a start, colour returning to his cheeks. Rebekah lets out a quiet sob, and he looks at Klaus: notes the way he's keeping a trained eye on his wristwatch, and groans.

"I'm dead, aren't I?" Matt doesn't wait for a response. "Just—shit. I'm dead."

Rebekah bites her lip. "I'm sorry."

Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. "Shit."

"I am so, so sorry, babe."

Matt's eyes soften. "You never call me that."

That, remarkably, makes her cry, which makes Matt pull her close, pressing kiss after kiss into her hair, her cheeks, her lips (which makes Klaus clears his throat pointedly).

"Right." Rebekah straightens herself. "Was it Kol?"

"Yeah," Matt says, fingering the collar around his broken neck. "Can't believe I died this way. In a friggen storage room." He looks down his shirt. "Covered in quarters."

"That's quite unfortunate," Klaus says, but he doesn't add Thirty-nine seconds.

"That's what Kol said," Matt shrugs. He tugs Rebekah closer. "I'm sorry. I love you."

"It doesn't have to be this way," she whispers, fingers buried deep into his cotton-clad chest. "You know that."

The smile on his face doesn't reach his eyes. "That's not a life I'd want."

"But you'd be with me." Rebekah's begging. It's such a rare sight to Klaus that he has to turn away, has to keep counting down the seconds, because that is not his sister on her knees, not his sister looking so lost as she pleads for the life of a boy that's already lost it. "Please."

Klaus shuffles his feet, an intruder in this moment that Rebekah and Matt had built for themselves. He's almost reluctant to remind them: "Thirty seconds."

"You listen to me," Matt says fiercely, "I love you. I love you when you think you're being a bitch, I love you on the days you wake up and somehow decide that you aren't worth loving, I love you in the quiet moments between six and eight that we sit in this room counting quarters, I—"

"You are not saying goodbye to me," Rebekah hisses through her teeth. She looks absolutely frightful then, and something registers in Matt's face.

"One more thing, Bekah—Kol. Before he… before he did me in, he did something weird, like veins popping 'round his eyes—"

"Time to go," Klaus says promptly, and Rebekah's eyes fly to his, wild, "Nik—no!"—

—but too late, a zing, a zap of light, and Matthew Donovan was dead once more.

Rebekah's shoulders shake, and her voice breaks. "You asshole. He had ten seconds left—" Eyes wild, she struggles to take in a breath. "You hypocritical wank, it's not like you've never let someone live—"

Klaus is on her in an instant, and Rebekah backs away just the slightest, all thoughts chased from her mind in the way his eyes light up like an inferno about to swallow her whole. His voice is serpentine, his inflections laced with venom. "There are people around. They might hear."

"That what, our brother is a vampire?" Rebekah snorts a tearful one while Klaus does everything short of tearing out his own hair and burning down the storage room to shut her up. She snorts again, turning her face into Matt's hair while he's still warm. "And you wake the dead. There, I said it. Nobody's running for the hills. Nobody's coming at us with pitchforks."

"It's the 21st century, Bekah. They'd use rifles."

"Whatever." Rebekah closes her eyes, trying to even her breathing. "Leave me be."

Klaus stands uncertainly, the fury washed out of his face. What do you do when your baby sister is crying over her dead boyfriend in a cramped storage room? "Are you sure you don't want to co—"

"I'm fine where I am, Nik."

He doesn't want to leave her there, but the front bell is jingling, they're one staff member short, and Klaus has pies to make.

.

.

Rebekah is standing by the counter on a quiet Thursday night, arranging the displayed pies and wiping down the curved countertops, because that's what she does on Thursday nights. Klaus would think that she'd be tired of this little diner with its dimpled buttercup walls and counters that constantly smell of sultanas, and most days he'd be right. These days, he'd find her staring out the display window at the passers-by, counting them as they come in one by one, lured by the smell of buttery dough and lemon zest.

(It says as much on the menus as well.)

Marcel strolls in, the bell jingling in his wake. It's not Tuesday, and Rebekah's a little confused, but she doesn't dwell on it. Just does her signature mug flip and asks how his day is going.

"How's your day going?"

She places the mint green mugs on the yellow rack, readies her pen hand and flips open her notebook.

Marcel drops into his usual Tuesday stool, chuckling. "Rebekah, Rebekah, Rebekah," he says in one long exhale, rewarding her mug tricks with a dazzling smile. "My business-only girl. You leave me wondering what you do for pleasure."

"Oh Marcel. There's a lot to be said about leaving things to the imagination," Rebekah quips in a mockery of fondness, running her hands down the front of her apron. Marcel's eyes follow them, not a subtle bone in his body as he catalogues the curve of her hips, the soft swell of her breasts. Rebekah knows she should be blushing by now, oh how Elijah would be furious at this, how Matt would clench his fists in the pockets of his jeans, but Elijah isn't here, and neither is Matt.

Marcel places a finger on his temple, smiling smiling smiling away. "And you do that so well."

Rebekah gives him a thin smile and cuts him a slice of his usual, sliding it in front of him. "One pancake pie, extra jam on the side."

Marcel smiles, but this time not at her, but at the delicious layers of pancake, butter, and glistening jam atop a crumbly crust dotted with pecans. Marcel was a pie man—more specifically, a jam man, with an appreciation for their fragrance and fruity taste. He owned vineyards in Italy and France, grew strawberries where he could, and even owned a little patisserie in Versailles. There was a rumour that, many years ago, he had convinced the mayor of Mystic Falls to have a Jam Appreciation Day every 3rd of March, which was dispelled when Damon Salvatore stepped up at the unveiling of the event like the cat that got the cream, while Marcel glowered by the sidelines.

It turns out people were entirely too appreciative of jam, which is how Klaus found himself dangerously short of it on the opening day of The Pie Hole—which is where Marcel swooped in, eager to make up for the loss of a day he held so dear.

Gratitude is something Klaus is not accustomed to feeling, but Marcel's supply of jam assured him a lifelong standing seat, and even a pie named after him.

Marcel digs a fork into the Marcel with gusto, all flirtatious pretence dropped. Rebekah turns away without as much as a nose wrinkle. Quite the professional she is, and she rounds up the thought with a thorough wipe-down of the counter.

.

.

It's a rainy Monday, and Rebekah really should be prepping for her pre-u courses, but instead she's unlocking the shiny double doors and reaching for her apron.

It's a goddamn travesty.

In the kitchen, Klaus is busy kneading away at some dough, his knuckles whitened by flour. Rebekah places a hand on his shoulder and he tenses, before realizing it's only his sister.

"People are asking about you," Rebekah says, peeping into the oven. "You hardly ever leave the kitchen these days."

Klaus doesn't say a word; doesn't even look up from his hands.

This is not a kitchen, Rebekah realizes, but a mausoleum. The buttercup walls gleam but they shouldn't, not in a place where all she wants is warmth in the buttery counters and definitely not in a place where dank silence is all she gets for trying to reach out, when it should be him touching her shoulder, him coming to check on her, especially after what he'd done, what he'll continue doing—

"Nik," she grits out. "I'm talking to you."

Klaus touches a mouldy strawberry and Rebekah watches over her shoulder as it blooms to life, juicy and red. He doesn't look up when he says distractedly, "I'm fine where I—"

"Sure." Rebekah gives a very unlady-like snort and slams the door of the oven shut. "You're miserable all the damn time and it's a right pain to be around."

"As opposed to Oh look I'm twirling mugs again pay attention to me," Klaus chants, pounding down on the dough with unnecessary force.

"My mug tricks pay for the coffee cream!" Rebekah fumes. "Anyway, even Elijah agrees."She waves an arm at Elijah, who is seated behind the counter. He looks like he's resisting the urge to role his eyes; of course Rebekah would drag him into this.

"Don't mind me," he says idly, flipping through the morning's news. "Just here for my morning coffee and a dose of your transparent arguments."

Klaus grunts as he heaves a sack of flour onto the counter. "Oh come now brother, this argument could sure use your penny's worth."

"Just as this kitchen dourly needs your sarcasm," Elijah replies, licking his thumb and flicking a page. "Thought about a replacement for Matt yet?"

"I have, but Rebekah would sooner see us bankrupt than hire new help." Klaus passes the dough to his sister. "Apples and raspberries."

Rebekah sighs and covers her eyes with her hand. They've been through this. She needed time and then some to get over the fact that her boyfriend had died, killed by one of her own brothers no less, and more than honeyed crusts and extra tips, more than sympathetic smiles and extra days off. She needed – more. She needed retribution, or the certain kind of satisfaction that came with watching someone's whole world burn down while you hold the matches. She didn't want to 'get over it', as Nik had succinctly put.

She pulls her hand away from her face and realizes that what she does want, what she does need, and what she does deserve, is to be angry.

.

.

Dangerously quiet, she sets down the rolling pin and turns to Klaus, clasps her hands together and lowers her head. "Are you there? It's me, Rebekah."

Klaus scowls. "What are you doing?"

"Praying, brother. To you," Rebekah says sweetly. "Dear Nik, do you think it's going to start snowing anytime soon? Christmas is almost here."

The air is sticky, the confusion on her brother's face enough to make her smirk into her fingertips.

"I'm feeling awfully sad lately," she continues, "and none of my brothers give a damn."

"Rebekah," Elijah begins, a warning in his tone, but she pays him no more attention than she would their competitors across the road.

Rebekah stares straight into Klaus' eyes. "And while you're at it, do you think you could make yourself less of a dick?"

Klaus feels dread settling in his stomach and in the way he keeps pounding on the dough, but he clenches his hands into fists, pushes it aside. "What do you think you're playing at?"

"I'm not playing at anything," Rebekah hisses through her teeth. "You are, playing God with the touch of your finger, with your ridiculously-developed holier than thou complex—you think just because you keep your head down and say nothing that I don't see right through you?"

Elijah slaps the paper down on the counter. "Rebekah!"

Klaus rounds the table, and while his sleeves had long been pushed to his elbows, he's metaphorically rolling them up again. "If this is about your precious Matt—"

"Oh however did you figure it out?" Rebekah shrieks, moving around the table as well; doesn't want him anywhere near her— "He was the love of my life, and the fact that you—that both of you!—think it should be easy for me to just forget him, oh he's just another busboy." She swipes furiously at her eyes. "You think a life is so dispensable—"

"Because it is!" Klaus thunders, and the rolling pin goes flying across the room. "Look—" He snatches up a berry and they watch it untwist its rotted leaves, its shrivelled form turning into something lush and beautiful. Then he drops it and he touches a mouldy apple, watches it bloom to life, and the berry he'd touched earlier turned rotten once more. He snatches up berry after berry, upending bowls and bottles, sending jars crashing to the checkered floor and pans flying to crash against the glass frames on the wall, until Elijah's suddenly across the room holding Klaus' arm in a vice grip, shielding him from a shaking Rebekah who was covering her eyes and screaming enough Nik stop that you've made your point you're scaring me enough just stop.

Klaus wrenches his arm away from Elijah. His breathing comes out in slow starts and stops, heavy in his ears. When he steps towards Rebekah she visibly balks, and he tries not to feel a twinge in his chest. "Now, I wonder what would happen if Elijah were to trip and fall, to hit his head and die. I could touch him and joy of joys, he would live—but what happens sixty seconds later?"

Rebekah shakes her head, I do not know; please don't make me say it. Klaus has her by the shoulders now, forcing her to look at him. "You die, Rebekah, isn't that the damnedest thing? And I could touch you, bring you back, but then someone else would die, and then someone else, and it would go on and on and on. You think I enjoy playing God? Getting to pick who lives and who rots? It's not some form of divinity. It's another notch on my belt." His voice lowers as he leans closer. Rebekah stares, transfixed: she's forgotten how to breathe. "What makes you think Matt's death would mean any different to me?"

Elijah sighs and pulls Rebekah away from him, wraps his arm around her with the mannerisms of an older brother who's not quite used to giving hugs. "That's enough damage for one morning, Klaus."

Rebekah snorts into Elijah's shoulder. "It's enough damage for two lifetimes. Kol would know." She pushes away from him, eyes wet and cheeks red – rips her apron off and throws it at Klaus' face. "I quit."

"Third time this bloody month then?" Klaus retorts to her retreating back.

She shoots him a tear strained glare over her shoulder and all but kicks the glass doors open, causing a crack near the handles. Her yell of "I don't care, dick wad!" is audibly heard through the crisp morning.

"That's coming out of your paycheck!" Klaus roars after her, "if you're even lucky enough to get it, you ungrateful, tip-squandering—"

"Twelve!" Elijah bellows and Klaus flinches: rarely does he raise his voice, and this makes twice already. He reaches behind the barrels of flavouring and pulls out Klaus' not-so-secret stash of whiskey, and proceeds to Irish up his coffee.

Klaus plucks the bottle from Elijah and takes a swig. "Enlighten me."

Elijah ignores him until he's done stirring his coffee. He doesn't start speaking until he's back in his seat.

"Twelve on a scale of one to ten, on how much of a prick you have been." He makes a grand show of pulling back the sleeve of his jacket to glance at his wristwatch. "And it's only 7:30 in the morning. I say you've exceeded yourself, brother."

Klaus doesn't say a thing as he picks up the remnants of the argument, sweeping shattered glass into corners and straightening the picture frames. He scoops up the berries, sighs when they wilt in his hands. "She knows I mean well."

"No she doesn't," Elijah says simply. "She would, if you ever talked about it."

Klaus shrugs and places his rolling pin by his over-kneaded dough. It'd have to be thrown out. He scrapes it into the bin, his lip curling at the morning's waste. "Father… still blames me." It sounds resigned, strained—but he figures it has to be said. "For Kol. Rebekah doesn't, she wasn't there, but you can see it in her eyes sometimes, her little head just thinking away." He leans on the edge of the table and heaves another sigh. "More so since Matt died."

"Maybe that boy was right. Maybe we give Kol too much leeway." Elijah sounds bitter and angry and sad and Klaus kind of wants to cover his ears, I don't want to listen, no use wasting away on maybe's and what if's – wake him up when something new happens.

"At any rate, this is bad for the books. Get her back." The threat quiet clear in his voice, Elijah looks triumphant at how sullen his brother looks. "Drop the attitude, too. We offer pies and hospitality for heaven's sake." He starts to stand: coffee finished, yesterday's accounts sorted and today's bookkeeping ready to be botched up by Klaus (and much later, patched up by him Elijah) – this is why's he's the older brother, ever so wise. When he pushes on the door handle to leave it comes off in his hands. "Fix this door, won't you?"

It's all lists and logic – no rhyming, no mug tricks, no powdered sugar to top it all off. The oven dings but Klaus makes no move to check on it. "Is everything just business to you?"

"Family business, Niklaus." And Elijah looks tired. "It's the worst kind."

After that, Klaus goes through the motions, mechanically serving and automatically smiling – thrusting bills and accepting cards. This is what Rebekah had wanted, wasn't it? Someone to smile and make light of affairs, someone to bake extra butter into the crusts without even being offended by their lack of faith in his judgement. If his regulars are surprised by his presence they don't show it; they just ask about Rebekah and he laughs, telling them it's her off day and that she's excited to start college soon.

It's all so trivial; he wonders why he doesn't hate it yet.

He's exhausted come closing time, and there's still cleaning up to do. When he's stacking dishes, he catches sight of the sheaf of paper on his dusty work counter. Elijah, all-knowing Elijah, ever dependable Elijah, very much predictable Elijah, had already alphabetized the job applications that Klaus has to go through.

Klaus shuffles through them, crumples them up in his fist and sticks them in the oven. He's satisfied watching them curl up and burn.

.

.

He is working the tables once more and it's day three of his quest for Camelot, Camelot being the I Don't Need Anybody's Help show and its sequel, What Do You Mean This Wasn't What You Fuckin' Ordered?, and the unrated, much anticipated novel adaptation, Kiss My Ass You Lousy Tippers.

Klaus is elbow deep in pie crust and the orders are getting mixed up in his head, and he very nearly spears Logan Fell's arm when he dares grab a slice because Klaus is taking too long.

"Next time," Klaus snarls, "I'm putting this fork through your heart."

Elijah can count on Klaus being hospitable as much as he can count Klaus' streak of never once burning a pie, ever – infinitely.

Besides, Klaus has bigger fish to fry (and more pies to bake) than a few unhappy customers. There's no one managing the till, no one to convince Professor Saltzman that his waistline isn't expanding and an extra slice of butter pecan would surely do no harm, no one to guilt-stare people into leaving more than a quarter in the tip jar.

It was, as Elijah would put it, bad for the books.

And then a child cries, and Klaus doesn't know how to tell its mother that he's seriously considering banning children from his establishment.

He buries his head in his arms, right there amidst the desperate wailings of stupid children, on the curved counter in the middle of his diner in full view of the patrons waiting in their booths, banging on the tables demanding their pies.

This is why he needs Rebekah.

Someone taps on his shoulder. He looks up, and it's one of the Salvatore brothers. The older one, the token wisecracking leather-wearing takes-way-too-long-to-decide-what-he-wants brat. He grimaces; he'd always preferred Stefan.

"Hey, where's my cobbler?" Damon squints at him. "Anyway, are you okay?"

"No," Klaus barks as he whips his towel over his shoulder, "I bake pies, not serve them."

He stalks back in his kitchen, paces and prowls, does an Elijah and lists down every inconceivable idea on every reason why he shouldn't, but ends up picking up the phone to call his sister anyway.

.

.

Christmas Day.

Rebekah barely has enough time to adorn the Pie Hole with twinkling lights and streamers, to frost the windows and string silver snowflakes, and to hang up stockings by the espresso machine before swept up with the demands of parties and double-booked pastries. She even hangs mistletoe from the arch of their doorway out of spite, remembering how her brother hated couple being intimate, couples, and just being intimate in general.

The smirk on her face is a magnificent one whenever people passing by the shop are greeted to the view of Tyler Lockwood sneaking a quick one on Elena Gilbert or Damon Salvatore all but pressing Bonnie Bennett into the door in the urgency of their kiss.

But mostly Rebekah tiptoes around Klaus, a reminder that while she is willing to grant forgiveness over most things, she's not likely to forget.

Klaus thinks what a nuisance this is as he bakes ten lemon meringue pies for Mayor Lockwood, who'd cajoled him into doing the catering at her annual Christmas party despite him sending a neatly-worded reply that he simply

Does

Not

Do

Parties.

She sends back a letter, From the desk of Mayor Lockwood, oh dear Klaus, I wonder who talked Pastor Remy into choosing a different landmark for his church so as to make room for your lovely little diner? Think of the children.

Klaus pens back his reluctant agreement.

All she does is send him a check in advance, and if it weren't for the fact that it soothed his conscience and Elijah's worry that they were behind on the numbers, he would've told her to eat it.

Rebekah finds one of his letters on the counter, notes the slants of his enraged penmanship and reminds him that it was his bright idea to open a diner in the first place; he better damn well act like it.

Klaus bares his teeth, tells her to eat it, but all she does is give him a sickeningly sweet smile before saying, "Or what, you'll stick a fork in my chest?"

He stares at her, wondering.

"Word travels fast, Nik." Rebekah rolls her eyes, but the anxiety in the set of her brows betrays her. "You don't want to start losing customers, do you?"

No, he concedes, rubbing his chin. He supposed not.

Which is how he ends up in a corner of Mayor Lockwood's grandiose living room, artfully arranging pies in silver dishes that gleamed under the golden chandeliers.

"Oh Klaus," Mayor Lockwood gushes, "this looks lovely." She quite tactfully moves the cream dish just a little to the left.

Klaus feels his eye begin to twitch.

Rebekah sweeps into the corner before, flashes a charming smile to Mayor Lockwood and quickly leads her away. As she's going she hisses to Klaus, "We should have left you at the diner."

Too late now, Klaus glowers. They'd left the Pie Hole in the care of Hayley, the temp who sometimes came to cover the weekends when Rebekah decided that she simply had to watch that new movie about those three guys who get smashed and always seem to leave their fourth friend behind in uncouth places. She's of the gum-cracking variety, part of the youth movement that had grown up with wry punch lines and drawling sarcastic jokes meant only for the sarcastic drawler to understand.

To say that Klaus doesn't understand would be an understatement, but Elijah had gotten someone to steal his favourite rolling pin and hide it in different places, so he has no choice but to hire her.

"As a trial," he makes sure she knows.

Hayley just shoots him a (sarcastic) smile and points him out the door.

.

.

The party is in full swing by the time 7pm rolls around, a phrase here which means Tyler Lockwood somehow got his head stuck between the banisters of the staircase, Steven Forbes had gone through four flutes of champagne, and Professor Saltzman had finally mustered up the courage to look Meredith Fell in the eye. Mistletoes were grabbed from doorways and held above objects of their affections, classical music wafted gaily through the vast rooms, there was dancing, singing, the toasting of champagne, and other wonderful sights to behold.

Rebekah drinks it all in, giggles when a boy asks her to dance despite the logo on the back of her shirt. She seemed to forget that she is on a job altogether, only going to check on the pies in the kitchen when she feels like she absolutely needs to.

Klaus is replenishing the lemon meringue and triple berry when he spots a familiar face in the mass of slow-dancing couples – the angular jaw, the dark hair swept back. Elijah, he thinks with astonishment, before remembering that Elijah was on a business trip in Versailles, something to do with Marcel. Besides, Elijah would never just drop into parties like these; he was much too busy for that even without the holidays.

Kol looks eerily like Elijah frozen in time; his chest constricts when Kol flashes him a cheeky smile – Klaus blinks and suddenly Kol's gone. He feels his hand tighten on a pie server almost on reflex and follows Kol into the crowd.

He finds his brother upstairs, surveying the party from the shadows. His hands rest lightly on the smooth wooden balustrades and he looks so at ease to be surrounded by the grand tapestries and oiled antique furniture that Klaus suspects that this is not his first time being here.

"If you wanted to hurt me, you should have grabbed something more wooden," Kol says without turning around. "Like a toothpick, or your butter pecan pie. It's a little dry."

Affronted, Klaus wants to slide the silver pie server right between his brother's ribs, but opts out when he sees the invitation sticking out of Kol's pocket. Sighing, he joins his brother at the balustrade. "Mayor Lockwood really wants everyone in one place, doesn't she?"

"Well it is Christmas," Kol says, as though Klaus needs reminding. "More than what I can say about my own family."

Klaus puts his weight on his hands, leans down on the smooth mahogany; allows himself to breathe. "You'd best leave. Rebekah won't be too happy to see you."

"But you see, brother…" Kol fishes a card out of his pocket. It's glittery and pink, with hearts printed on it. "I came to apologize. Couldn't find one that said "sorry I killed your boyfriend", so I chose a Valentine's themed one instead. Gave me an excuse to buy chocolates as well."

Klaus looks at his brother for a very long time. He still looks young, not yet twenty, his cheeks not even hollowed the way Elijah's is. Kol looks as though the dew is still upon him, fresh and clean in the winter air, like nothing could rip it away. But there's an emptiness in his eyes, the sort of sadness reserved for soldiers back from war, the sort of silence that you feel on nights when you cannot sleep but just stare at your ceiling.

Klaus sees his own eyes reflecting back at him and has to turn away.

Kol rests a hand on his shoulder. "You look tired, Nik."

"I'm just getting old." And he can feel it, in his bones, the weight of the world crashing down on him. He wants to wrap his arms around it, crush it right back, but he's afraid to touch. "It's quite annoying."

"I suppose I would know how that feels," Kol says, "if you hadn't let me die."

Klaus shuts his eyes then, the weight almost crippling. "Kol—"

"The poison's still in me. I can't get it out." Kol glances down at the party below them, looking grim. "Every single one of those people down there is a meal. I hunger for them; my teeth hum just looking at their throats. I crave nothing else. Which is a shame, really. I do miss your triple berry pie."

"I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean to, you didn't know the extent of your powers, you were afraid, blah blah blah," Kol intones, already bored. "And now I have to watch my younger brothers grow older than me and compel people to forget my real age. And what do you do? Pour your angst into pies."

Despair is not something he's unfamiliar with, but he's always been good at hiding it – all of a sudden he's eight years old again, baking pie after pie after pie, flour dusting his cheeks made worse by his hand that keeps trying to brush them away, the way Kol's looking at him.

"I was eight," Klaus reminds him, vexed.

Kol snorts. "Yeah, well, I'm supposed to be thirty-nine. How's that for perspective?" After a while, he sighs. His apology is stiff, but it's one anyway, and Klaus knows they don't come at just any expense. "Look, I'm… sorry. You were a kid. But you could have just gone for it."

It wasn't hard, Kol's eyes seem to say. Just a touch, one touch, and it would have been so much different.

All at once, it's just too much. He's sick of standing down, sick of the gnarled nails pointed at his direction; he brings the sharp end of pie server down on the balustrade, a sharp stab, and it stands there vibrating. "What about the company you kept, then? The venom in your system that made you who you are today? We're not going to talk about that, about your little trips to Professor Maxfield's?"

"That's none of your concern," Kol says. His eyes flash; his voice seeps acid. "He stopped being one, after I snapped his neck. We're not so different, you and I. We grant lives as easily as we take them."

Years ago, Klaus would have scoffed at this, turned his back and walked away, you're delusional. But now… now, he's not so sure. He looks at Kol's hands and sometimes they drip red, but were they any different than his own? He thinks of Rebekah, of the furious tilt of her lips, It's not the first time you've let someone live, but it also meant that it wasn't the first time he'd let someone die. It's all a frenzy in his mind and he wants to bring a fist to his temple, knock some clarity into his head. But Kol's still there, staring at him with an expression devoid of emotion.

Klaus knows better.

"I'm going to check on the pies," he tells Kol starchily and heads for the stairs. He shoulders his way through the crowd, on more than one occasion almost walking into a faceful of pie – were people seriously dancing and eating at the same time? – checks on the dessert table before finally making it to the kitchen.

There's someone in the kitchen tending over his pies, but it's not Rebekah.

"You're not Rebekah," he tells the man bent over the banana custard. The dropper in his hand stills.

"You've good observation," the man responds, before leaping over the table and the pies straight for Klaus.

Had Rebekah actually been there, she would have rated their crash to the ground a 6, the way Klaus' elbow hits the man's neck a 7, and the right hook Klaus receives a 7.5. Had Rebekah actually been there to watch over the pies, maybe Klaus wouldn't be trying to knee the man's groin, and maybe the man wouldn't be trying to claw Klaus' eyes out with his caramel-stained fingers.

Klaus gathers a fistful of the man's shirt and swings him into the stainless steel fridge with as much force as he can muster; the pounding in his head doesn't help much. The man groans and Klaus keeps his foot down on his back, and tries to catching his breath. Wiping his bloody lip with the back of his hand, Klaus realizes he's a little dazed—but not too dazed to the point where he can't recognize the donut insignia on the man's collar, and the dose of Ipicac he'd dripped into his pies.

With newfound strength, he heaves the man to his feet and slams his back against the wall. "Who are you?" he hisses, but the man just blinks at him, wincing. "Did Mikael send you?"

"You're going to have to kill me," he grins, blood colouring his teeth.

Bloodlust hums in his veins, and Klaus, almost spitting in his fury, just might. He snarls when he's angry, dangerously quiet when he's on to something – mother had always called him her wolf. My little wolf, she'd say fondly and ruffle his hair. What trouble comes knocking today?

The world held as much mystery as it did his mother's rounded belly, and he would press his ears to it, his mother coaxing him, coddling him, listen to your sister breathe.

Just breathe, Niklaus. Breathe along with your sister.

And he does, in and out, in and out. When he's calmer (or as calm as a man is after he's found that his pies had been spiked with poison), Klaus shoves the man one last time for good measure, sneers, "A little melodramatic, don't you think?" but lets him go.

Which is a stupid move on his part, because the man produces a knife, and Klaus barely registers the sharp flash of silver before it's lodged in his side. Blinded with pain, he staggers back, presses a hand down on his abdomen. His palm is printed in red on his white shirt and along the wall as he struggles to get away, and he can see it all: this is Klaus Mikaelson, and this is how he dies. Can't bring yourself back to life when you yourself are dead, can you?

This is Klaus, and this is how he goes.

In the kitchen of the Lockwood Manor, covered in pie crust.

It's such a ridiculous notion he might laugh, but the pain keeps his teeth gritted together. The man advances, bloodied knife still in hand, bloodied teeth still bared at him, but then his neck twists in an odd way – Klaus hears a snap and suddenly he's lying in a heap on the marble floor, Kol standing above him.

"Who's Donut Guy here?" Kol prods the dead man's side with the toe of his shoe.

"Well, we'll never know now, can we?" Klaus coughs, and the front of his shirt is lightly sprayed with his blood and spit.

He can practically hear Kol rolling his eyes as he crouches down. "Who knew on the brink of death, that you'd be so stupid? Touch him."

"I don't—" It's an effort to sit up, even more of an effort to shake his head. The kitchen is starting to sway around him, and the only clear thing he sees are his brother's dark eyes peering at him through the stark white. "Can't. Too tired."

The light is too bright in his eyes.

He wants to tell his sister he's sorry. He's dying, and he's sorry. He wants to walk her home from school again, take her through shady alleyways like he used to, the brave older brother who isn't afraid of a man with a knife (but look at him now). She's guiding him now, pulling and tugging at his hand even as he's saying, "Rebekah—leave it, no darling, we should be on our way now—"

His sister's little blonde head fills his vision, but suddenly it's a different blonde, so young and so still, lying in that little alleyway—

"Leave it," he whispers, pupils dilating, "Leave it alone."

He can't hear Kol's response over how loud his breathing is in his ears, but suddenly his mouth is filled with the metallic taste of blood – warm blood, heady blood, blood that isn't his. He almost chokes, wants to wrench his head away, but Kol's wrist is firmly pressed to his lips.

"Relax, would you?" Kol snaps. "I'm trying to heal you."

"What's going on here?"

Rebekah.

Now's his chance—

A clatter of heels against marble and suddenly she's kneeling down by his side, hands on his chest as he fights, holding him down. What are you doing? he wants to ask, but he's too weak. I don't want this poison in my system, get him away from me—Rebekah's hands push him down harder.

"Stay still," she grits. Her cheeks are still pink from dancing, her hair looks a bit windswept. "Stay down Nik, or so help me God I will kill you myself."

Wheezing, Klaus slumps back against the cabinets, tearing his shirt from where it's tucked under his trousers as he feels the torn flesh in his stomach mend itself. He takes in great lungfuls of air as his head clears and his vision stops flitting in and out, searching for his brother – but Kol's already gone. He breathes a laugh through his nose. So much for Valentine's cards.

Rebekah gingerly picks up the discarder dropper off the floor and sniffs at it. "It smells like…"

"Ipicac," Klaus says. The sweat is cooling on his skin and his pulse is racing, but he manages to find his feet. His legs are shaking; he grabs the counter to steady himself and waves Rebekah's hand away. "Makes you vomit. A lot."

The man on the floor is young, barely older than Kol had been the day he died. He smells faintly of powdered sugar as Klaus bends down over him. His hand hovers in mid-air, but hearing Rebekah's impatient click of her tongue makes him reach down and touch him.

He immediately sits up and Klaus backs away, already pushing back his sleeve to check on the time. "Alright, first thing's first: you're dead."

The man groans. "Mikael said this would happen."

Klaus exchanges a look with Rebekah over his shoulder. "What's your name?"

"General None of Your Beeswax," he shoots, surveying them with disdain.

"Be nice, General," Klaus wags a finger in his face, "or I'll touch you again. Now tell me why Mikael sent you, other than wanting to sabotage this dinner party."

General's eyes are crossed as he stares at Klaus' finger, and Klaus can see sweat start to collect in the man's temples. He's going to break, Klaus thinks triumphantly. General is going to tell him everything, and he'll finally have something on his father, finally be able to wipe that smug grin off his face whenever he swung by the diner to run a gloved finger down the mantelpiece or pick at the crusts of his pie.

Wolfish in his feat, Klaus leans closer and bears down on him a frightening grin, and he almost forgets to check his wristwatch. He flicks his eyes away for a third of a second—then Rebekah's gasping, jostling his arm. He whips his head around and sees a blonde in bright floral prints rooted at her spot in the doorway, her hand still twisted around the doorknob.

"I—" she waves her empty glass uselessly, "I can come back."

It takes only a second.

Klaus doesn't even have the time to ask her what she's seen – judging from the look in her eyes it was everything – doesn't even have time to convince her it's all one really twisted Christmas prank when General None of Your Beeswax's boot is kicked into his chest and he bangs against a table leg, winded. Rebekah's pushed to the floor, too shocked to even scream, and suddenly cold wind is blowing into the room as the back door swings on its hinges. Klaus scrambles to his feet, fingers clawing at the air where, moments before, the hem of the General's shirt was billowing in his wake.

The Lockwood's lawn is vast and dark, and the General is already lost to it.

"Shit," Klaus curses, and turns back to the doorway—as his luck would have it, the blonde is gone as well. He brings his fist down on the table. "Fuck."

"Nik." Rebekah's eyes are wide, fearful, but there's a hint of wonder in them, and nope, Klaus won't have it, Klaus can't have it—he turns away.

The kitchen is too bright, too white, and he yearns for the monochrome of his diner, of the warm glows and nostalgic accents. His freshly-healed wound tingles and he traces a finger on it, knowing full well that Rebekah is aware of how he's standing steady on his feet when only mere minutes ago he had been lying in a pool of his own blood. He presses down, wondering why Rebekah hasn't brought it up yet.

He busies himself with the cabinets, opening and closing, rooting around until he finds a bottle of Bailey's as Rebekah puts a hand to her forehead, pushes her hair back. She looks ashen. "The girl… I recognized her."

"You should. You saved her." Klaus finds a crystal glass, plops it down on the table with a clatter. He checks his wristwatch again.

59 seconds.

Here we go.

He fills it to the brim with whiskey and downs it in one go. The inferno burning down his throat and coursing through his blood is a welcome feeling, and he reaches for the bottle again. He needs another drink before the screaming starts.

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tbc

yay notes: you made it to the end! care to leave a review? maybe yell at me for the lack of klaroline here? there will be more in the next (and final) chapter, i promise - i just needed to have a solid foundation before we dive into all the angsty goodness.

second chapter will be up as soon as my beta gives it the thumbs up. in the meantime... click the review button? i'd love to hear what you think.