Clara & Klaus - The Untold Story: Problem Statement

Klaus stepped into the room and closed the door behind them, watching as Clara set down her paper bag and two bottles of tequila rolled out. He raised his eyebrows, but if she thought it would help, he wasn't complaining.

He stood somewhat awkwardly by the door as she sat down on the rug, unsure exactly what to do now that he had completed his task of bringing her here. At least it had worked: she looked visibly calmer now that she was back in her element.

He shrugged off her thanks. Helping her at the very least made him feel useful, gave him purpose for a few hours before he went back to staring at the wall in his room with a book lying open and unread in his hands. Everything he did at this point was simply an excuse to stave off his own thoughts.

At her next words, he tilted his head thoughtfully, wondering why she felt the need to explain herself. "I know," he replied shortly. No matter how many times she broke down, she had already proven herself to be a capable human being. She was strong far more often than she was weak.

His lip pulled into a humorless smile at her comment. Their little dysfunctional family really sounded like it could be the start of a joke. A drunk, a psychic, and a millionaire walk into a bar...

Except if there was a punchline, he hadn't figured it out yet.

"I like to think we're better than whoever left her on the street," he remarked as he strolled toward the coffee table and picked up the two bottles of tequila. He held one in each hand and turned toward her inquiringly.

"Do you have glasses for these, or is it a bottle for each of us?"

Klaus could tell that Clara was troubled by her inability to remember. It wasn't the glasses themselves that bothered her; it was bigger than that. He finally understood what had sent her into a panic.

She felt like she was losing herself.

And he understood. He understood why she was afraid. She was right to be afraid.

He didn't remember what kind of glasses he'd had in his house. He didn't remember the colour of his bathroom walls, or what order the utensils had been arranged in his kitchen drawers. His life before was hazy at best; time and alcohol had both taken their toll on his memories.

But he didn't care about his house or his furniture. They hadn't meant much to him to begin with; he'd never associated them with his identity. No, he understood Clara's panic because he himself had started to panic not long ago for a different reason.

He was starting to forget Marcia's face.

It had dawned on him on New Year's Day, the day of their anniversary. All day, the memories had washed over him until each thought felt like drowning, but as strong as the feelings were, the images eluded him. He saw her as though from a distance. He could imagine certain parts of her, her mannerisms, her smile, but every time he tried to focus, the image blurred and faded away. The more he tried, the more frustrated he grew, until the questions consumed him: What colour were her eyes? How long was her hair? What outfit had she been wearing on their anniversary last year?

The only time he ever saw her with any clarity was in his dreams, but his dreams were always nightmares, replaying the final moments of her life. The only memories he could rely on to stay burned inside his mind were the ones he would rather forget, the ones that haunted him when he closed his eyes.

So, yes, he understood why Clara was afraid. It hadn't even been a year since he had lost Marcia. At the time, he'd thought that had been it: she was gone. But now he realized he was still losing her, more and more each day, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Lost in thought, he absentmindedly popped open her bottle and handed it to her. As she took a swig, he guessed that was the answer to his previous question. No use fetching glasses. He cracked his own bottle open and sat down on the rug across from her, raising the tequila to his lips, concentrating on the familiar burn as it slid down his throat. It grounded him.

"You ever feel that way? Like parts of you are disappearing, being replaced by some strange creature who lives in the suburbs and does pot luck and car pools and crap?"

"Most of me was gone before I got here," he admitted. "But I know what you mean."

He did. This life he had was never supposed to be his. He was never meant to come to America. He was never meant to take care of Azalea. He was never meant to meet Clara.

But here he was. And his response to this fact was to raise the bottle to his lips once more and drink.

If she was looking for clarification, she wasn't going to get it. Not while he was still sober, anyway. They were closer now than they had been before, but he was hardly ready to spill his guts to her. In response to her open ended question, he simply took another swig and looked away for a moment.

The old Klaus would never have booked a plane to begin with. He would never have had a reason to be here.

He shrugged at her next question. It was hard to separate who he used to be from what he used to have, but certainly he had liked himself more when he'd been happier. Could he forget and move on? Absolutely not. Sometimes he wished he could, but then he would start to, and it would always be the good memories that went away first.

"It's complicated," he tried to explain. "You forget some things, but you don't move on. Who I used to be...it's not as important now as other things. Every now and then he'll pop up again just to remind me how far I've fallen," he joked humourlessly, a wry smirk upon his lips. If she was looking for comfort, she'd come to the wrong person. He was hardly a shining example of success. If she thought she might end up like him, panic was the right response.

"You ever wish you could go back?"

He looked down at his bottle of tequila, considering. "Depends," he started. "Back now, or back in time?"

He didn't want to go back to the UK. He didn't want to simply resume his life there, minus everything good that was already gone. He'd fled to the US for a reason, and he'd much rather be here than there given the current circumstances.

But if he could go back and change everything, he'd do so in a heartbeat. His regrets consumed him, day and night, waking and sleeping. Every quiet moment filled with thoughts of what he could have done differently, how things might have turned out. If he could do it all again, if he had the chance to snap back to the moment it had all gone wrong and stop everything before he'd lost himself, there was no doubt in his mind that he would take it.

At Clara's unexpected outburst, Klaus chuckled softly, the alcohol already beginning to work its magic as it relaxed his muscles and his mind.

"I can't speak for Kit, but yes, I practise every morning in the mirror."

The genuine humour he felt surprised him. It was like a bit of his previous self had crept in, unannounced, in response to Clara's personality. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt this...at ease. When he drank by himself, the effect was numbing more so than relaxing. But the more tequila he downed right now, the less tense he felt. Like he might actually be able to let his guard down a little if he kept drinking.

Her annoyance at the hypothetical situation she proposed brought to mind memories of a conversation they'd had several months ago on the rooftop. She had asked after Kit's ex, a woman Klaus had known nothing at all about until then, and still knew very little about now. She existed. That was all he had gathered. Kit never seemed to talk about her.

But the way Clara spoke of running from heartbreak fit the pieces together somewhat. That must have been Kit's situation. The thought amused him in its triviality - he almost wished he could afford to be so petty, to feel like such problems were the end of the world. He snorted and shook his head, but didn't elaborate on the real reasons for his flight. As of right now, the mood in the room was not that dark, and didn't need to be.

He mimicked her movements as she took another swig of tequila. It was strong stuff. He could already feel a light buzzing in his fingertips, and his thoughts were beginning to fade in and out of focus. He felt heavy, but warm and secure within the confines of Clara's tiny apartment.

Klaus cocked his head to one side as she rambled about Azalea's name, and Kit's ex's favourite flowers. He was not entirely familiar with Kit's situation, but it seemed Clara had been dealing with it for a while now and was visibly annoyed. The details were unclear, but they were unimportant. He got the gist of what she was feeling.

He wasn't sure how to respond, or even if she wanted him to, so he simply nodded and busied himself with another sip of tequila.

She returned to the subject of identity, and he didn't know what to tell her. She put a lot of pressure on herself to be a good role-model for Azalea, and he understood why, but he couldn't shake the thought that it wasn't her responsibility. She wasn't Azalea's mother. She had never signed up to be. Kit was the one who was supposed to raise Azalea; he was the one who had chosen to adopt her.

Yet Clara was here, and Kit wasn't.

He looked down to see he'd already consumed about a quarter of the bottle. He swilled it around absentmindedly in his hand as he spoke.

"You know, you're really not obligated to teach her anything. It's good that you care, but...well, parenting is Kit's job. We help, but he's the one who should be raising her."

It sounded callous, he supposed, now that it was out in the open, but he maintained that it was true. He liked Azalea, he really did, but at the end of the day, she was Kit's daughter, not his or Clara's.

He smirked as she tried to jab him but missed, both because she was clearly tipsy, and because he leaned ever so slightly out of the way. A small but genuine smile reached his eyes for a moment before fading. This was a new side of Clara, one she hadn't shown him yet. Despite the amount of time they spent together, they had never interacted with quite so much familiarity before. Funny how a little alcohol could liven up a relationship so quickly.

As she fell back against the floor and swept her arms through the dust, he found his eyes were drawn to a tattoo, partially visible against her newly exposed midriff. He couldn't quite tell what it was beyond a woman's head and shoulders - the rest of it disappeared beneath her jeans - but he wondered at the significance of it. She didn't have many tattoos, at least that he had seen, so he figured it must mean something.

Another brief, amused smiled tugged at his lips as he watched her play in the dust, but it disappeared as quickly as her own mirth when she suddenly turned thoughtful.

He listened with rapt attention as she began to explain the story of meeting Kit. It was something he had often wondered but had never asked. Unfortunately, her story was somewhat disjointed and provided little clarity - the tequila had likely gotten to her head - but Klaus was able to piece together a few things from context.

She'd had a headache, she'd passed out, and she'd just known...something. He had seen her in a similar situation before, though not as severe.

"You had a vision?" he clarified, wondering what she had seen. Something about Kit, something serious enough to bring them together, serious enough to make her feel attached to him somehow. He hoped it wasn't bad, but he wasn't particularly optimistic. He wondered if it had already come to pass, or if it was still yet to occur. He wondered if that was the source of her anxiety.

Now that he thought about it, he figured knowing the future would probably give anyone anxiety.