Clara & Klaus - The Untold Story: Problem Statement

"I had the vision of all mothers," the young woman mumbled, trying to get comfortable on the rug and finding it hard with all the dust and whatever else was now nesting in there. Three years ago, Clara would have been happy to just have a roof over her head, no matter how many vermin she shared said roof with. But now a little dust and debris was making her fancy self uncomfortable. Like it or not, Harrington House was changing her, perhaps more rapidly than she had even realized. Next she would be taking a vacuum to this place and buying some silver for the sole purpose of polishing it.

"You know, its like when you know something is going to happen, and you also know you can't do anything about it,' she elaborated further, letting out a huff of frustration and trying to get up off her back because the carpet was causing red irritating burns on her bare skin. The attempt was one of futility, she did not possess the balance to right herself unaided anymore. Giving up, she found herself on her back again, addressing the ceiling. "Except a million times worse because you know you're still going to try to change it, even when you also know it won't make a lick of difference."

In a way, she had always known Kit would consume her. Not in a way she ever dreamed of, not even in the way he wanted or intended to. But that would be the end result. But it was also heartbreaking to realize no one would miss the person she used to be. People had to remember her to be able to miss her. There was no one who wanted to remember Clara Kent of Shitty Apartment on Eighth Floor, Some Dodgy Building in Salinas.

"I'm just going to disappear one day. Maybe in Azzie, maybe in Kit, maybe in that stupid house given how big it is, but I'm just going to disappear." It felt a bit cathartic admitting it, at least now her worst fear had been spoken out loud, acknowledged somehow.

Then why was there a lone tear sliding down her cheek again? Wasn't confessing all this supposed to make you feel better? She was feeling better though so there really was no reason behind the tear, or the next, or the next. Clara would have reached up to wipe it away but the witch couldn't figure out where her arms were, so after trying for a few seconds, she let them be. They would dry on their own without any help from anyone.

They always did.

Klaus remained silent, his expression unreadable as he watched the woman on the floor as if through someone else's eyes. The alcohol had reached his mind now, a semi-pleasant cloud of numbness blanketing his thoughts, but her words still broke through in a way that made him feel what she meant.

"You know, its like when you know something is going to happen, and you also know you can't do anything about it,"

He knew that feeling. All too well. A snippet of memory flashed before his eyes and he shut it down as fast as he could with another swig of tequila.

"Except a million times worse because you know you're still going to try to change it, even when you also know it won't make a lick of difference."

He closed his eyes. He saw the house, up in flames. He saw the faces of the men he'd killed - and the men he hadn't. Futility. He knew the feeling. Another gulp, bigger than the last. His eyes burned.

"I'm just going to disappear one day."

He forced his mind back to the present, back to Clara. She was crying again. What could he say to her? What was there to say?

He wanted to reassure her, to tell her of course she wouldn't disappear, but he didn't know that. She was the one who knew the future. If that was what she had seen, how could he honestly say otherwise? How could his reassurance be anything but empty?

It was so hard to think clearly. He grasped for the right words, but they evaded him, dancing just out of his reach. He had nothing to offer.

After a long moment of sitting still, watching her silently sob on the floor, a tired sigh escaped him and he shifted his body to lie down next to her, staring up at the ceiling. He set his half-empty bottle of tequila down on the floor beside him and let go of it for now. He wasn't sure exactly what possessed him, but as his hand brushed against hers, he felt the urge to hold on, to let her know he was there. A small comfort, perhaps, but the best he had to give.

Gazing up at a thin crack in the ceiling, the words tumbled slowly out of his mouth without much input from his brain.

"I tried to die, once. Not suicide, just...there was a war, you know. I was a soldier. Sort of. Didn't have to kill myself. Plenty of others were trying." He swallowed. Why was he saying all this? He wasn't sure. It bothered him though, to say nothing while Clara cried. "I figured death was just inevitable, so I didn't try to fight it. I went out there knowing that someone would eventually kill me, and I didn't care."

He hadn't told this story before. He didn't know why he felt like telling it now, but for some reason his mouth kept moving and the words spilled out.

"I fought for a long time. Kept fighting, kept waiting to die. The war ended months ago." He paused, absentmindedly toying with Clara's hand still held in his own.

"And look: here I am, alive and...well, you get the point." He wasn't well, anyone could see that. But he was alive. "So much for inevitable," he summed up, still looking at the ceiling.

He turned his head to look at Clara when she spoke, noticing she had shifted to look at him properly, her face hovering mere inches from his own.

"You're going to be alive for a while,"

She said it with such certainty. She would know, wouldn't she? Over the past few months, her vision of his future had mostly slipped his mind. He still had no idea what exactly she had seen. But he knew she had seen him, and if her words were any indication, she had seen him at a point many years to come. He didn't know how he felt about that.

At one point, he might have been disappointed. But now as he thought about it, he realized he wasn't. Perhaps it wasn't the fate he had wanted, but it was something he was willing to accept now. Things...weren't as bad as they could be. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but somehow, picturing a future surrounded by these people, Clara, Kit, Azalea...it didn't bother him as much as it might have before. Objectively, the situation they were currently in - drunk and lying on the floor of a dusty, abandoned apartment (before noon, nonetheless) - could not be considered ideal, but for some reason he felt comfortable.

And when Clara snuggled closer against his chest, that felt comfortable too.

His mind had shut down at this point, so his body reacted on autopilot, his free arm moving to wrap around her torso, securing her in place. He hadn't been this close to a woman in nearly a year. The part of him with reservations - guilt, self-loathing, shame - had been temporarily put to sleep by the tequila. All that remained right now was the part of him that admitted he had missed this, he had needed this. It felt...good.

"Promise not to try the hero crap again?"

A weak laugh escaped him, little more than a sharp exhale.

"Oh, I don't intend to. I really wasn't very good at it."

He had never been a hero. He'd never been able to protect anyone, except maybe himself - and even then, only when he wasn't trying to. Saving people had never been his strong suit, and he hoped no one would ever be stupid enough to rely on him for it again.

His eyes drifted shut, a heaviness falling over his body as well as his mind. Clara's weight on his chest felt like an anchor, grounding him securely and comfortably in place. She didn't need him to be a hero. She didn't want him to be a hero. He could just lie here for a while and close his eyes and breathe, and he found that was all he really wanted at the moment. After a while, his breathing slowed, the steady beat of Clara's heart lulling him to sleep with his arm still wrapped loosely around her waist.