Kol Mikaelson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
itchtokill) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-07-15 01:00 pm
itchtokill) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-07-15 01:00 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
WHO: Kol Mikaelson
WHERE: His house; #8
WHEN: Narrative spans a bit from the 14th-16th, action takes place Saturday, 7/16
OPEN TO: Jo Harvelle
WARNINGS: Vague glossed-over violent descriptions; language pending; possible anxiety triggers
STATUS: Closed
Kol has spent the last couple of weeks in a blissful level of utter ignorance, mostly because he was still completely and totally convinced this wouldn't last. The side-trips never did, why would this one be any different? He'd settled, reasonably enough, but he really wasn't debating rearranging furniture to his liking or getting to know the surrounding areas all too intimately since in the end, it wouldn't matter.
There had been things to give him clues that his assumption wasn't quite right— like Jo not being the Jo he vaguely knew and had banned him from her bar back in Lawrence, Emma not snarking at him out of spite on sight that first day by the fountain, the inordinate number of completely unrecognizable people he'd seen then and in the days between. But he'd taken it all with a grain of salt. Kept hold of his presumptions because it was easier that way.
Morning of the 14th brought a different feeling with it than the previous ones had, a heaviness that clung to the air and refused to leave, a sinking feeling that burned its way into his bones. Something was wrong. He'd marked off the days wrong, somehow, maybe. Or the Seal was just playing tricks. He'd pop back in Lawrence any second now and everything would be fine again.
He spent most of the day on pins and needles. Waiting. He has always hated waiting, and this was worse than any queue line he'd ever stood in. Boundless nervous energy had him bouncing on his toes, pacing a path into the grass, wandering aimlessly in the shambles of the village. He'd be doing something completely mundane when it happened. Tying his shoe. Taking a drink. And snap. Gone. Back in a city full of familiar streets and faces. It was simple. Right?
The next two days were much the same. Doing anything and everything to keep his mind busy, off of the inevitable wait. Except in doing everything to avoid it, it seemed his mind could only focus on that one thing. Siblings waiting for his return, and with every day beyond those two weeks assuming he'd gone back home, back to The Other Side, back to dead. The idea makes his chest tight and he wonders if maybe even Nik cared about that assumption, but he wouldn't hold his breath for it. Not for how things were left. Which only leads to a downward spiral of what if's and never said's—
What if this is it?
What about all the things I never told Nik?
Is Elijah burning half the city down in my name already?
He pushes it down. For days, he ignores it. Stays as busy as possible, to the point of exhaustion. And if the days are hard, well. The nights are worse. Empty spaces in the bed next to him, no weight on his shoulder, a distinct lack of a leg thrown across his to pin him, just a little.
And the mornings are no better. No light filtered in the slightest tint of red for hair fanned across his face in the middle of the night. No ticklish nudge of a beard against his neck behind him. Just natural light and more emptiness that threatens to sink him like a stone.
He makes it through mid-morning before every piece of carefully constructed barriers falters. He feels it as everything unravels, slow but steady, a single string being tugged on, untwisting the web of everything he had tried to keep together. Walls, weakly constructed on hopes and assumptions, were tumbling to the ground in heaps for all the doubt and realization that came crashing in.
Except Kol doesn't handle onslaughts of emotions well, and every single piece of this is completely out of his hands. The lack of control, of choice, the stolen agency, is all enough to just let him allow everything to bubble out in anger and rage and anything that isn't at all like the loss or the pain that he hasn't yet let filter through. There's a distinct shout of rage, walls in his immediate vicinity took beatings they really didn't need to sustain, a bookcase thrown, a window shattered, he's the living embodiment of a tornado in the poor, less-than-perfect condition house.
And as suddenly as the whirlwind of damage had begun, he stops, mid-step in the doorway to the kitchen and he slinks against the nearest wall and crumbles into a heap on the floor, palms pressed to his eyes, hard, hard enough to make him see colored shapes in the deep black of his vision. He won't cry, he refuses, no matter the involuntary stinging in his eyes he can feel on the other side of his palms, but he does scream. Just once. Long, loud and ringing in his ears. Enough to fill every ounce of his being, to let out every drop of pain and fear and longing and loss.
WHO: Kol Mikaelson
WHERE: Various; around the village, by the river,
WHEN: Saturday (7/16) & Sunday (7/17)
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Language pending; TBD will edit as needed
STATUS: Open
[Evening, Saturday, 7/16]
Eventually, sometime after Jo left and everything was still and quiet in the house again, Kol decides he can't stand being there any more. He doesn't really go anywhere in particular, just wanders, aimless and mostly listless. There's a distinct lack of spirit about him that any given person that's interacted with him prior to now would be able to notice nearly instantly, even those from only a passing glance of interaction. The change was big, noticeable, and he didn't care. He wouldn't be explaining it if asked, and might snap something fierce if pressed.
He can be found just about anywhere, wandering the broken streets in the village, or down by the river skipping stones across the water.
[Sunday, 7/17]
He's back to doing anything and everything possible to keep himself busy. Mostly, this takes form in actually setting out to explore around, get the lay of the land, a feel for what there is and isn't in the place. He hadn't bothered figuring much of any of it out before, assuming he'd be gone from the place in a couple weeks' time.
He's still not feeling really social, so chances are he won't be initiating any conversations with anyone he happens across, but he won't outright ignore someone who speaks to him.
WHERE: His house; #8
WHEN: Narrative spans a bit from the 14th-16th, action takes place Saturday, 7/16
OPEN TO: Jo Harvelle
WARNINGS: Vague glossed-over violent descriptions; language pending; possible anxiety triggers
STATUS: Closed
Kol has spent the last couple of weeks in a blissful level of utter ignorance, mostly because he was still completely and totally convinced this wouldn't last. The side-trips never did, why would this one be any different? He'd settled, reasonably enough, but he really wasn't debating rearranging furniture to his liking or getting to know the surrounding areas all too intimately since in the end, it wouldn't matter.
There had been things to give him clues that his assumption wasn't quite right— like Jo not being the Jo he vaguely knew and had banned him from her bar back in Lawrence, Emma not snarking at him out of spite on sight that first day by the fountain, the inordinate number of completely unrecognizable people he'd seen then and in the days between. But he'd taken it all with a grain of salt. Kept hold of his presumptions because it was easier that way.
Morning of the 14th brought a different feeling with it than the previous ones had, a heaviness that clung to the air and refused to leave, a sinking feeling that burned its way into his bones. Something was wrong. He'd marked off the days wrong, somehow, maybe. Or the Seal was just playing tricks. He'd pop back in Lawrence any second now and everything would be fine again.
He spent most of the day on pins and needles. Waiting. He has always hated waiting, and this was worse than any queue line he'd ever stood in. Boundless nervous energy had him bouncing on his toes, pacing a path into the grass, wandering aimlessly in the shambles of the village. He'd be doing something completely mundane when it happened. Tying his shoe. Taking a drink. And snap. Gone. Back in a city full of familiar streets and faces. It was simple. Right?
The next two days were much the same. Doing anything and everything to keep his mind busy, off of the inevitable wait. Except in doing everything to avoid it, it seemed his mind could only focus on that one thing. Siblings waiting for his return, and with every day beyond those two weeks assuming he'd gone back home, back to The Other Side, back to dead. The idea makes his chest tight and he wonders if maybe even Nik cared about that assumption, but he wouldn't hold his breath for it. Not for how things were left. Which only leads to a downward spiral of what if's and never said's—
What if this is it?
What if I left them like that, in frayed shambles, no resolution?
What about all the things I never told Nik?
Will Rebekah ever recover? How far will this set her back?
Is Elijah burning half the city down in my name already?
Will Henrik forget all about me, in time?
He pushes it down. For days, he ignores it. Stays as busy as possible, to the point of exhaustion. And if the days are hard, well. The nights are worse. Empty spaces in the bed next to him, no weight on his shoulder, a distinct lack of a leg thrown across his to pin him, just a little.
And the mornings are no better. No light filtered in the slightest tint of red for hair fanned across his face in the middle of the night. No ticklish nudge of a beard against his neck behind him. Just natural light and more emptiness that threatens to sink him like a stone.
He makes it through mid-morning before every piece of carefully constructed barriers falters. He feels it as everything unravels, slow but steady, a single string being tugged on, untwisting the web of everything he had tried to keep together. Walls, weakly constructed on hopes and assumptions, were tumbling to the ground in heaps for all the doubt and realization that came crashing in.
Except Kol doesn't handle onslaughts of emotions well, and every single piece of this is completely out of his hands. The lack of control, of choice, the stolen agency, is all enough to just let him allow everything to bubble out in anger and rage and anything that isn't at all like the loss or the pain that he hasn't yet let filter through. There's a distinct shout of rage, walls in his immediate vicinity took beatings they really didn't need to sustain, a bookcase thrown, a window shattered, he's the living embodiment of a tornado in the poor, less-than-perfect condition house.
And as suddenly as the whirlwind of damage had begun, he stops, mid-step in the doorway to the kitchen and he slinks against the nearest wall and crumbles into a heap on the floor, palms pressed to his eyes, hard, hard enough to make him see colored shapes in the deep black of his vision. He won't cry, he refuses, no matter the involuntary stinging in his eyes he can feel on the other side of his palms, but he does scream. Just once. Long, loud and ringing in his ears. Enough to fill every ounce of his being, to let out every drop of pain and fear and longing and loss.
WHO: Kol Mikaelson
WHERE: Various; around the village, by the river,
WHEN: Saturday (7/16) & Sunday (7/17)
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Language pending; TBD will edit as needed
STATUS: Open
[Evening, Saturday, 7/16]
Eventually, sometime after Jo left and everything was still and quiet in the house again, Kol decides he can't stand being there any more. He doesn't really go anywhere in particular, just wanders, aimless and mostly listless. There's a distinct lack of spirit about him that any given person that's interacted with him prior to now would be able to notice nearly instantly, even those from only a passing glance of interaction. The change was big, noticeable, and he didn't care. He wouldn't be explaining it if asked, and might snap something fierce if pressed.
He can be found just about anywhere, wandering the broken streets in the village, or down by the river skipping stones across the water.
[Sunday, 7/17]
He's back to doing anything and everything possible to keep himself busy. Mostly, this takes form in actually setting out to explore around, get the lay of the land, a feel for what there is and isn't in the place. He hadn't bothered figuring much of any of it out before, assuming he'd be gone from the place in a couple weeks' time.
He's still not feeling really social, so chances are he won't be initiating any conversations with anyone he happens across, but he won't outright ignore someone who speaks to him.
no subject
"I'm in good company, then," Jo said to the empty room, well aware of the danger this game held. But not what it was, or why.
He'd already destroyed what looked like all of the front room of his house. Stolen, borrowed, etc, whatever house. That was all ruined. The window and bookcase. The furniture. A bad decision in highlighter writing. She couldn't even begin to account for how long and how impossible it would be to replace these things with the whole fuck ton of nothing they had in this place that wasn't here before them.
There's a breath in her nose, before she decides to step in, because she's going to and she does. One foot across the threshold, and then the other. Picking her way around debris of broken objects, some of which she can tell what is and most of which she doesn't spend too much time looking at. Her eyes staying focused on the doorway to the dining room that she thinks his voice was coming from.
It takes more steps than it should, and she's aware of all of them, by the time she gets there. Sees him the last place she expects.
Huddled on the opposing doorway floor, between the dining room and the kitchen. Elbows on knees and head hanging.
Looking almost every inch of his posture the same as his house. Dangerously a wreck barely strung together.
no subject
He waits for her, and he doesn't move. He could have. Could've already been on his feet and in front of her, shoved against the wall, hand around her throat... but it just all seemed like a lot of effort he wasn't sure he was ready to bother with yet. So instead, he sits and he waits and he listens to her stepping around all the broken mess of his house until finally, she's in the doorway, looking at him like-- well, he doesn't know, but he doesn't particularly like it because whatever it is, his own perception has twisted it into something like pity, which is the last thing he'd ever want. From anyone, but especially not a bloody hunter.
"D'ya think you could make it better?" His accent is thicker than usual, laden with emotion he's only just barely keeping in check, and only because he'd exhausted a portion of it and, well, her. He won't be weak in front of her. Which is what pulls him so swiftly to his feet. "Think you can help with whatever caused this," he gestures vaguely at the shattered shell of the house, stepping closer to her with every word until he's just in front of her.
He leans closer, absolutely invading her personal space and close enough to whisper in her ear, "How about I give you a headstart and you might get to live for your trouble." Because he is absolutely looking for trouble right now and she's so graciously supplying the perfect opportunity for it.
no subject
It doesn't stop the way her eyes narrow even as her heart stutters at the whisper in her ear, breath blown on her skin, raising hairs on her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. It doesn't stop the way she reaches out a hand, barely a second later, and lands it on his chest to shove him back, with the kind of repugnant expression of disgust and rejection that was usually reserved for drunk frat boys who had no fucking clue who she was and that she'd rather break their wrists than have to listen to a single word belched up on her with cheap beer breath.
"Like I'm going to give you the pleasure of running from you. Get over yourself, Kol."
She looks to a side, and she knows that's more dangerous than baiting.
There's an alarm in her head screaming never, never, never take your eyes off the monster.
But she does it anyway, fingers sweating against the blade near her thigh, but not raised. Holding out some faith the guy at her bar is somewhere in this one, and it's not like Sam and that fucking tree all over again, that she won't need the reflexes Milliways instilled into her, not used since the rabbits, and the Apocalypse. "I don't know why you'd think I'd try to fix something I don't even know what is."
"Maybe you decided the decor of this decade was just too tedious finally. I know I've thought about breaking this chair with a god awful faded rose pattern in my livingroom about two hundred times at this point."
no subject
But he won't focus on that for now. That's to worry about later.
He doesn't resist when she shoves him out of her bubble, but his gaze does drop to that hand on his chest and bounces back up to her face, eyebrows arched. Stupid, brave hunter. "I'm equally uncertain why you'd approach a thousand plus year old vampire having a strop when you know you can't kill me without a very specific set of wooden stakes." Or contain him with the daggers but he's not sure she knows that and he's not volunteering more than what he knows--or assumes--that she's already aware of.
He can't stop the corner of his mouth quirking up on one side at that. Such sass and spunk, this one. He doesn't comment about the redecorating needs, though.
no subject
It makes the muscles between her shoulder blades tense, but she does do more than look back. Blandly, for all his dangerous bravado.
"Actually, I--" And that word, that emphasis, on herself, and not the girl he keeps seeing in her, who isn't her. (Even if she is. They are, just as much as they aren't. Fucking Multiverse.). "--didn't." Her lips press, affecting a smile that is more the business end of a blade than a smile itself. The effect of something like a mockery of business respect flitting into her uncertain apathetic sympathy. "But thanks for telling me how."
no subject
Little of that sudden kneejerk realization was on his face, though. Because here? There was no White Oak to be found, so having the information--and not even the complete information, at that--wouldn't do her much good. Instead, he rolls his head back and smirks, "Doesn't matter, I've got nothing to worry about. It's not here." He is every bit the cocky monster he's always been in that moment. Playing with the humans like they're toys until he's bored of them.
no subject
It's wrong to say his posture or his face changes. It doesn't. He's still looking at her with the same half unhingedominious focus. A second from a cat leaping, when he wouldn't need so much, both by what he is and because he is still as close as being able to whisper in her ear. To abuse her personal space like it doesn't exist, even as she pretends not to notice. She always notices.
The posture and face doesn't change. The air in the room doesn't sharpen, because it, too, is already sharp, jagged, shattered, like everything else around them on the ground, and out the broken window. But something turns tighter, harder. She can't see it, but she knows her point has scored a line somewhere. Somehow. She can feel it.
It might be a fools point. Calling him ignorant. Forgetful. Assumptive. Telling him that he is handing over what he called his only weakness.
"For now." She looks at him, level and straight on. Pushing him further. To know better. Maybe whatever it must be isn't here now, but that does not mean it will always be that way. It doesn't mean this world will always play by those rules. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn't. They don't know why or who or what. Assumptions are dangerous as blind trust.
(As dangerous as baiting a monster already on a tear in its own den.
Maybe she's getting stupider the older she gets. She isn't walking away. Isn't sure she should.)
"There at least some good reason you're playing Suzy Homemaker in the street tonight?" As though it's not the ruin of these rooms, or Kol himself, this different version of himself, but the fact he was taking his temper tantrum outdoors to all of them that had actually concerned her.
no subject
"What difference does it make to you?" he snaps, anger hiding the pain he's trying not to think about now, here, in front of her. Because he can't fall apart again, but he damn sure can't do it in front of her. He's too prideful for that, and it's even beyond the fact of her being a hunter, but circled around to simply another person seeing him that low, that broken, that gone. It's a risk he isn't willing to take.
no subject
"Maybe I like making sure the only vampire among us doesn't decide tonight is the perfect night to go batshit crazy on what looks like absolutely no reason so far." Beat. A bland blink, as she let her head list just barely one direction. Refusing to let what he was, or the fact he was most of a foot taller than her seem like it had any power over her. "Maybe you'd call it my job."
She didn't want to call it caring. But there was something else there.
Something that prickled under. Better people that her had been broken by the multiverse.
"I'd really rather this wasn't the third world I woke up to an unexpected and absolute bloodbath in." Even if there's nothing unexpected sounding to her sentence or the use of that exact word. Like there was a part of her that did expect to wake up to that sooner or later. Nonspecific on whether it would him or just something, anything, anyone, else in this place just as likely.
no subject
He doesn't even say a word to the second thing, because there is nothing for him to say. But that doesn't stop the ghost of a sly smirk to slide across his lips. Oh, she couldn't even begin to fathom the kind of damage he could do, should he want to. Luckily, his time back in Lawrence had influenced him far more than even he had realized, and for now she doesn't have to try to do her job and get rather brutally killed for it.
For now.