Still basically gone, but: for hesychasm: TVD, something with Caroline and Klaus.
“I know what you want,” Caroline said. Even with vampire physiology, tears were leaking out of her eyes, involuntary response to the press of Klaus’s hand at her throat. The wood paneling of the Gilberts’ hallway dug into the back of her head.
“I believe I’ve made that very clear,” Klaus said, trying for contempt. “I want your lover, dead. And I want you, though I’m prepared to concede that latter’s unlikely.”
“That’s not it,” she said. “You want me to enjoy hurting you. You want me to be screwed up like you are, so you can convince yourself it’s not your fault that you can’t stop.” His hand was relaxing, and she was able to push away from the wall. She could have run, now, and he probably wouldn’t have chased her, not immediately. “But I won’t be like that. If I feel anything for you, it’s for the person you could be.”
She wasn’t trying to play him (or not only that); Klaus had been so close to better choices. But she also knew that someday, maybe soon, he’d get angry enough at her for failing to save him that she’d join the list of his victims. Even now, he had a puzzled look, like Caroline had been speaking in calculus.
Puzzlement turned to spite, as Klaus’s emotions so often did. “I’m quite satisfied with myself at present, thank you.” He smiled, as if he expected at least an angry fake-smile right back, as if Mrs. Lockwood was still alive and he hadn’t promised to hunt Tyler down.
Caroline left before he could decide that she hadn’t suffered enough tonight.
If there was no cure, they needed another plan, and fast. (Bonnie had said the spell would fail eventually; she’d just been wrong about the timing. Bonnie was okay because she had to be, no matter what Klaus said.) Like it or not, Caroline probably had to be part of that plan, if only because Klaus wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to show off for her. And she’d let him, no matter how much it hurt.
It wasn’t wrong of her to see the potential for good in Klaus, but that potential didn’t matter: it wasn’t reality. He wanted her to see only the hands of an artist, not the hands that held a woman down until she breathed in water and drowned, helpless and aware of his malice. He wanted her to understand him, except that he didn’t mean understand: he meant love, and he also meant hate, because some part of him had figured out that he deserved it.
Caroline wouldn’t let herself become a mirror for Klaus, reflecting back whichever side he wanted to favor on any given day.
Klaus saw the world only in terms of an endless cycle of torment, it-all-started-when-he-hit-me-back. Immortal childishness, playing with his family like a cat with a half-skinned mouse. She wasn’t going to be Rebekah, always hoping for better and always destroyed by betrayal. Shiny toys had a bad habit of getting tossed away once they got familiar and boring.
She’d do whatever it took to put Klaus down. The better man inside, curled up like a seed that could someday grow into a mighty oak—well, he’d just have to rot too. Klaus thought she owed him something because he’d opened up to her, because he loved her. Maybe part of her agreed, but it wasn’t the smart part.
She had plenty of practice hurting the people she loved, after all. This time, she’d put it to good use.