rebekah/klaus - don't know the taste of a never ending ache (oneshot)

Title: Don't Know the Taste of a Never Ending Ache
Pairing/Characters: Rebekah/Klaus
Summary: Sometimes she hates him; sometimes she loves him; sometimes she can’t tell the difference. Incest.
Rating: light R
Word Count: 4,200
Spoilers: Through 3x03.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Title comes from No, No, No and epigraph from Black Tongue, both by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
Author's Note: I'm just going to pretend the sole reason I wrote this was for Jenna and not so I could start to deal with all my feelings. Any mistakes are mine, but this show is terrible at remembering it's own canon and logic, so who really cares, right?

we're gonna keep it in the family
yeah well you know how we're on the run
you know they're gonna want some, want some

Niklaus is the youngest brother and Rebekah is the youngest child. It’s something that bonds them early on, and it is something that tears them apart. Rebekah finds Niklaus endless amusing, his desire for attention, and the way in which he acts out to get it, causing trouble and hoping to be noticed.

It almost always fails.

All Rebekah has to do is wear as little clothing as possible and everyone is chiding her about ladylike behavior and decency and how the world is larger and more cruel than she could possibly know. Well, she thinks haughtily, I would know if you would let me do anything. Her father fusses over her constantly and her mother always makes sure someone tucks her in at night. She hates it. It’s suffocating. She can never go anywhere or do anything, and she just wants to know what Elijah does at night and what he and Nik are always whispering about at the dinner table.

She is simultaneously the center of their family’s world and almost entirely excluded from it.

Nik usually appeases her though, telling her fantastical stories and wrestling with her on the floor until she’s elbowing him as hard as she can and screaming for someone to save her. He doesn’t treat her like she’s fragile, prone to breaking if he doesn’t let her get her way, but he also doesn’t patronize her when she asks a question. It’s nice, different.

As Nik and Elijah grow closer—the only two boys, a bond thicker than being the youngest of their genders—Rebekah feels even more excluded, struggling to breathe as her older sisters begin to be married off. But, oh, not her, the baby of the family. She’s too precious and innocent.

She gets everything she wants and nothing she wants. It is a contradiction, much like her entire life, and she builds herself around it. Around her position in her family and society and everything everyone expects her to be—there is not really a choice for her; there is not really a choice for anyone.










When Nik finds out that that her father is not his father, he is more disgusted with himself than anyone else (except, perhaps, Rebekah’s father). Rebekah studies his face as he sits by the fire, limbs spread out like he is trying to regain his weight, figure out who he is and how this changes everything. His face is blank and the fire casts shadows against his jaw, his cheek, his forehead. Rebekah is the only other one awake, because she said she was feeling a bit ill and her parents allowed her to sit downstairs, where the air is cooler and less humid. She knows very well that nobody else would have gotten away with her pitiful fake cough.

She does not know what Nik having a different father really means.

She hesitates, presses her body even further into the wall she’s leaning on, looks at the blankness of his expression, the deadness of his eyes, all the usual life and fun is gone. She is only ten, but she doesn’t know if she will ever feel this much pain again in her life. Rebekah contemplates staying put, clambering back into her bed, running out the back door and lying down in the field, cheek flush against the grass and the dirt, listening to the heartbeat of the earth.

Instead, she quietly takes a step forward, walking out of the darkness and into the moonlight, the floorboards creaking under her deft feet. Nik looks up and blinks. “Rebekah,” he breathes out, his voice softer and more serious than she’s ever heard it. He sounds so young. She wonders what it’s like to take care of someone. She’s only ever been taken care of, and she wants to prove that she is strong enough to lean on. She wants Nik to feel free to whisper to her like he did when they were younger, when he would let her crawl into his bed when she had a bad dream, would stroke her hair and assure her everything was fine.

“Are you tired?” she asks, her voice cracking, but she swallows it down, shakes it off.

“No.”

Rebekah nods her head earnestly, cautiously sitting down across from him, folding her legs in an extremely unladylike fashion. Her nightgown sticks to her sweaty skin. She doesn’t say anything, simply lets her fingers dance over her knee to the same beat as the licking flames of the fire and crackling of wood.

When her eyes start drifting shut she feels Nik’s hand brushing some of her blond curls away from her face. She whispers, “You’re my brother,” over and over again, hoping to convince him, because she may not know much about the world or the way life works, but she knows about her family.










Some nights she hears Nik’s screams, loud and piercing, as her father beats him. She squeezes her eyes shut and wonders if maybe she isn’t her father’s either. There is a tiny sliver of her hoping that she isn't.

There is a larger part of her, selfish and cold, who is happy it is Nik that is the outsider and not her. It makes her feel as though she fits a little better. She is still part of this family. She drifts closer to the center of it, knocking on the door and waiting to be let all the way in, willing to push Nik out if need be.

Sometimes she prays that this time she will get what she wants.










Nik is Elijah’s favorite, but Rebekah is his second favorite and she rejoices in that. She swims in the adoration of her brother’s, smirks at her sisters who want to be in the boy’s club and the ones who think it is inappropriate how much time she spends trailing her older brothers. She scrapes up her knees and gets dirt under her fingernails and toenails. She relishes the ache in her legs and callouses on her feet.

Rebekah feels tough and independent. She feels undoubtedly special in a way she never has before. She is wanted, not because she is the baby, not because they are coddling her, but because she makes Elijah’s face soften and Nik laugh, the sound reverberating through the trees.

She always hugs Elijah tightly when he leaves, a wife to attend to, and makes him tell her that she is still his favorite girl.










She likes not having to worry about suitors until her older sisters have all found husbands that will not disgrace the family name.

The more time Rebekah spends dancing in the wind—flirting with the help and getting Nik to roll his eyes, telling her that she needs to stop that, a fierceness in his voice and the grip of his hand on her arm—the more she is sure she would not be able to marry a man she didn’t love.










The night the curse sets in Rebekah has no idea what’s happening. Her throat is burning with something hotter than fire, her bones feel like they’re being broken a thousand times over, she struggles to breathe, puffs of hot air entering her lungs, pausing before they speed out like there is not enough space for them. Rebekah is sure her chest is collapsing and she screams, her sobs, low and brutal, being ripped from her.

She is positive she is going to die.

She yells for her mother and her father and Elijah; she forgets to call for Nik. But it does not matter because no one comes running to her side. She is surprised as she clutches at the sheets, feeling the dampness from her sweat and the tears pouring from her eyes and down her cheeks.

Rebekah has never felt so helpless and alone in her life.

The first person to come to her is her father, clutching at her face, staring at her like he’s trying to decide who she is. Everything is more vivid, her heartbeat is pronounced and steady, and the room is lighter, more defined. She can feel the threads that comprise her nightgown and her sheets, can tell where one ends and the other begins. She gulps even though her mouth tastes like ash. After the longest time her father blinks. “Come Rebekah,” he orders, kissing the top of her head and taking her hand.

She follows.










Soon Nik discovers that there is something more in him. He is part vampire and part werewolf—a hybrid. He grips Rebekah’s hands when he tells her, hope evident on his face, excitement at the predicament he’s found himself in.

“I’m different,” he tells hers her softly, leaning his forehead against hers, breaking into a grin. “I’m special.”

“We’re all different,” Rebekah says. She thinks he is special, too. She tries to say it, but he words catch in her throat.

She doesn’t understand what this means, any of it.










It does not take Nik long to draw the battle lines, his teeth barred, his eyes dark and twisted. He is strong, defensive. He speaks about his destiny and what he deserves. Her father threatens to rip him in half, to feed on him, to kill him in the most painful ways possible, calls him a bastard over and over again until it sounds like Nik’s name, until the word loses all meaning, until it becomes random syllables thrown together.

There are sides and Rebekah looks at everyone, watches Klaus stand firm by Nik, calm and certain, watches her mother tremble, hand to her chest as though she’s still human. Rebekah’s gaze is hazy and she feels as though she’s watching from outside herself. This is not happening, she chants in her head.

She has never mattered before; she does not know what it means to matter now. She doesn’t move; she cannot move.

It’s not really a choice, but it might as well be.










The original witch takes a liking to her for some reason, acts like she is different somehow, not special, exactly, but different. Rebekah is okay with that, especially when the original witch places a cold, silver necklace in her palm before she dies. She says, "You have all the power."

"Do I?" Rebekah responds, amusement in her tone, tilting her head and biting her lip. She is sure that the original witch is delusional.

"He loves you," the original witch breathes out, almost inaudibly.

Rebekah blinks, unsure who she is talking about, but the necklace is pretty and it feels nice against her skin, so she wears it constantly, thinks about what it means to protect it and follow the original witch’s orders. She contemplates what it really means to have power.










Soon there is a dagger in her father’s chest and Rebekah feels like she should be running away from her brothers. She steps on leaves purposefully, hears them crush under her feet. She wants to know that she exists, that she’s alive and real.

She sinks her teeth into any stable boy stupid enough to give her attention, to blush when she bats her eyes and stumble over his words when she runs her finger over his cheek. She pounces on any stable boy who doesn’t seem fazed by her advances, who just keeps trying to do his job calmly. They’re the fun ones. She sucks and sucks and breathes in their scent, their humanity. Their blood pumps beneath her own flesh, makes her giddy and alive with power.

She gets used to it—being in control. She enjoys the hunt, relishes in the boys who run as though they have a chance of escape. She smells their sweat, salty and rank, hears their hearts thudding erratically, their breathing loud and strained, their fear heady and thick. There is something about watching them watching their lives flash before their glazed eyes right before she snaps their necks that gives her a rush, makes her toes curl in delight.

Her mother tells her, “Rebekah, you have to be careful.”

She rolls her eyes, unbuttons her bloodstained dress, slipping it off her shoulders so she can step into a clean nightgown. “I know what I’m doing, mother.”

“You know it is prudent that we cover our tracks. We know what Niklaus is capable of.”

“I am not an idiot,” Rebekah snaps, “I am not Father.”

She sees the pain cross her mother’s face through the mirror. “No, you certainly are not,” she says before turning and leaving.

Rebekah sighs, grabbing her brush and tugging gently on the knots in her hair. She is tired of being treated like a child. It has been years since they became vampires, since she blindly followed her father, picked a side and decided she might as well stick with it. She knows the world now, knows more of it than she could ever have imagined all those years ago sitting at the supper table being told to remember her manners. She fully intends to take advantage of everything it has to offer.

She has a long life ahead of her, and she’s not going to waste it holed up, afraid of her brothers.










Eventually she hears about Nik and Elijah’s falling out.

She would feel bad about it if she could be bothered, but as it is, this only makes her life easier.

Nik has gotten her mother and their sisters, and it’s just the three of them left—Nik, Elijah and Rebekah—traveling the world, leaving trails of bodies in their wake, looking for destruction wherever they go. The three musketeers—except they do not speak, nobody makes an effort to get in contact with the others.

She hates them both as much as she figures they hate her.










She meets Nik eventually, strutting into a pub in Ireland a few months before the First World War breaks out. He’s sitting at the bar, absinthe in his glass. Hesitating, Rebekah bites her lip, thinks about walking out, fleeing the country and going somewhere else. Perhaps America, she hasn’t been there yet. But then she remembers that night by the fire.

She is strong, and she is certainly not scared of her brother.

Sliding into the seat beside him, she also orders a glass of absinthe. Rebekah doesn’t even bother turning her head. She made her move. It’s his turn now.

“Baby sister,” he coos, “well isn’t it my lucky day?”

She feels his eyes on her. “It is.” She looks at him and he looks good, solid, more relaxed than the last time she saw him—a crazed look in his eyes, a dagger between his fingers and blood dripping down his neck. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

He scoffs, draining the rest of his drink. “Thank me?”

“Don’t sound so incredulous. You gave me exactly what I’ve always wanted.”

“And what’s that?”

She pauses, takes a sip of her drink and stares at him, unblinking and serious. “Independence.”

A smile slips onto his lips lazily as the bartender pours him another drink, “Ah, well, you’re welcome, Rebekah.” He stills, “So when would you like to join the rest of the family?”

She chuckles a little, shaking out some of her hair. There’s sharpness in his words, like he’s accusing her of betrayal. Running her finger around the edge of her glass, she tilts her head, thinking about how much she had loved Nik, how close they had been as children. “I was hoping,” she whispers, “I was hoping we could negotiate something.”

He raises his eyebrows, “And what might that be?”

“You see, Nik, you were always my favorite. But you know that. We could make a good team. Brother and sister, unstoppable.”

“But you chose Father,” he reminds her, mouth twitching like he’s laying down a trump card. She stares at him, watches the way his eyes move, knowing, despite everything, if he wanted to kill her, she’d be dead already. Or at least there’d be a knife to her throat.

“No,” Rebekah whispers, eyes twinkling, leaning in and pressing her lips to his ear, “I made his life hell.”

Nik breathes out steadily, his fingers dancing up her wrist, grabbing it. “I heard you were,” he pauses, presses his lips together, “problematic.”

“Very. I promise.”

He looks uncertain until she prods at his shin with her toes. Then he smirks at her, eyes dancing with a lightness that wasn’t there before.










Nik kills her boyfriend. She doesn’t really mind, she wasn’t extremely attached. Plus he had atrocious taste in fashion and kept telling her she wasn’t allowed to wear pants. But it still takes her by surprise, to come back to their flat one day to find her boyfriend’s blood smeared across her bedroom and Nik’s chin.

“What did you do that for?” Rebekah asks. She would have let him if he’d just asked first, that would have been the polite thing to do. And he was her boyfriend. She’d certainly ask if she was going to eat one of Nik’s many flings.

“He got on my nerves,” Nik responds nonchalantly, pushing past her. “I don’t know why you talked about turning him. I left you some if you’re hungry.”

She blinks, thinking about starting an argument, but she’s not really in the mood. Instead she says, “Did you hear? The war’s on.”

He comes back quickly, joy dancing in his eyes, twisting his mouth. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Excellent.” He thumbs at her wrist until she wets the pad of her finger and dabs the blood off his chin.










The War is thrilling. Smoke and poison clog the air, blood covers the earth, machine guns fire loudly. Rebekah and Nik dance through the destruction, feasting on soldiers, a break from the worry and the running, from covering their tracks and hoping Michael doesn’t find them. It blurs by, his hand in hers, his fingers digging into their wrist as she drags him along and he pulls her the other way.

It’s the best time of her life.

One night, when everything is quiet, almost serene, Nik climbs into her bed. “Rebekah,” he says, her name sounds heavy on his lips and she turns her head, watches his fingers draw patterns up her arm.

She doesn’t know what drives her to say it, but it comes out hoarse when she murmurs, “You’re my brother.”

A pause, his jaw clenches. And then his teeth are scarping over her bottom lip and she’s gasping into his mouth, fingernails digging half-moons into his back. She thinks about that repressed part of him. She thinks about how similar they are, how he has never been who he wants to be, is still trying to become who he wants to be—what he wants to be, she self-corrects—how she spent too much of her life being treated like someone she wasn’t, trying to fit somewhere she didn’t. Rebekah presses her body against his, tangles her fingers in his hair and closes her eyes. She feels like she’s falling into an abyss, it’s dizzying and steadying. And then Nik’s mouth is on her clavicle, his hand playing with the edge of her nightgown. It takes everything in her not to scream.

When it’s finished he kisses her eyebrow. “We’re different,” he says forcefully.

“You’re a sap,” she responds, pushing his arm away gently and pulling the sheets over her bare skin.










She watches Nik torture a nurse, screaming for mercy in her thick German accent, blood dripping down her neck, down her leg. Finally, when she’s lost so much blood her eyes fall closed and she goes limp, unable to hold up her own weight, he breaks her neck with a loud crack. Rebekah licks her lips, sweeps her tongue inside Nik’s mouth, tasting the woman’s blood.

It makes her stomach twist, a heat builds up between her legs, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. She hates herself for begging, but the way his palm presses into her neck, how he smiles against her mouth and pressing his hips into hers almost makes it worth it.

Almost.










Sometimes she hates him; sometimes she loves him; sometimes she can’t tell the difference.










When the war ends they’re sloppy. They’re in Paris, smoking at some fancy hotel. Rebekah rolls her cigarette between her fingers and watches the white ringlets float towards the ceiling, disappearing. Nik’s popping peanuts into his mouth, and no matter how often she pushes his hand away, it always seems to end up splayed over her thigh, molding the skin there as he brags about how he murdered a sergeant before he had a chance to return to America.

“America?” Rebekah asks, testing out the idea on her tongue. “You know, I’ve never been there.”

“Little Sister,” Nik answers, running his hand obscenely far up the inside of her thigh, “do you want to go?”

Her breath hitches a little and she leans in, nibbles on his ear, “That could be fun.” Her lips fall to his jawline and his palm rests on the top of her head. She feels his other hand still on her leg and suddenly he’s pushing her away, lacing their fingers together and pulling her forcefully off her stool. She drops her cigarette on the ground in surprise. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He presses his palm over her mouth in the dark hallway. “Shut up. Michael’s here, he saw us.”

Rebekah stops, fear shooting up her spine, paralyzing her for a moment before Nik is pulling her quickly away and out of the hotel.

They leave Paris, fingers still laced together.










Rebekah loves the twenties. The flapper dresses, jazz music, prohibition, the seediness of it all. She loves dancing and Nik refuses to join her on the floor. Instead he sits in a booth, sipping wine, his shoulders tense. So she picks other dance partners to sway with, men who whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

Sometimes she sees Nik watching, his jaw set and his eyes burning. Those are always the good nights. When they get back to the apartment and he rips her dress off, bites her shoulder and presses her against the door. She screams, hitching her leg around his thigh and doesn’t know if this is fucked up or not. All she knows is that she can’t even begin to think when he wraps his mouth around her clit and sucks.

The bad nights are the nights when he doesn’t watch her, when his eyes dart around the crowd and he throws back drink after drink with no time to let the alcohol swirl around his tongue. He just drags her home and collapses, leaving her bored and annoyed.










She hears rumblings about Stefan Salvatore. The rumors of his ripper status precede him and Rebekah can’t say she’s not intrigued. She can’t recall any vampire besides the originals that have such prestige reputations.

When she casually drops his name into a conversation with Nik, Nik scoffs, calls him an amateur and tells Rebekah he’s not worth her time. She’s above him. “We’re different,” he says, his slogan naturally gliding out of his mouth.

“You’re annoying,” she snaps.

They fuck on the floor and this time she’s the one who makes him beg.










The problem with Stefan is how quickly she falls in love with him. She can feel it pounding inside her head whenever she sees him, whenever she watches him kill and torture and write a name on the back of the door. It’s new; it’s exciting.

His mouth is different than Nik’s, more careful, prodding and exploratory. He pulls where Nik pushes. His hands are softer, younger. Rebekah’s amused by how he acts like he’s in control, but how much power he thinks he has, by how much experience he thinks he has. She doesn’t bother to correct him. He’s smart; she’s sure he’ll figure it out eventually.

His obliviousness is her favorite thing about him. He doesn’t know her past, he’s not a member of her family, and he doesn’t expect her to be anything she’s not.

Nik ends up loving him. They hunt together; they both enjoy the adrenaline rush that comes from pushing boundaries, from almost getting caught, from knowing they have the upper hand, from getting away unscathed. They both revel in the feel of blood gushing down their throats and their chins. They’re messy and reckless.

Nik is careful in his recklessness, but Stefan is not.

Rebekah amends her earlier statement, this is the happiest she’s ever been.










When he tells her to choose, she halts.

Tears flood her eyes and she hates herself for it.

She goes back to the choice between Nik and her father, to being powerless and not being able to move. Her feet and voice seem to fail her again. She’s stunned, torn. Her mind rushes, phrases like blood is thicker than water run through her head. This isn’t fair; she should not have to do this again.

But she’s different now, she’ll make the right decision the first time around.

“Goodbye Nik,” she responds shakily. She feels herself being ripped in half.

When he stabs the dagger through her his eyes are screaming. She knows this is her real betrayal, but it’s also his.

He’ll forgive her eventually.

She can feel the beating of his heart inside her throat.