Haylijah - Questioning
"Why do you still care, Elijah?!" she screamed, her own voice sounding strained and foreign in her head. Her emotions were erratic: the after effects of pregnancy combined with her grief over losing her daughter coupled with the bitter rage she felt because she’d been forced to give her child away. She didn’t want Elijah to care. He cared, and she didn’t want him to care. If he cared, it reminded her there was still something human about her and that hurt. That hurt more than she could bear.
"WHY?!" she screeched, clenching her fist before slamming it into the nearby wall. Her brown hair flew wildly around her head, falling into her face as she gritted her teeth and her eyes - once so familiar and golden - flared red as veins sprouted instantaneously from them.
Elijah was like a smooth stone in the center of a raging river. His dark eyes were emotionless and the only reaction she got from him was the tick of the muscle on the left side of his face as he stood watching her. He hadn’t answered her, and that enraged her further. She wanted answers.
Storming toward him until she was in his personal space, she knew she’d finally gone off the edge and lost what was left of her sanity, but she was too far gone now. She’d informed him that she was a hybrid with a werewolf temper, and now it was out of hand. His worrying - the worrying she knew he’d been doing out of earshot of her - was justified. She was little more than a rampaging beast.
Halting a fraction of an inch in front of him so she could feel her own hot breath cresting off of him and back onto her as she panted angrily, she could smell the iron stench of blood which soaked her. Her face was soaked; her clothes had dried yet the scent still hung on her like a wet blanket in the middle of the most humid night. Her fangs slightly protruded over her lips as she snarled silently up at him. Her hands were frozen as if onset with rigor mortis and her claws stood at attention on the tips of her slender fingers.
She looked like a monster, and she knew it, but she could no longer stop herself.
"Why are you so damn stubborn? Why—" she was beating on his chest now, punctuating each word with a hit, and she hadn’t even realized it, "…won’t… you just… leave… me… alone?!!" Her voice broke, and she couldn’t tell if it was from overuse or because she was about to cry. Her emotions were all over the place.
She didn’t even realize it, but he was holding her. Even as she continued raging nonsensically, throwing her arms around and trying to fight him off, he held her. He was still stronger than her, and her fight was all but useless against him. She slapped him several times until even his invincible skin was reddened from the blows. Blood stained his skin and clothes now, and as she ran out of energy, her bloodied and sweaty hair stuck to the sides of his neck as she sank exhaustedly into his arms.
He didn’t kiss her as she expected him to. That would have been what he’d done if this was a Harlequin romance novel, but this was real life. And he was Elijah Mikaelson.
His arms were powerful around her, but not too intense to hurt her. As she began sobbing hideously against his bicep, her strength going out of her so all of her weight fell into his arms, he only flinched slightly and shifted so she was closer. She could feel his nose in her hair as she sobbed until even her own voice sounded cacophonous in her ears.
"I’m a monster, Elijah," she cried crazily, her fingers (claws having retracted during her insane tirade) clutching at the fabric of his dress shirt. "Why am I a monster? How can you ever love a monster?"
She knew he loved her. He loved her as she loved him. She knew it without even asking him. Klaus hadn’t told her (he didn’t care anyway). Rebekah hadn’t told her although they both knew as well. She just knew. She knew Elijah loved her just assuredly as she knew she was a hybrid. She knew he loved her like the blood running through her veins and the love she felt for him in the pit of her brain alongside her undying devotion to her daughter.
"I don’t love a monster," he spoke finally, his rich English voice even and controlled as always, but she knew him well enough now to hear the slight quaver of emotion that meant so much coming from the stoic Original. "I love you, not a monster."