❝Attitude is a choice. Happiness is a choice. Optimism is a choice. Kindness is a choice. Giving is a choice. Respect is a choice. Whatever choice you make makes you. Choose wisely.❞
— Roy T. Bennett

⊳⊳|⊲⊲

Roxanne barely had time to wrap a towel around herself when heavy knocks hit the door of her hotel room. She sighed and walked out of the bathroom and opened the door, leaning against the door frame.

He was standing there. In all his damn handsome glory. His blue eyes were warm and curious, raking down her practically nude form. She sighed, and tugged her sopping wet hair out of her face. "Hi?"

Smiling, her old lover looked her in the eyes, his head cocking slightly. "Hello. I'm-" His blue eyes moved to a certain tattoo on her shoulder, and confusion was clear across his face. Confusion, anger and a bit of distrust.

"I know who you are," replying, she pursed her lips and looked him up and down quickly. Judgmentally, though mentally she was definitely checking him out. "What can I do for you, Mr. Mikaelson?"

He rose a brow and hesitated, his lips pressing together tightly. "How do you know who I am?"

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, pulling her towel further up. "I did my research on this town. Your family is rich, powerful and new. That's hard to hide in a town like this."

"You're new, too." He remarked and looked around the fancy suite she had gotten herself. "Not badly off, either. Who are you?"

Roxanne looked up at him from under long lashes, a sweet smile tugging on her pouty mouth. "Roxanne St. Claire. Not that it's your damn business. How'd you even find me?"

He didn't answer, his eyes focusing on her tattoo. A feather on her shoulder and arm with birds that erupted from it, flying over her clavicle. "How did you get that? I designed that-"

"It's rude to follow girls to their hotel rooms from bars. It's honestly downright creepy. So, why don't you leave, stalker?" She snapped, not replying to his question as she slammed the door in his face and had to stumble to the couch before her legs gave out. There was a rock in her throat, tears built in her eyes and she almost started sobbing.

But, he would hear her. He was still out there.

Of course he saw the tattoo. Of course he recognized it. Just the memories of getting it . . . getting it with him . . . she wanted to throw up.

She collapsed onto the couch, trying to even her breathing and just fucking relax. But, goddamn she had forgotten how hard it was. How difficult it was to look at him and see zero recognition in those beautiful eyes. He looked stunning. His confidence, his happiness, it made him so attractive.

She rested her head in her hands, her shoulders trembling.

Why the hell did she agree to this?

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Niklaus stared at the door. Shock, annoyance and confusion reigned over his mind. She had the same tattoo as him. She had the same tattoo as him? In the same spot? A tattoo he had designed. A tattoo he had created himself and got tattooed. A tattoo he had never seen anyone else have? Especially not in the same place.

He turned, moving slowly down the hallway. The carpeted floors and fancy wallpaper. The fancy lighting. He barely even acknowledged it. He wasn't used to being sassed, but more than that, the tattoo had been like a punch to the gut.

He knew this girl. He knew her, somehow. He just couldn't remember. He could hear her uneven heartbeat behind the door, it was going fast like a rabbit. She was scared. Or sad. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to know how she had that tattoo. His tattoo.

⊳⊳|⊲⊲

Klaus stepped into the house, his mind still reeling. He looked up at Elijah who stood on the stairs, watching him quietly. "How did it go?"

Klaus stared up at him, fury and confusion clear on his face. "She . . . she was half naked. She sassed me. She had my tattoo."

"What?" Rebekah said, walking into the room. Her hair was braided in dutch braids and she was wearing work-out clothes. "What do you mean she has your tattoo?"

Elijah descended the stairs, confusion washing over his face. "Explain." The noble Mikaelson was in his usual suit. Not a strand out of place on his head, his handkerchief bleached and folded perfectly in his pocket. His hands were in his pockets and he leaned against the railing, his dark eyebrows knitted together. 

"My tattoo. My tattoo. The one I designed." Niklaus pulled his henley down, showing the birds. "She has it, too. In the same place. Same design. Same everything. Down to the details." He tugged the fabric back up and ran a hand raggedly through his hair. Anger was an iron in his chest. 

Elijah frowned, his eyebrows knitting together. "What? That makes no sense."

Niklaus agreed, his face twisted in confusion. "I'm aware, brother. I just want to know how. Who she is. I know her, I swear I do, I just . . . I can't remember." He had felt this familiarity around her, like he did around his siblings. Like he did when he saw an old lover for the first time in many years, or an old friend. 

The hybrid groaned, stalking over to the couch. "She's so goddamn obnoxious. Bloody sassy, for one thing. Called me a stalker." He rolled his eyes, sitting down and putting his feet on the coffee table.

Sighing, Elijah walked into the room and sat down in the armchair across from the crouch, crossing his long legs. He stared at Klaus and Klaus stared at the wall. Rebekah wandered into the room and settled on the couch next to her brother.

"So, she has the same tattoo. What does this mean?"

"It means," Klaus began, tilting his head, "It means we have to find out who this girl is and what she's doing in Mystic Falls."

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New Orleans, 1820

Roxanne was proper. She was so proper. She was dressed in a pale pink gown and her hair was carefully curled. She was in New Orleans to speak to the Governor about some political things, and she'd heard that the witches had gotten a tad wild.

Her job, as usual, was clean up. She walked up the steps of the Governor's house and rapped gently on the door. Her carriage was behind her, her driver sitting with her two friesian stallions, that she brought with her everywhere, pulling it. Ajax snorted, tossing his head and she smiled gently at him before turning to the door as it opened.

Klaus.

He stood there in all his handsome glory, his blue eyes studying her disinterestedly, but vague curiosity sat in those depths. Her breath caught in her lungs and she nearly passed out.

It had been a very, very long time since she had seen him. She forced a smile and curtsied, dipping her head. "Hello, sir. I'm looking for the Governor?"

Klaus studied her, his eyes raking her up and down before going to her gloved hands. "What business do you have with him?"

Roxanne narrowed her eyes before smiling sweetly and stepping past him. "None of yours, sir."

She moved to walk down the hallway to the quartering rooms, but he held out his hand and stopped her. His eyes were cold and his face was stern. "The Governor is busy at the moment. He's asked me to take all of his business."

The blonde scoffed and rolled her eyes. "I'm interested in the business of the witches of New Orleans."

His eyebrows rose and he stared her down, a smile twisting his lips slightly. "The business of the witches is no one's concern."

Roxanne circled him, looking him up and down before grabbing the corner of his waistcoat and lifted it slightly. A red spot stained the fabric there. "I do believe that they are being blamed wrongfully. For the mistakes of others." She looked at him briefly and dropped his coat.

He watched her with an intrigued smile. "You know an awful lot. Do you partake in the world of the people you defend?"

"I'm no witch," she remarked, turning to the door. "I am simply a defender of victims. A 'clean up', if you will." She winked and sauntered out the door. 

Edited

May 26th, 2020

Rewritten

March 21st, 2023