Archive of Our Own ^beta

Klaus runs into Diego at the top of the stairs. It’s bad timing; Klaus is bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air like he’s just run a marathon.

“Jesus,” says Diego, scarred eyebrow raised, “you must be crazy out of shape.”

“No, I’m not,” refutes Klaus, although it’s barely audible, on the end of an exhale.

Diego says, “You’ve been living off of drugs and booze since we were kids. It’s gonna take a toll on your body.”

“That’s not true,” says Klaus. “I’ve also been living off cigarettes.”

“Not helping your case.” Diego’s fingers drum against his thigh. “Okay, come on. We’re going to the gym.”

“Absolutely not.”

With a sigh, Diego states, “You can’t even go up the stairs without getting winded. You need to work on your cardio.”

Klaus doesn’t argue it, because there’s no argument that doesn’t involve Vietnam, and miles of trekking through the jungle, carrying a pack that weighs more than him. Maybe a little part of him hopes that Diego’s right, that he just needs to get his body moving again. Maybe the sharp change from active duty to couch potato is causing problems.

This is, Klaus thinks, the worst thing about being sober. The sensations of having a body.

Okay, no, that's a lie. The worst thing is the ghosts, obviously. And then, after that, the other, less literal ghosts, the ones that haunt his dreams. Not to mention having some self awareness for the first time since he was twelve. Regaining the full spectrum of mental faculties is a bit like blood returning to a numb limb; awkward and stinging.

After those, though, it would have to be physical pain.

Through his teens, he had maintained a low level of drunkenness, interspersed with gradually more heavy recreationals. By the time he reached his twenties, he had gotten used to the pleasant hum of opioids. Codeine, oxy, whatever he could get his hands on. Not that his drug use ended there; he continued to dabble in other pills, not to mention supplementing this with a regular habit of weed. Even when he was on something that wasn't directly a painkiller, though, be it molly or coke, it still thoroughly distracted him from any of the less fun sensations of his body.

That's not to say he never felt pain. Even Klaus had to come down sometime, be it in rehab, or prison, or Diego's when the weather got bad. When he was coming down, pain was all he could feel. Not to mention the other times, when someone had fucked him up badly enough to feel it through the haze, or when he OD'd so hard he was sure he would die. The thing is, all those aches were temporary, sure to be solved by his next hit.

Now it's not so transient. There is no next hit, not unless he fucks up. There’s no escaping his body.

Ben had insisted it was lingering withdrawal causing the aches, and then later, the dizziness and shakes, but those excuses had petered out a few weeks ago. Now he just tends to look concerned.

Personally, Klaus would be more concerned if the full body ache was a new experience.

As a child, Klaus had always been sort of sickly. He had been, according to a Pogo, the last to walk (albeit the first to talk). In fact, he had spent significant portions of his childhood underweight and prone to illness, without any real medical diagnosis to explain it. The family had just accepted it as another quirk of Klaus' weirdness. Number Four was, in every definition, weak - clumsy and gangly, limbs too long, too uncoordinated. His physical strength was a joke. He usually came last in team exercises and sparring, often accused of not really trying, and it wasn’t too long before he stopped trying altogether, because if he’s going to be accused, he may as well be guilty of the crime.

Frequently, he would find himself injured, sometimes for no apparent reason. Klaus had twisted his ankle. Klaus had hurt his knee. Klaus had hurt something, despite doing absolutely nothing.

Before long, his siblings learned to ignore his whining, and his father had dismissed the behaviour as attention seeking. After that, he only reported his injuries if there was strong evidence - if his ankle was swollen, if his knee was bruised. Later, he would only bother mentioning a joint injury if it was visibly dislocated. Sometimes, even then, he would just force the joint back into place - it was easy, if he was already high as the sky.

Grace had insisted on giving him a full medical assessment - bloods and scans and all - after the fifth time he had been unable to get out of bed after callisthenics, despite increasingly severe threats from his father.

It hadn’t helped.

She had found some issues - scoliosis, for one, which might explain why he complained of back pain more than your average middle aged office worker, and a degree of general hypermobility which probably didn’t help - but nothing that could convince Reginald to go easy on him. In fact, the confirmation that there was nothing seriously wrong seemed to give him permission to crack down on any perceived slacking.

And then he was on the streets, and he still got injured a lot - spent most of his time covered in an array of multicoloured bruises - but that was part of the lifestyle. It wasn’t a comfortable life, but he self medicated, and it didn’t hurt too bad.

Then Vietnam happened.

His squad had often jokingly wondered about how Klaus had even passed his physical, teased that the army must be taking anyone if they let a scrawny fuck like Klaus in. From his fallen arches to his addictions, he was by no means well suited to military life. He spent his days too exhausted to think clearly, whole body sore and hurting, propelled by adrenaline and amphetamines. There, he was more reliant on pills than ever, to smother the ghosts and his body alike.

And Dave-

Dave always noticed when he was struggling. If Klaus was lagging, wincing, drooping, he was there to lend his strength. It wasn't a secret that he would have died in that jungle without Dave. Even with him, there were too many close calls. A war wasn't a good place to get injured. A twisted ankle could be the difference between life or death, and it was hard to shoot straight with a dislocated shoulder. He survived on luck and pills and kindness, until his kindness was shot in the chest.

Klaus went home. Got sober. Got familiar with pain, of both the body and the heart.

With the not-apocalypse dealt with, Klaus has been spending an increasing amount of time in bed, either asleep, or too lethargic to move. Ben had accused him of being depressed. Klaus argued that he was just tired. Ben agreed that yes, he was tired, because he was depressed.

Out of spite, Klaus pretended to have fallen asleep.

To tell the truth, Klaus still doesn't like sleeping - or, more specifically, the nightmares that come with it - but it's a necessary evil, both in combating his exhaustion, and escaping the dull ache of his body. In his dreams, it's only his heart that hurts.

So the pain doesn't concern him. The new symptoms, though… yeah, they're a little more worrying.

At first, it seems like withdrawal, the way his head spins and his stomach churns and his heart thumps unevenly in his chest. But then it just… doesn't stop. As the weeks go on, it seems to get worse, not better. He often finds himself panting for air, doubled over, fingers pressed to the floor so that he can tell which way is up.

Ben says, "You have PTSD."

"No shit," Klaus retorts from where he's sprawled on his bedroom floor. "I've had PTSD since I was eight."

"But it's worse now. Since you came back."

That's harder to argue against, because he's not wrong. His nightmares are worse than ever, and sometimes bleed into his waking hours, and it seems that he can't do anything without being reminded of Dave. He's irritable and anxious and paranoid; the poster boy for veteran's mental health. Still, he knows this shit, recognises it for what it is. When he's having a panic attack because mom's cooking meat and the smell reminds him of bombed out villages and other kinds of meat, he knows it's a panic attack. This is different.

"Different how?" Ben challenges. "You're shaking. Hyperventilating. You're clutching your chest like your heart is racing, and you're sweating through your shirt."

Grimacing, Klaus tugs his shirt up over his head. "Yeah, but I'm not panicking."

Ben shoots him a deadpan look.

"No, seriously," he insists, "when I'm having a panic attack, my brain is like- like a speeding train. Trying to catch a single thought is impossible, ‘cause it's going so fast. This is more like… when you're falling asleep, and your brain is almost paralysed, it’s so slow."

His brother tries to hide his worried look at that. "Maybe you're just brain dead from all the drugs," he jokes, but it falls flat.

So the not-panic-attacks are new. And they don't seem to be getting any better, either. The opposite.

It seems he can't get anything done without wheezing. The stairs have become a challenge which he cannot always conquer, and his knees are perpetually bruised from crawling up the last few steps. He passes out in the shower, and decides that from then on, he'll be exclusively having baths. His siblings have gotten used to finding him lounging on the floors. He doesn't mention that he's too dizzy to stand, and none of them question it, either, although they do start to mutter between themselves about Klaus' sobriety. The only thing that wards off any accusations is that Klaus had been conjuring Ben on a semi regular basis. Ben always looks guilty when Klaus goes straight to sleep after, usually not even attempting to reach his bedroom, but he also doesn't tell Klaus to stop.

So, the gym. Probably not a great idea, but Diego isn’t taking no for an answer, and hey, what does he have to lose?

He does insist on an outfit change, first. Allison’s old wardrobe is full of gems. Case in point: 2000’s velvet sweatpants with Juicy bedazzled onto the ass. Perfection. Diego doesn’t even complain, although his eyes do threaten to roll out of his skull.

At the gym, Diego guides him past the boxing ring and towards a row of dusty old mats. The whole place stinks of sweat and mildew, and the inside of his nose is already itching, but there’s a pride flag hanging from the rafters, and none of the other gym goers give him a second glance. Klaus thinks it’s pretty cool, for a gym. (Dave would have liked it.)

“First things first,” Diego says, “warm ups.”

They run through some static stretches - Klaus tries not to think how it reminds him of his childhood, of callisthenics under their father’s scrutiny - and it actually helps, he thinks, working out some of the tension he was holding, the knots in his back and the stiffness in his joints. He starts to feel a little breathless, but not enough for Ben to notice, despite his careful watching.

Diego says, “Good. Now push ups.”

Klaus groans, partially because he’s been doing push ups as punishment almost every day for ten months, and partially because it’s expected of him. Still, he drops down easily (he briefly feels a little better for it, heart slowing) and starts push ups. His shoulder twinges at the lift, and he has to be careful not to lock his elbows, because they’ll overextend and then it’ll hurt like hell, a lesson he remembers from childhood. Despite the pain in his joints, he’s still good at them after all the practice, and he’s good at ignoring pain, too. Distantly, he hears Diego’s push ups cease, and a small noise of surprise, and Klaus can’t resist peeking up at his stunned expression. “What is it?” he asks, “Scared that you can’t keep up?”

“No way can you do more push ups than me,” Diego says.

Before he can try to prove it, Klaus kneels, rolling his bad shoulder. He could probably do more, but it’s already hurting, his joints throbbing dully in a way that will surely last for days. “Sure thing, bud,” he says.

Ben, leaning back against the wall, snorts.

Scowling, Diego stands. “Whatever. Treadmills.”

With a lazy salute, Klaus shoves himself up to his feet, and-

Things go-

Dark-

A hand falls on his shoulder.

“You good?” says Diego, suddenly in front of him.

“Yeah,” Klaus says breathily. “Stood up too fast.”

Diego gives him some semblance of a smile, and shoves him towards the treadmill.

He briefly considers trying to weasel his way out of it, but Diego looks insistent, and Ben still so concerned, so Klaus drags himself up onto one of the machines, firmly ignoring the way darkness clings to the edge of his vision, and the way his heart seems to be racing in his chest.

Poking the buttons until the ancient thing wheezes to life, Klaus starts a steady jog. A little over a month ago, he had been doing the same pace over uneven ground, a pack on his back and a gun in his hands. Now, in this dusky gym, it's only a matter of seconds until he begins to feel oxygen starved. His lungs suck on air desperately, and his heart pumps too fast to count the beats. His vision clouds and spins, face numb, head thumping, stomach churning, churning-

Klaus slaps the stop button, doubling over.

"Klaus?"

Into his knees, Klaus gasps out, "I think I'm gonna throw up."

"Don't you dare," says Diego, then, "Hold on, let me grab a bucket."

Collapsing down to the ground, Klaus can't track his movements, can only swallow down his nausea, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other over his rabbiting heart.

A bucket is thrusted into his hands. Ironically, it's around the same time that Klaus realises he isn't actually going to throw up. The nausea is passing, although he's now begun to shake so hard he can barely hold the bucket.

"Are you good?' Diego asks.

"Yeah," says Klaus. "Sorry. Just a funny five minutes."

"You look like shit."

Klaus laughs. "Thanks."

"No, seriously, you're pale and sweaty and shaking. Klaus, you're not…?"

"No, I'm not coming down," Klaus says, sour. "Thanks for having so much faith in me."

A beat. "Right. Well, let's get you home. You must have eaten something bad."

With a strike of brilliance, Klaus says, "Oh! I haven't eaten anything today."

Diego hisses, "Klaus, it's four in the afternoon!"

"I guess I lost track of time."

Under his breath, Ben contradicts, "I watched you eat breakfast and lunch."

It takes all of Klaus' inconsiderable willpower to not stick his tongue out.

"Come on, then, let's go get you some food. You'll feel better once your blood sugar is back to normal." He heaves Klaus to his feet, and half carries him towards the car, whilst the world spins and dips. Privately, Klaus decides that he won't be exercising again any time soon.

"Klaus, come on."

"Oh, just leave me, would you? I'm still all achy from going to the gym with Di," Klaus groans into his pillow.

Allison, unimpressed, states, "That was four days ago."

"Exactly."

She sighs, folding her arms. "We all promised we would do family dinner every Friday. It's Friday."

"I'm pretty sure you guys will survive without me this week." Then, under his breath, "You probably won't even notice I'm gone."

"Fine. But you're the one who has to tell Viktor that you're too busy doing nothing to be there."

Levelling a narrow eyed look at his sister, Klaus says, "You fight dirty.”

"Thanks," Allison says gleefully, turning on her heels.

Fortunately, this means she isn't there to see the way he winces as he stands, back creaking and spasming. He takes a single step, only to freeze when the world spins and fades. His chest aches with the force of his heart beating, and he gasps for air like a drowning man. At Ben's urging, barely audible over the ringing of his ears, he sits and puts his head between his knees. He feels like he might be floating, or rocking; the sensation is unsettling close to being blackout drunk.

After a long minute, he falls back down to earth.

Ben admits, "I don't think that was a panic attack."

"Told you so," Klaus whines weakly, too exhausted for true smugness.

He makes his way down the stairs with utmost caution, clinging to the railing with a white knuckle grip, jaw aching with the memory of falling. The edges of his vision darken, and his knees shake, but he manages to reach the bottom relatively unscathed, if not for his heart racing.

His siblings eye him warily, and he pretends not to notice it, nor the way his hands shake so hard he can barely hold his cutlery.

"Do you think we could see Ben?" Luther asks. Klaus can't decipher his expression well enough to determine if it's a test.

"I- sorry, no, I don't think so. I'm just really tired," Klaus says, stomach rolling with guilt as he picks at his meal.

"You've been sleeping a lot recently," Allison notes.

Klaus stiffens. "I'm sober, if that's what you're asking."

"No, it's not like that," Viktor says softly. "We're just worried that you might be… depressed."

A laugh bubbles out of his chest. "Depressed?"

Five notes, "It would explain the fatigue, the general malaise, the decreased appetite."

It's not true that Klaus hasn't been hungry, but rather, he can't always find the energy to brave the stairs, or he's too dizzy and lightheaded to get out of bed. Sometimes he’s overtaken by nausea, stomach rolling, threatening. He doubts that explanation would go down well, though. “Whatever,” he mutters. “Isn’t it a bit late to start caring?”

“Klaus,” says Allison, hurt in her voice.

His heart thrums so fast he can feel it in his fingertips. “Look, I- I just don’t need anyone worrying about me, okay? I’m fine.” He pushes away from the table, unable to bear the weight of their eyes, their judgement, and stands.

He-

“Can you hear me?”

“Is he OD’ing?”

“No, I don’t think so, his pupils look normal. Klaus? Can you hear us?”

Klaus frowns. He was just- What? “Wha’ happened?” he mumbles, rolling his head to try and make sense of what he’s seeing. He’s on the floor, crowded by his siblings, and everything is spinning gently.

“You fainted,” says Five.

“Oh,” Klaus says, scrunching his nose.

Luther asks, “Are you sick?”

“Have you eaten anything today?” Diego adds.

“No, and yes,” dismissed Klaus, sitting up, despite the way it makes his head thump. “I must have just gotten up too fast.”

None of the siblings look convinced, but Klaus doesn’t have the energy to care.

After the fainting incident, it becomes a pattern. Even when Klaus doesn’t lose consciousness, he does lose any sense of spatial orientation - his vision goes dark, and his ears ring - until he ends up on the floor. His siblings often happen upon him like that. He tries to pass it off as his usual brand of weirdness (the floor just looked particularly comfy, he would say, or, I had an urgent need for a nap), and he thinks it works somewhat. At least, he hopes it works. Otherwise it would be insulting, the way they tend to step over him with a laugh.

There are a few patches of flooring that he becomes intimately acquainted with: the carpet besides his bed, which is where he finds himself if he stands too fast; the top of the stairs, where he often crawls up to, when he becomes too breathless to climb; the bathroom tiles, when he’s still warm and damp from his bath.

Ben is too astute to shrug off. He’s been cataloguing all Klaus’ symptoms, compiling a list of triggers. Getting up too fast; standing for too long; attempting anything that resembles exercise, particularly if he’s upright during it. It gets worse if he’s hot, or if he’s just eaten. Having too much caffeine makes it worse, but sometimes having no caffeine at all does too. Despite all this, Ben hasn’t suggested a diagnosis again. It makes Klaus a bit nervous - Ben is supposed to be the one who knows these sorts of things, isn’t he? Instead, he just needles him to see a doctor, which, no thanks. Hospitals are a nightmare for a newly sober Klaus.

Mom has started bringing meals up to his room, unprompted. It’s suspicious. He doesn’t think that Grace has decided to do it on her own, can only assume that one of his siblings had suggested it, despite the fact that Klaus has been making more of an effort to get down the stairs for mealtimes. He would refuse it, tell her to stop, but in truth, it helps. Normally, by time he gets all the way from his room to the kitchen, he’s already dizzy and faintly nauseated. It doesn’t exactly make for a pleasant eating experience.

So he’s got a pretty good system going, and he can just carry on like this, until his body gets its shit together.

“Knock knock.”

Klaus blinks up from his sketchbook. “I don’t think that counts as actually knocking.”

Allison shrugs, unrepentant. “Your door was already open. Can I come in?”

“Sure,” says Klaus, flipping his sketchbook closed. Not that he’s embarrassed about his drawing skills; he just doesn’t want any questions about why he’s been drawing the same random white dude over and over. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to check in. See how you’re doing,” she says, taking a seat at the foot of his bed.

“I’m fine,” he says. “How’s things with you?”

“Yeah, good,” says Allison. “I was talking to my lawyer earlier, and she thinks I might be able to get some visitation soon.”

“Allie! That’s great!” Klaus says, clapping his hands together.

Laughing softly, she says, “Yeah. I’m really happy. I feel like, with everything that’s happened… I just really appreciate family, more than ever. Y’know?”

Klaus hums, noncommittal.

“Anyway. I was just thinking about all the people I could have treated better, all the people who I wasn’t there for. You know, Hollywood - you meet a lot of messed up people there. All my friends there,” she says, the word friends holding a sad sort of irony, “I never really talked about anything important with them. A lot of the other actresses I knew, they had all these issues with body image. There’s so much pressure to be a certain size, y’know? They would starve themselves. And everyone knew about it - I knew about it - but I never tried to help, never tried to talk to them about it.”

“God, that must have been awful,” says Klaus, shuffling closer so that he can put his hand over hers.

She smiles sadly at him. “It’s something I regret. I know it’s not necessarily something I could have fixed, but I could have been there for them. I don’t want to make that mistake again.”

Shaking his head, Klaus says, “I don’t think you need to worry about that. Out of this whole fucked up family, you’re the one who’s been trying so hard to be... to be better.”

“I’m trying,” she says, “but I don’t think I’ve been doing enough. I haven’t been there for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. So if you’ve been having problems, with- with food, or body image, or anything, I hope you know you can talk to me about it.”

Klaus blinks. “I. What?”

“I don’t mean to put any pressure on you,” Allison says quickly, “you don’t have to talk about it right now. I just wanted to put it out there that you can talk to me.”

“But- what? You think I have an eating disorder? Why?”

For the first time in this conversation, she looks at a loss. “Well. I just- Like I said, I’ve seen it before, I recognise the signs.”

“What signs?” Klaus asks, perplexed. Sure, he’s kind of skinny - C-rations aren’t particularly appetising, and trekking over half of Vietnam burns a lot of calories - but not any more than he was on the streets. If anything, he’s gained some muscle mass, although that’s quickly fading now he’s not marching for days on end.

“The fainting,” Allison says, the words well rehearsed, “the tiredness, the avoiding mealtimes. You look pale. You don’t have any energy.”

Just like Ben, she’s looked at his symptoms, and come to the entirely wrong conclusion. “No, Allie, listen - I know I’ve been off recently, and I know I’m not the epitome of mental health, but you’ve got the wrong end of the stick here. I think I’ve just had the flu or something, and I’m taking a while to recover, that’s all. I’ve been eating, I promise.”

“Oh,” she says, thrown by the sincerity that he normally tries to avoid. “Oh. I’m sorry, I just-” She puts her hands to her cheeks, eyes wide and embarrassed. “It just seemed to make sense, and I thought-”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Klaus says, awkward in the face of her genuine apology. “I just don’t want you to worry about me. It’s nothing that serious.”

“I wish you’d told me you were sick! You know I would have been here, right? Brought you chicken noodle soup or whatever?”

“Yeah, no, I know,” he lies. “But it wasn’t that bad. I think it’s just taking me a while to get better. It’s almost like a lifetime of substance abuse is bad for your health, or something.”

She pulls him into a tight hug. “Tell me next time, okay? You don’t have to go through that alone.”

“I will,” he says, because now he’s started lying, it’s too late to stop.

"I'm not going to ask you again."

"Good, because my answer won't change."

"Klaus, I'm being serious."

Throwing up his hands, Klaus says, "So am I! Didn't we learn from last time?"

"Last time, you'd forgotten to eat," Diego says. "Today, I saw you eat breakfast. Let's go."

"No,' says Klaus, petulant. Ben watches with a cocked eyebrow, challenging him to tell the truth: that it wasn't a one time problem, that even the stairs are too much exercise for Klaus, that anything more challenging will almost certainly end with Klaus passing out.

Diego insists, "Come on, we can even go for lunch after."

As tempting as the offer is (because Klaus can never turn down free food), he has to decline. "Nope, not happening, no." He spins, skirt flaring around his knees to add to the dramatic exit, but then Diego grabs his wrist-

And-

Clunk.

"Motherfucker!"

"Fuck!" Diego yelps. "Holy shit, Klaus, d- did your shoulder just-?'

"Yep," Klaus says through gritted teeth. His fingers spasm and twitch, nerves stretched abnormally, but it's secondary to the cold burn of his shoulder. He can tell it's dislocated, rolled out of the socket - the sensation is a distinct one. "Hold on, let me just-"

"No!" cries Diego, stepping forward, but it's too late; Klaus twists his arm, hunching forward and pulling gently with his good arm, and then-

Pop.

"Oh, thank fuck," Klaus breathes, wilting to the floor.

Diego says, "You should have let Mom do that. What if it didn't go back right?"

Waving him off, Klaus says, "Don't worry, it's done this a few times now. Just gotta pop it back in." He wipes at his forehead, where he can feel sweat beading. Pain does that, when it’s bad.

"That's so fucked up," Diego says. He's grey, eyes wide. "I swear, I didn't mean to do that."

"No, no, it's easily done," says Klaus.

"It shouldn't be, though," he says. "Did you injure it or something? You should get it scanned."

Klaus shakes his head. "It's not a big deal. I just dislocate shit easily. If I went to the hospital every time, I probably wouldn't ever leave."

"Huh. I remember you dislocated your knee on a mission once, but that’s it. What else have you dislocated?" Diego questions, intrigued and somewhat horrified.

"Um," says Klaus, "I don’t know. Like you said, my knee, and my left hip - not at the same time. My fingers dislocate a lot. I’ll just be, like, washing my hands, and then pop. What else, um… well, my ribs, although I don't know if that's still a joint? It's like, here," he says, gesturing at a point a few inches from his sternum, "they kind of slip and move sometimes. Oh! My jaw, once, but trust me, you don't want to know how. But that's probably about it."

"What the-

"Oh! No, wait, I also did something that was like- oh, what's it called. It's kind of between your hip and your spine, that part of your pelvis-"

"Sacroiliac?" Diego asks. Dad had made him learn anatomy very thoroughly.

"Yes! That's the one. I didn't even realise there was a joint there until I dislocated it, but Ben told me there is."

Diego pinches the bridge of his nose. "Klaus, you do understand that it isn't normal to dislocate… everything?"

"Aw, most of the time they don't stay out of place long. It's just like a little adventure out of the joint, and then back home," Klaus says cheerily.

"That's still not normal."

"Well, what can I say? I've lived an exceedingly abnormal life. Now, would you be a darling and fetch me some painkillers?"

Scandalised, Diego hisses, "Klaus! I thought you were sober!"

Flatly, Klaus replies, "I meant some Tylenol. Even I’m not addicted to those."

"Oh," says Diego. "Fine."

In the short-lived quiet, Ben says thoughtfully, "He's right. I'm pretty sure you've had more dislocations than the rest of the family altogether."

"Yes, yes, I know, I'm the weakest member of the Academy. I've heard it enough from daddy dearest, I don't need it from you too."

"That's not what I meant," Ben says, defensive.

Klaus huffs. "Can we talk about this when I'm not in acute pain?"

"You're always in acute pain," he mutters nonsensically, drifting off to haunt someone else.

"I'm just going to say it."

Klaus tenses at Five's tone, serious and determined, and directed at Klaus. The rest of the table seems similarly alarmed, Viktor even shooting him a warning look.

"I didn't travel through time and fight the whole Commission, just to lose a sibling because everyone's too shy to say it," Five barrels on. "Klaus, I think you're sick. You're tired and dizzy and pale, you've been fainting, and you've been running a low grade fever approximately forty percent of the time."

Placing the back of his hand on his forehead, Klaus queries, "How do you know my temperature?"

Dismissive, Five explains, "I've been taking your temperature whilst you sleep for the past two weeks. Anyway, I think-"

"Five, what the fuck," Klaus says.

Viktor adds, "Didn't we have a discussion about privacy, Five?"

"Privacy doesn't take precedence over safety," Five says, terse. "Now listen. You're only thirty-"

"Twenty nine," Luther corrects incorrectly.

"-so that rules out a lot of serious illnesses as very unlikely. However, considering your past lifestyle, there are certain diseases that you're at risk of. Now, if you are HIV positive, we need to start treatment now, before it turns into AIDS."

With his speech finished, he takes a victorious bite of his meal, seemingly unaware that the rest of the family is still reeling.

Klaus is the first to recover. "Five, as much as I really don't appreciate your concern," he says, voice artificially light and flippant, "I am actually aware of the existence of HIV, and I got tested recently, okay?"

"How recently?"

"When I was last in rehab."

Diego helpfully adds, "That was just before dad died."

"So over a year," Five hums.

"What? No, that was just a few months ago."

Not willing to entertain this line of questioning, Klaus inserts, "I haven't shared needles since."

"Unprotected sex?"

The whole table groans in unison.

"No that it's any of your business," Klaus snaps, holding himself tightly, "but I've only slept with one person since then, and they were clean."

"And how do you know? They could have easily lied."

Klaus is on his feet before he can think, looming over his smallest brother with a snarl. "Don't talk about him, you prick-"

Luther grabs him around the waist, restraining him, and it's good timing, because Klaus’ head feels like it might float off his shoulders, and he’s not totally sure that his knees will take his weight.

Voice faint and wheezing, Klaus says, "Good talk, guys. Another successful family dinner." With that, he weasels out of his brother’s grip, and weaves his way out of the room, managing to make it all the way to the bottom of the stairs before his knees give out.

"You don't have to do this, y’know."

Klaus shuffles his feet, staring determinedly at his shoes. Out of the corner of his mouth, he says, "They clearly won't take my word on it."

"They would if you actually explain," Ben counters.

"That's none of their business," Klaus says. He remembers Dave, and how embarrassed he had been to admit it was his first time. It would be a betrayal, he thinks, to his memory. Klaus won't do it. He wasn't able to protect Dave, but he'll protect the secrets he left behind.

His name is called, and Ben hovers silently as his blood is drawn. The nurse presses a cotton bud to the crook of his elbow, and says, "You're a bleeder, huh? Here, you keep holding this, and I'll get these labelled."

Klaus takes hold of the cotton bud, frowning at the amount of blood soaking into it. Even when he was shaking with a come down, Klaus had never caused himself to bleed this much from a needle. Maybe the nurse is new to the job. He stands, and immediately has to sit back down.

"Woah, you okay?" the nurse asks. "You should have told me you don't like needles! Do you need some water?"

"I'm fine with needles," Klaus disagrees. "Just stood up too fast. A little head rush, that's all."

The nurse smiles knowingly, clearly humouring him. "Sure, okay. Take your time."

Klaus thinks he should have shown her his right arm, and the array of scars over his veins.

As soon as he gets home with the results, he shoves them in Five's face at the first opportunity, not even bothering to check them first, because he already knows what they'll say. Five takes the crumpled paper with an impassive face, scanning over it. "I see. Congratulations, I suppose."

"That's it? No apology?" Klaus asks, rubbing it in his face just a little.

Five sighs. "I'm not going to apologise for caring about your physical wellbeing." And with that, he disappears in a flash of blue.

Ben says, "I think that's the nicest thing he's ever said to you."

"The bar is so low," Klaus laments.

He faints at the top of the stairs.

In an unusual display of good luck, he manages to fall up onto the landing, and therefore avoids toppling headfirst into another broken jaw.

This, coincidentally, is the day that Klaus decides he might need a medical check up.

(God, he hates proving Ben right.)

“Okay,” Grace says after Klaus details his symptoms, “I’m going to say something, but first, I want you to understand that I’m saying it out of love.” She puts her hand on his cheek, and all of a sudden, Klaus feels like a child again, finds himself blinking back tears from nowhere. “I think you need to go see an actual doctor, my dear.”

Klaus swallows. “But I thought you are a doctor? Minus the medical degree, I mean.”

She smiles, soft and so alive. “Yes, I have a lot of medical knowledge, but that isn’t the same as having a lot of medical experience. The infirmary is well equipped for emergency medical situations, but it’s not the same as having a whole hospital at my disposal. Sir Reginald made sure I would be able to save your lives if something awful happened, but I don’t have half the things I would need to assess or treat a heart condition, or an endocrine disease, or any other of the many things that could be causing your symptoms.”

“Oh,” says Klaus, deflating. “I really hate hospitals.”

“I know, but I would hate it if you got hurt because of my inadequate medical care,” she says firmly. “Okay?”

“Okay, mom.”

“If that bitch with half a face comes anywhere near me, I’m out of here,” Klaus says between gritted teeth.

“You’re fine,” says Ben, standing in front of him to hide half the waiting room from view. “Besides, I think that’s a dude.”

“Men can be bitches too, Ben. Stop being so sexist.”

He’s saved from the inevitable glare by the doctor calling his name.

The doctor’s office is, at least, quieter than the waiting room, with only one ghost hanging around (excluding Ben, of course). The doctor smiles as gestures for him to sit down. “Your bloods have come back,” she says, “and there’s nothing serious to worry about. You’re a little anaemic, which is most likely the cause of your symptoms.”

“Oh,” says Klaus, thrown by the simplicity of it. He had been imagining all sorts of deadly diseases that might be acquired in Vietnam, or in mouldy, rotting crackhouses.

“I’ve written you a script for some iron tablets. They need to be taken three times a day, and you can’t have coffee within a couple hours of taking one, okay?”

“That’s all?”

“Well, you might have some gastrointestinal side effects. If they’re really bad, you can book back in to see me, and we can try to find a better option for you,” she says.

Klaus breathes out, a long breath. “Okay. Cool. Fantastic. Um, how long until I start to feel better?”

“Varies person to person. We’ll get you booked in for another blood test in two months, and see how it’s going.”

After filling the prescription, Klaus wavers over to the taxi rank. He thinks he would fail any sobriety tests right now, with the way he’s stumbling along; he thinks he could walk in a straight line better when he was dropping acid.

Once they’re safely in the back of the cab, Klaus catching his breath, Ben says, “I don’t think it’s just anaemia. It doesn’t line up with all your symptoms, and I’m pretty sure that you would have to be more severely anaemic to have symptoms this bad. What about how shaky and sweaty you get? The nausea? The way your hands and feet go a weird purple colour?”

“Gee, thanks for the optimism,” Klaus mumbles tiredly. “I thought you wanted me to see a doctor? Why are you complaining, when I actually did what you asked for once?”

Ben’s mouth twists. “I’m just worried.”

“Well, don’t. You’ll get frown lines.”

"I'm already dead."

"And yet you don't still look sixteen," Klaus points out. "Let's not pretend that we understand how that works."

The weeks slip by without note. Klaus spends most of it in bed, or laying on the floor in various stages of consciousness. He takes his iron pills with a religious devotion, each time pretending he wasn’t wishing they were a different kind of pill, something more interesting, something that might make him care a little less.

For Klaus, nothing much happens. For the rest of the family, life races on.

Allison has finally gotten visitation rights, the first victory in a long battle, and she’s been flying down to LA regularly to see her. Luther’s begun to work through understanding the abuse he’s experienced. Five is slowly accepting that the apocalypse is well and truly averted. Viktor is learning who he really is, finally finding confidence in himself, exploring his powers and starting on testosterone. Diego’s been visiting Patch, who’s finally out of the hospital and going through physiotherapy. Even Ben is getting to interact with his family again, limited as he is by Klaus’ perpetually low energy levels.

Klaus is being left behind.

He can’t fault them for it. Of course things couldn’t stay the same forever, and he’s happy for all of them, he really is. He just can’t help but notice that while their lives are moving forward, his has stagnated. His siblings try to drag him along, try to encourage him to work on his powers, to try new things, but he’s so tired. He feels ill and weak and aching, and it just doesn’t sound possible. He’s scared of leaving the house in case he passes out somewhere; it didn’t used to bother him, people stepping over his unconscious form after he blacked out on some random side street, but now he’s too sober to be unafraid. The thought of being so vulnerable is nauseating.

He waits to start feeling better. And waits. And waits.

Ben says, I told you so. When Klaus snaps at him to stop saying it, he just gives him a look that says it instead.

Two months after the first, he has another blood test. His red blood cell mean volume is back to normal. He’s not anaemic anymore, the doctor informs him, and he still can’t go up stairs without his vision turning grey and his knees giving out.

Klaus books in to see a different doctor. This one listens as Klaus explains his symptoms down to the last detail, and then he signs a prescription and slides it over the table. In a gentle voice, he says, “This is a script for-”

“Sertraline. But that’s an antidepressant,” Klaus says, perplexed.

“Yes, it is. It’s useful in treating panic disorder, and post traumatic stress.”

Blinking, Klaus says, “Okay. But. What?”

“What you’ve described to me is a textbook description of a panic attack,” the doctor says, smile just this side of patronising. “You’re also wearing dog tags and have a squad tattoo. I put two and two together.”

“But- No, I know what panic attacks feel like, I’ve had them before, but this is different,” insists Klaus. “This doesn’t happen when I’m freaking out, it’s just out of nowhere.”

His smile doesn’t waver. “That’s very common in people with panic disorders. It can be difficult to identify anxiety sometimes, and your body can react before your brain does. Give the sertraline a try, maybe read a self help book. See how things go, okay?”

Numbly, Klaus agrees, “Okay. Right.” He leaves the office in a stunned daze. Ben, on the other hand, is not so quiet about it.

“What a patronising bastard,” Ben seethes. “Did he even listen to you at all, or did he just see someone wearing tags and decide that’s their problem? He didn’t even question the part where you can’t exercise, or how it doesn’t happen whilst you’re lying down! Go read a self help book, my ass.”

Klaus chews on his lip as he rants. Then, quietly, he says, “Maybe he’s right.”

“What?” Ben says.

“Well, you said it too. I probably have PTSD. I probably have since we were kids.” He rubs his thumb over the thin paper of his prescription. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I just don’t want to accept how fucked up I am.”

Ben steps into his path, making Klaus face him. “Hey, don’t do that. Look, you’re kind of fucked up, you almost certainly have PTSD, but we both know it’s more than that. Don’t let that asshole get into your head.”

Uncertain, Klaus asks, “So you don’t think I should try the meds?

“Oh, no, you should definitely try the meds. You for sure need treatment for PTSD,” Ben says bluntly. “I just think you also need to look after your physical health. There’s no point in sorting out your mental illness if you’re going to drop dead tomorrow.”

“Thanks for your confidence,” Klaus says dryly, but he does head towards the pharmacy without further complaint.

Klaus almost gives up on the antidepressants on day three. He's been feeling off since he started them, almost like a high without any pleasure. Then, on day three, he gets the worst nosebleed of his life. Klaus has had plenty before, growing up in a house with regular sparring practice, and then with his coke habit, but this is something else. It's like a hose pipe. Blood gushes down his face, soaking his shirt, dripping on the floor.

Muffled by the huge wad of tissue he's holding to his face, Klaus whines, "I only just stopped being anaemic."

Then he catches sight of the blood on his hands, and he’s back in the jungle, and he stops saying anything at all.

Three weeks later, Klaus wakes up one day, and decides it's a good day to try summoning Dave. He's been avoiding it for a while now, sure it would only lead to disappointment, especially when he's feeling so ill that manifesting Ben is hard.

(He still gets dizzy and sick after a few minutes and has to lie down, but hey, at least he tried.)

So the antidepressants aren’t a magic cure for his issues, not like a hit of molly would be, but it's better than nothing.

It hasn't done anything for his physical symptoms. Ben starts to pester him about getting another doctor's appointment. Klaus obstinately tells him it's too early to say, that he should keep going with the antidepressants and see whether it helps. He wouldn't put it past himself to have invented the whole thing; after all the years of drug abuse, he isn't well practised at identifying emotions that aren't magnified by pills. Maybe he really is just having strange, unpredictable panic attacks.

He needs to refill his prescription.

There's a pharmacy a couple blocks from the house, which is convenient, except for the ways that it isn't. If he had to go further, he wouldn't feel weird about calling a cab, now that he has the money to do so (thanks, dad!). A couple of measly blocks, though? He should be able to walk that. Even toddlers can walk that far.

"You know Diego wouldn't mind picking it up for you," Ben points out as Klaus pulls on a pair of boots. They're the sensible kind, because even sober, Klaus wearing heels only leads to sprained ankles.

"You know why I can't do that," Klaus hums lightly.

Ben is undeterred. "He won't care. Let's be honest, the whole family already knows you're a little fucked in the head."

"Well, I'd rather not prove them right. They already think I can't survive without drugs, and this would just confirm it."

"I thought you didn't care what the others think about you?"

Klaus hisses at him. Ben shrugs, unapologetic.

(Klaus doesn't care. He gave up on caring about that shit long ago, and he won't start caring now.)

"My dubious mental faculties aside," Klaus says, "Don't you think it would be kind of insensitive? Viktor has just gotten off mood altering meds, I don't think he would appreciate me flaunting mine."

"Maybe Viktor needs to realise that not everything is about him," Ben says.

Eyebrows raised, Klaus says, "Wow, Ben, catty much?"

Ben holds his hands up. "Don't get me wrong, he's family and I love him. But he's also a Hargreeves."

Klaus can't argue with that flawless logic.

He takes the stairs carefully, which has the advantage of not causing him to pass out, but the disadvantage of letting Allison catch up with him.

"Are you going out?" she asks, sounding genuinely pleased for him. "Want me to join?"

"Nah, I'm only popping out to collect some drugs," Klaus says.

Her expression clearly states that she regrets asking. "Never mind," she says, striding past him.

"Good job," Ben deadpans.

Shrugging, Klaus says, "It was the truth."

He opens the front door, and only then realises how long it's been since he's left the house. These days, he only seems to bother going out for doctor's appointments, or a brief trip to the corner store for smokes. He shakes his head. Most of his adult life had been spent more outside than indoors, and now after just a few months of having a stable home, he's turned into a total hermit.

The air is warm, summer clinging on for a little while longer, although the leaves are starting to crisp and brown at the edges. The sun feels both gorgeous and horrendous on his skin, bringing memories of a younger sun and the Vietnam heat.

This is a jungle of the concrete kind, full of strangers who are impossible at times to discern from ghosts. Normally that would be enough to put him on edge. Today, though, he's determined to make his rare good mood last, and he winks at them as they pass. He gets a fair amount of alarmed looks - the military jacket mixed with the silk skirt probably not helping his case - and he can only laugh at the reactions he gets. A couple of younger, probably queerer strangers give him appreciative looks, and he returns them with a grin, not interested in pursuing, but flattered nonetheless.

After so many months sweating through the underbrush, and then cocooned in his bedroom, he's relieved that some part of his younger self still exists. He had, for a while, assumed that Dave's death had taken those parts of himself, that everyone looking at him would see a barren shell of a person. He's relieved to find that, at least from the outside, he isn't so changed.

Klaus wishes Dave could have been here to see this, to see how openly queer they could be, to see how things got better. Is it strange, to still find beauty in the world, after all of it? The hopelessness seems overwhelming sometimes - maybe the majority of the time - and yet, despite himself, Klaus still finds himself in awe of the world, in all its cruel beauty. Today, the sun is shining. The leaves are crisping. Life continues all around him, and death, too. At home, his family will be waiting for him, expecting to see him at the dinner table. Somehow, he finds space around the grief to feel the rest of it, too.

So wrapped up in his thoughts, Klaus doesn't even notice how hard he's breathing.

The first thing he notices, in fact, is how dry his mouth is. He swallows ineffectually, only to stop to drag in another breath. How long has he been breathing hard? How long has his heart been thrumming too fast, how long has he been sweating, shaking?

That's as much as he has time to wonder before the ringing of his ears starts to deafen, and the darkness in his vision bloats and swallows the world whole. He falls.

Time skips.

"-okay? Can you hear-"

"-call an-"

-gravel under his palms-

"-sir? Can you squeeze my hand-"

"-peripheries are shutting down-"

-something pinching his finger-

-a loud, familiar noise-

"-should we try Naloxone? He's-"

"-pupil response is normal-"

"Klaus? Can you hear me?"

"Klaus?"

With a mouth that feels numb and distant, Klaus mumbles, "Yeah?"

"Hey, there you are," says a vaguely familiar voice. "Can you tell me what you took?"

Something in his chest crumples; has he relapsed?

"No, listen," another voice - Ben - says urgently. "You didn't take anything. I think you're still sober."

"Oh," says Klaus. "Nothing. Didn't take anything."

A beat. "Are you sure?"

Klaus opens his eyes, wincing at the throb of his head. "Pretty sure. Been sober a few months." He looks around himself, unsurprised to see the back of an ambulance and a paramedic who's definitely met him too many times.

"That's great!" the paramedic exclaims with a justifiable amount of surprise. "Have you been having any health issues recently? Have you noticed any chest pain, maybe, or palpitations?"

"Yeah, actually," Klaus admits, "I've been having all these weird symptoms, but the doctor said it was just, like, panic attacks?"

"Oh," he says. "Were you feeling anxious?"

Frowning, Klaus says, "I was actually in a pretty good mood, up until my heart tried to throw itself out of my chest. Even then, I was just kind of annoyed."

"Huh. Weird."

"Right?" Klaus crows, vindicated.

The paramedic shrugs. "I mean, I'm not a psychiatrist, but yeah, kind of weird."

"Anyway, can I get out of the ambulance now? I don't think I need medical treatment."

"Are you sure you don't want someone to check you over?"

"Nah, I feel pretty okay now," Klaus says, and then he levers himself upright, swinging his legs over the side of the gourney. In tandem, the heart monitor makes an angry noise.

"Woah," the paramedic says, halting him. "Are you okay?"

Klaus blinks. He feels a little dizzy, and his heart has sped up, but it's nothing he hasn't been experiencing daily. "I don't think I'm going to pass out again, don't worry."

"No, but- your heart rate almost doubled!"

"Yeah, I think it just does that sometimes."

Alarmed, the paramedic informs him, "That's not normal, man. I think you need to get checked over by a cardiologist."

He can't help but roll his eyes at that. "Yeah, probably, but they’ll just tell me that it’s in my head."

In the end, he allows himself to be admitted. If nothing else comes of it, at least he'll be able to fill his prescription at the hospital pharmacy.

Unfortunately, the thing people don't tell you about being ill is how boring it is. Once the intake nurse is certain he isn't going to keel over, he's left to wait. He doesn't even have a waiting room magazine to peruse. Instead, he's biting his nails (his nail varnish was already ruined) and trying to ignore how fucking loud it is. The ghosts are many and numerous, filling the edges of his vision, and it's only Ben's quiet reassurance that prevents him from fleeing. Well, that, and the suspicion that he might pass out if he tried. He feels better than earlier, but he still has some residual shakiness.

When a harried looking doctor finally comes by, he glances over Klaus' intake chart and says, "Hi there. Looks like you had a panic attack, huh?"

Klaus has never been a naturally violent person, but he swears to the little girl in the sky that in that moment he would love nothing more than to punch this guy. "No."

The doctor blinks. "No? It says here that you take sertraline for anxiety."

"Well, yes, but that's a separate issue," Klaus states. "I won't lie, I'm, like, full of psychological damage up to here” - he gestures to above his own head - “but I know what a panic attack feels like, and this isn't it."

"Oh. Well…" the doctor falters, flipping through his chart. "Has this been a recurring issue?"

"Yes, for months, but every doctor I speak to just brushes it off!" Klaus bursts out, provoking a wince from Ben.

"It says here that the paramedic recorded a significantly raised heart rate upon standing," he notes thoughtfully. "Would you mind if I run a few quick tests?"

With a quick smile that doesn’t quite cover his relief, Klaus replies, "I would love nothing more."

After that, it's a blur of medical equipment and measurements that reminds Klaus a little too much of his childhood (particularly the electrodes being stuck across his chest - though, why Reginald had hooked his kids up with those at bedtime, who can say). They run an ECG - and apparently that had been normal - and then an echocardiogram to check the structure of his heart. They measure this blood pressure, and then ask him to stand to check it again, eyeing him with curiosity when he turns breathless at being upright.

At the end of it, when Klaus is starting to feel like a lab rat, starting to crave a hit of something to dull the anxiety crawling under his skin, the doctor announces, "Well, your heart looks fine." For a moment, Klaus thinks that's it, the whole afternoon of testing had been for nothing, but then he continues, "You do seem to have a propensity for sinus tachycardia when you're upright, which could be causing your symptoms." The doctor frowns. "It's a bit of an obscure condition, but it does seem suggestive of something like Postural Tachycardia Syndrome."

"Right," Klaus says blankly.

“Do you have a family history of fainting or low blood pressure?:”

A shrug. “I wouldn’t know. Adopted.”

“Ah, I see,” the doctor says, noting something on his chart. “I think the sensible thing to do would be to refer you to a specialist. In the meanwhile, I can suggest some basic lifestyle changes to mitigate symptoms."

"Okay. But, um… is it serious?"

The doctor laughs. "Oh, no, it's nothing to be concerned about. I appreciate that the symptoms may be alarming, but they aren't dangerous."

Klaus isn't sure whether to be reassured by the doctor's casualness, or irritated by his flippancy; dangerous or not, it's affecting his life to the point that he can't take a short walk alone without someone calling him an ambulance.

The cardiologist had refused to prescribe any medications, saying that he’s not well versed enough in the condition to do so, but he does prescribe Klaus some compression stockings, to prevent blood pooling in his legs. Which is a thing that’s been happening apparently.

The cons of compression stockings: they're a pain in the ass to squeeze his legs into; they pinch his toes, are even less comfortable than leather leggings; and they don't seem to stop him from passing out.

The pros of compression stockings: he notices that his knees don't ache so badly when he's wearing them; his feet never go purple and vaguely swollen like they used to. He’s maybe ten percent less dizzy. Also, and maybe most importantly, he looks sexy as fuck in them. He had been concerned they would be beige old lady pantyhose, but they just look like black thigh highs. He even digs a garter belt out from the back of his wardrobe, which both completes the look, and prevents the stockings from rolling down. (He wishes he could have shown Dave this stuff - hopes maybe he'll get a chance, if he ever gets his powers in line.)

Luther finds him lying in the hallway. He reeks of booze - Luther, not Klaus - and sways unsteadily as he peers down at him with a vaguely morose expression. For all that he used to lecture Klaus for his vices, he sure does drink a lot these days. Klaus can’t begrudge him. Luther is due a little teenage rebellion.

His biggest brother sits down next to Klaus, and then lays down, as if trying to figure out why Klaus finds it so appealing. They’re silent for a long beat. Then, Luther haltingly asks, “Do you ever wonder what you’d be doing with your life, if you were normal?”

Klaus ponders this for a moment. “There was this guy I knew - Paul Hardison. Fucking Paul Hardison. He was the most boring motherfucker I’ve ever met. He always looked at me like I was a fucking alien or something, like he knew I wasn’t normal, or whatever, and it didn’t bother me, because I couldn’t imagine being friends with someone so- well, normal. Anyway. Four months in, I finally noticed: he never wore socks. Never. Trekking through the jungle in those boots, day in day out, and he never wore socks. I asked him why, one day, and he said he was scared there would be a spider inside, so he just didn’t put them on.” He stops there, frowning up at the distant ceiling.

“Klaus,” says Luther, “you don’t wear socks.”

“That’s not the point.”

Longsuffering, he asks, “Then what is the point?”

“The point is, you think people are normal, but give them time. Everyone’s a little weird.”

Luther says nothing.

Klaus drums his fingers against the hardwood floor. “He got shot not long after that. I always wondered whether they buried him with socks on.”

Silence.

He turns. Luther’s eyes are closed, mouth parted. As if on cue, he lets out a deep snore.

If anyone asks, this isn't what it looks like.

Yes, it may seem like Klaus is currently picking the lock on the medicine cabinet in an attempt to get high, but actually… wait, no, that is what he's doing.

But! He has a good reason!

Which is that, from the minute he woke up, Klaus has been in agony. Not to be dramatic about it, but holy fuck, he is in pain. Waves of deep, throbbing ache are radiating out from a point in his lower back, and nothing he does seems to alleviate it. He's tried stretching out in some yoga poses; had a scalding hot bath; pressed an ice pack to the area. Nothing is working. Nothing is working, and if he doesn't get something for the pain soon, he's gonna start crying.

So, of course, that's when his mom walks in.

"Hello, darling," she says cheerfully. Klaus can't tell if she's figured out his intentions or not; her smile is omnipresent, regardless of the circumstances.

"Hi, mom," he says. "I don't suppose you could open this lock for me?"

"Well, I'm not sure that's a good idea," she says as she strokes a motherly hand over his hair.

Voice fracturing, Klaus says, “But it hurts.”

In the space between blinks, Grace has turned from mother to practitioner. "What hurts?"

"Here," he says, palming his lower back as if he could wipe away the pain. "It keeps, like, fucking slipping around in there, and it keeps getting worse, and-"

Grace hushes him. "Okay, honey, let's do a quick x-ray and see how things are looking, okay?"

Soothed by his mom's calmness and surety, Klaus allows himself to be led over to the X ray machine, and they run through the procedure with the well oiled confidence of someone with a childhood full of injuries. Then, checking over the image, Grace says, “Well, that’s odd.”

“Um, what?”

“You see your sacroiliac joint, here? It’s a tad out of alignment.”

“Ah. Can you. Fix it?”

“I don’t think a joint reduction would be any help for this. It’s not like a dislocated shoulder,” she explains, grimacing. “If there’s instability in the joint, not much can be done, besides surgery.”

With not so mild alarm, Klaus asks, “Are there any-” he stops, wincing, when a particularly deep throb of pain rushes over him “-ah, any slightly less extreme treatment options?”

“Well,” Grace says thoughtfully, “I can try a steroid injection into the joint, with some local anaesthetic to give you some more immediate relief. Two, actually; one at the top of the joint, and one near the bottom. It might help manage the pain, assuming I’ve correctly diagnosed the source.”

“Okay, yes, let’s do that.”

“Do you want to think about it first? There are possible complications-”

Bracingly, Klaus says, “Nope, let’s do it. Stick me!”

In the end, it’s not quite that easy; the procedure takes a little too long, Klaus thinks. Grace cleans the skin with a bright iodine solution, and says that she numbs it first with some topical anaesthetic, but it doesn’t seem that effective, because he still swallows a shout when the needle pushes in, slow enough to feel every inch. Klaus’ toes curl and he takes a shuddering breath, and then there’s a pressure, a cold not-pain of the liquid being injected in. He exhales slowly. And then again, lower down, and it feels even deeper this time.

But, when a minute or two passes, and the consuming throb dulls to a muffled twinge, Klaus gives a deep, appreciative sigh, and mumbles, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Cool hands brush over his curls. “Take it easy for the rest of the day, okay?”

“Mmhm, yes, ma’am.”

“I read something interesting today,” says Five.

Klaus doesn’t look up from where he’s practically inhaling his pasta. Five’s idea of ‘interesting' is usually some niche theoretical physics fact, and Klaus is too tired to pretend to care. Luther, however, is both more polite and more nerdy, so he encourages, “What’s that?”

With unnecessary aplomb, Five pulls a folded paper from his pocket, shaking it out. This should be concerning - with Five’s near eidetic memory, he doesn’t need the reminder - but again, the pasta is really good, Grace has outdone herself. “It’s a hospital invoice,” he announces, “for an E.R. visit.”

Silently, Klaus sinks down in his seat.

Allison is quick to bemoan, “Diego, you said you’d quit that vigilante shit!”

“I have!” Diego bites back. “Why’d you assume it was me?”

She snorts. “Because I’m the one who paid off all your hospital bills, every time you got yourself stabbed. Do you even know how expensive it is to get stitches?”

Diego pales at the mention of needles. “Wait, you did? I always thought Dad did that.”

“Why the hell would Dad care?” Allison asks, incredulous.

“Huh. Well, thanks. But it wasn’t me this time!”

“No, it wasn’t,” Five corroborates. “It was Klaus.”

The Hargreeves turn, in unison, to frown at Klaus - except for Ben, who, unheard to everyone but Klaus, just says, “This is what you get for keeping secrets.”

“I thought you were sober?” Viktor says, eyes big and dark and sad.

“I am!” Klaus says. He hates this; hates having to defend himself against the same fucking accusation; hates that he can’t even blame them, when he’s lied about it so many times.

Five squints at him with those lazer sharp eyes. “If you didn’t overdose, why the hell did you need an ambulance?”

Klaus puts his hands over his face. He wishes he had Five’s powers - wouldn’t it be great if he could just zap away from this? Or better yet, go back in time and warn himself not to bother attending this piss poor family dinner? “It’s nothing,” he groans. “Can you just leave it?”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing,” Allison counters.

“It’s stupid,” Klaus continues. “Just, like, a teeny tiny heart problem.”

“Heart problem?” Diego parrots. “What kind of heart problem?”

“Really, problem might be a strong word. It’s just a little- a little funky. Y’know, whatever doesn’t kill me-”

“-Makes you a liability in the field?” Five fires back. “What if the Commission decides to attack? How am I supposed to plan for a crisis if I don’t know all the variables? Christ, Klaus, you can’t be keeping secrets like this!”

Luther inputs, “To be fair, it’s not like Klaus is usually useful in combat situations anyway.” It’s unclear whether this is supposed to be in his defence, or just a further insult.

Waving a hand towards his biggest brother, Klaus agrees, “Yeah, exactly!”

“Okay, can we just go back to the heart problem? What kind of heart problem?” Allison questions.

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Klaus, fingers drumming against his chest, over the organ in question. “Something about, uh, tachycardia? Apparently my heart goes too fast when I stand up or something.”

“Is this why you’ve been fainting?” Viktor asks softly.

Klaus grimaces. “Yep, that’s the current theory.”

Allison thwacks his shoulder (lightly, but Klaus still cries out in exaggerated pain), and says, “You told me you had the flu!”

“Hey! It’s not like I knew what was going on!”

Diego scolds, “Why didn’t you ask Mom?”

“I did,” says Klaus. “She told me to go to a doctor, but the doctor said I’m just anaemic, so I took some iron and fixed that, but I still felt like shit all the time, so I went to a different doctor, but he said it was just PTSD.”

“You do have PTSD, though,” Five says, with all the care of someone stating that the sky is blue.

Klaus throws his hands up. “Well, who doesn’t?”

“Wait, so-” Luther squints at him from across the table “-do you have a heart condition, or are you just mentally ill?”

Ben wonders, “Why do people assume they’re mutually exclusive?” Klaus decides it’s a good point, so he pulls his brother into the land of the living, and Ben dutifully repeats the sentiment to the room.

“So, what, he just happened to get PTSD and a bad heart at the same time?” Diego directs towards Ben, seemingly the authority on all things Klaus.

“Oh, no, he’s had the PTSD since he was a kid,” corrects Ben. “I mean- we all do, to some extent, right?”

Looking unreasonably shocked, Luther says, “What?”

Ben sighs, but any further response goes unseen, as the light circling Klaus' hands sputters out. "Sorry," Klaus mutters, heart thumping unevenly in his chest.

Five, not even slightly distracted from the topic at hand, questions, "Is it curable? The heart problem?"

Klaus shrugs. "I don't know, man. The doctor didn't seem to know much about it."

Eyes narrowed, Five hums, dissatisfied with his answer. Then, without a goodbye, he vanishes.

“Good talk,” mutters Klaus, returning to his pasta.

The next time he sort-of-maybe passes out, he regains full consciousness with a cushion under his head, and a glass of water to his side. So. That’s nice?

Klaus gets a letter a month later.

There’s a novelty in that still - he’s spent his entire adult life without a permanent address, after all - and he always feels like a proper adult, seeing his name on the envelope.

He smiles to himself a little. Then he opens the letter, and his smile dies a quick death.

“Are you serious?”

“What’s that?” questions Ben.

“The referral to a specialist,” Klaus says. “I got my appointment date.”

“And?”

“And it’s in eleven months time.”

“Oh,” says Ben. “That’s not ideal.”

There’s a beat. Then, simultaneously, they say, “Allison.”

What’s the point in having a rich, famous, mind controlling sister, if you can’t get some special treatment?

Except, as it turns out, Klaus has the misfortune of having a sister with morals.

Or, as Allison says: “I’m not sure about this. If I help you skip the queue, isn’t that just going to make other people wait longer?”

“I- well. Technically, I guess…”

She pats his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m not prepared to do that.”

“But, Allie… it’s practically a year away!”

“Yep, well,” she says. “I can donate some money, and hope that might improve things, but that’s about it.”

Klaus pouts. “I’m glad you’ve, like, gone to therapy and all that, but your moral improvement is deeply inconvenient to me right now.”

With a deep sigh, she says, “Tell me about it. Being nice is so boring sometimes.”

Brightening, he asks, “Does that mean-”

“Still a no, Klaus.”

“It’s the six month anniversary next week,” says Luther, taking a sip of coffee, holding it close to ensure that Five can’t poach it.

Diego blinks. “Since-?”

“What do you think?” Five mutters, sitting on the counter with his own, rapidly depleting coffee in hand.

“Oh, shit, since apocalypse week?” Allison blurts in realisation. “That’s gone fast.”

Klaus silently disagrees; it’s been the longest six months of his life.

“Has it?” Five deadpans. A flash of blue, and then Luther is holding an empty mug; Five takes a sip of his stolen coffee with a smug smile, and then zaps away before Luther can demand it back.

Luther sighs.

“We should celebrate, right?” suggests Allison.

“Do you think Viktor would like that? Or would it be weird?” wonders Luther, a worried pinch to his face.

Diego shrugs, cracking an egg (into the frying pan, not directly into his mouth, as he is prone to do.) “Sure. I mean, six months of not ending the world - that’s got to be worth celebrating, right?”

“Exactly,” says Allison. Then, with a sudden, slightly embarrassed enthusiasm, “Klaus! You- Obviously, we’re celebrating you, as well! Six months sober, right?”

Klaus blinks up from where he had been dozing into his bowl of Lucky Charms. “What- Oh. Yeah, I guess.”

Diego whistles. “Man, I never thought I’d see the day.”

Klaus decides not to take offence; he had also never imagined getting this far.

Tentatively, Luther says, “Maybe we could go to that fancy restaurant you told me about, Allie? The French one, with the open kitchen?”

“Oh, L’Appart? Yeah, I could probably pull some strings,” Allison says with a grin. “It’s got a fairly strict dress policy, though, and by that I mean no knife harnesses allowed.”

“Yeah, laugh it up,” grumbles Diego. “I can do fancy.”

“Does this mean new clothes?” questions Klaus, interest piqued.

Allison indulges, “Sure, I suppose we can buy something special. Assuming the others are all into the idea of going somewhere nice, obviously.”

“If it means an all expenses paid shopping trip, I can convince them,” Klaus says earnestly.

Rolling her eyes, Allison points out, “I never said I was paying. You got your inheritance, you can afford your own outfit.”

“Boo,” he says with an ineffective pout. “Fine, alright, but you still have to come with me. You know any fancy stores will kick me out, and I just don’t have the energy to pull a Pretty Woman on them.”

“Deal,” she says. “But we’re not buying you any heels. Even if we get a cab, we still have to walk through Battery Park to get to the restaurant.”

Klaus’ stomach sinks. “Walk? No one said anything about walking.”

“It’s not exactly hiking,” Allison says. “Just a little walk.”

Fidgeting with his spoon, he questions, “What are we classifying as little?”

Allison frowns. “I’m confused - don’t you want to go?”

“Yes! I just-” Klaus stops, not sure what he wants to say, how much he wants to expose.

“Oh,” Luther, of all people, suddenly blurts. “Is this because of your heart thing?”

Klaus blinks. “Um. Yeah, actually.”

“How does that stop you from walking?” Diego questions, sceptical, as he stabs one of his fried eggs with a fork and begins eating directly from the pan. Not that Klaus is one to judge.

"Well, I can't really… walk very far. Because I pass out. Or feel like I'm going to, at least." He shrugs, pushing down his frustration with a thin smile.

“Shit, is it really that bad?”

He drops his spoon back into the cereal bowl with a muted splash. “No, I mean, it’s not that bad. I’m not like, full on disabled.”

There’s a pause in conversation; they all squint at Klaus in unison. Allison is the one to break it to him. “Klaus, with love, if you can’t walk fairly short distances, that’s… that’s a disability.”

“... I understand that you are factually correct, but that doesn’t sound right.”

“Why not?”

“Just-” He stops. Shrugs again.

With his usual absence of tact, Luther queries, “So does this mean we aren’t going?”

Allison starts, “We’ll find somewhere else to-”

“No, no, that’s okay,” Klaus interrupts. “Don’t be silly. You guys go!”

“I didn’t mean we should go without you,” Luther adds awkwardly.

“I know, big guy. It’s all good.”

Diego - either in defence of Klaus, or to antagonise Luther - says, “Nah, that’s bullshit. I mean, how many fucking restaurants are there in this city? Are you telling me we can’t find a single one that we can all go to?”

Klaus considers feeling flattered, but decides against it. It probably was to irritate Luther. “No, honestly, go without me. I always feel awkward at fancy restaurants, not to mention watching everyone else drink.”

“We could have a sober dinner,” Allison offers, and Klaus finds himself swallowing thickly, suddenly overcome with the realisation that he really loves his family. He really does.

It only strengthens his resolve.

“It’s okay, really. You deserve to have some fun, let your hair down a bit. Really.” He smiles quickly, before ducking his head, poking at his now soggy cereal.

Klaus is having a better day - that is, he’s managed to walk from his bedroom to the kitchen with only one break to sit down - and is microwaving leftovers. Diego had taken Grace out for dinner, the suck up, so the remaining siblings are left to fend for themselves. For Klaus, this means eating yesterday’s shepherd's pie, which isn’t exactly his favourite even when it’s not a day old.

He’s just taking it out the microwave, burning his fingertips, when Five zaps into the room.

“Jesus!”

“Just me,” Five deadpans.

“Ha-ha. Get new material.”

Five opens a cupboard, squinting into the gloom inside. “I’m an old man, I don’t need to be down with the kids.” He pulls out, of all things, a salt shaker, and then begins to salt the shepherd’s pie. Klaus’ shepherd’s pie.

“Hey!” Klaus cries, pulling his meal away, burning his fingers all over again.”Get your own dinner!”

“I’m not stealing it, I’m just adding salt!”

“Why the fuck are you adding salt to my food?”

Five makes an irritated noise. “I’m trying to help you, you idiot. Salt raises blood pressure.”

Blankly, Klaus questions, “And?”

“And that reduces postural tachycardia symptoms.” He rolls his eyes. “Y’know, lack of blood flow to the brain does explain a few things.”

“You can’t say that! That’s, like, a hate crime. Besides, you’re not a doctor, what do you know?”

“I took a peek at your hospital records," he explained primly. “And then cross referenced these with Grace’s records. And then read some relevant medical journals.”

Klaus was annoyed. Or pleased? Hard to say. “I know you’re still catching up on people skills, but some might call that an invasion of privacy.”

“Some people are idiots. You, for example.” With that, he zaps away, leaving Klaus with a slightly over-salted dinner.

It’s a quiet day. Klaus has spent the morning attempting - failing - to conjure Dave. It’s a daily disappointment, but it still hurts every time. He’s started to wonder whether he needs to be closer, somehow, either to the place Dave died, or the place he was buried. Still, he has no idea where his body ended up, and even if he did he has no idea how he would manage travelling whilst his own body continues to fail him.

The house is mostly empty. Allison, Viktor, and Luther are out shopping. Viktor wanted a new suit for their fancy anniversary dinner, and Luther didn’t own anything at all formal that still fits. Five probably needs new clothes, too, but had refused to tag along, and delegated the task to Allison in his absence.

Klaus isn’t jealous. He’s not. It wouldn’t be practical to bring him along, really, and he would probably end up passed out between the shelves.

He’s sat with a book that he isn’t reading, whilst flipping pages for the book Ben is actually reading. It’s boring, but he’s got headphones playing T. Rex, and the late September afternoon is a pleasant one, sun shining in through the academy windows.

Relaxed as he is, he still startles when someone taps his shoulder, an aborted yelp in his throat. Turning, he finds it’s just Mom, smiling apologetically as Klaus tears his headphones off. “Sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“That’s okay, I’m just easily scared,” Klaus says, waving her concern off and ignoring Ben’s distracted snort. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to- Well, apologise, really,” she says, her usually melodic tone somewhat diffident.

Klaus frowns, shifting uncertainly in his seat. He’s not sure he’s ever heard her apologise before. It would require her to recognise that her actions, and by extension, Reginald’s actions, were far from the perfection she has always been convinced of. Klaus hadn’t realised she was capable of thinking of wrongdoing, like Reginald might have eliminated any such thoughtcrimes in her coding, leaving only steadfast faith.

The Grace looking at him now seems a very different one from his childhood, the one that had smiled absently whilst his father had dragged him to special training. Looking at her now, there’s something small but burning in her eyes, a new awareness, a spark of life. Klaus wonders whether he can find the same ember in his own gaze, or if he’s as lifeless as the Grace of his childhood. He wonders, sometimes.

Clearing his throat, Klaus questions, “For what?”

She hesitates, and then carefully takes a seat by his side. Ben, unseen, huffs irritably, but moves over so that she has space to sit, abandoning his book in the process.

“Five came to me a few days ago,” she begins, “with some questions about your health. He seemed to have obtained some hospital records somehow” - a quirk of a knowing smile - “and had some questions about dysautonomia and your medical history.”

“Oh, I don’t mind that you told him about that,” Klaus assures her, “don’t worry.”

Her head tilts, brow furrowed. “Oh, should I- Should I not have told him? I didn’t realise-”

Flushing, he says, “Oh! No, sorry, I- what were you apologising for?”

After a beat, Grace continues, “Well, my knowledge set on the subject was quite outdated. I haven’t kept up to date on medical science, particularly nothing as niche as Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, and didn’t recognise the signs when you came to me with them-”

“Well, you couldn’t have known,” Klaus interrupts, “and really I should have gone to a doctor about it straight away, I just-” She gives him a quietly amused look, and he stops. “Sorry. Go on.”

“With the benefit of hindsight, I realised that I missed something, and in doing so likely caused you pain. Do you remember when you were young, and struggled to keep up with your siblings during training, and your father had me conduct a full medical?” After a cautious nod, she explains, “At the time, I came to the conclusion that you were healthy, other than some minor problems.”

“I remember,” he responds slowly. Reginald had been fuming when he was told there was nothing wrong; had accused Klaus of faking to get out of training. Ben shoots him a curious look.

Grace folds her hands together neatly. “Now, with the awareness that you have PoTS, it suddenly seems obvious that those minor concerns were part of a larger problem. You see, a large portion of people with PoTS also have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.”

“Ehlers… what?”

“It’s a connective tissue disorder,” she recites. “It is characterised by generalised hypermobility, joint subluxations and dislocations, stretchy skin, poor wound healing and abnormal scarring.”

In a small voice, Klaus says, “Oh.”

“The good news is, it’s not usually dangerous,” Grace informs him. “The bad news is, it causes chronic pain and injury - something you’ve probably been dealing with for a long time, without knowing why. That’s what I’m apologising for. I should have seen it.”

“Oh,” he says again, swallowing thickly. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels like crying.

Ben shuffles forward, catching Klaus’ eye. “Ask her whether it can be treated.”

Woodenly, Klaus repeats the question. She responds, “It can be managed somewhat with physiotherapy, bracing, supportive therapies. It can’t be cured, I’m afraid. It’s a genetic disorder.”

“So my…”

“It seems likely that you may have inherited it from your mother.”

The person who gave birth to him. The person who’s been a mystery to him his whole life. The person who sold him to Reginald.

Before now, she’s always been a murky shadow in the back of his mind, occupying that same vague space as concerns about tooth decay and the inevitability of death. Now, she is suddenly brought to the forefront. Now, she is a sharp certainty, something physical, something real. The person who gave birth to him is a real person. Someone with problems, with hopes, with fears. Someone with a disability, maybe. Someone who couldn’t care for a baby, someone who wasn’t equipped for it. Maybe.

Or maybe none of those things - maybe she really had callously thrown him into the arms of Reginald. He doesn’t know. He probably won’t ever know.

What he does know is this: “I might have got it from the person who gave birth to me, but they aren’t my mother. You are.”

Grace lets out a long breath that she doesn’t need, a smile growing on her face, and it is nothing like the smiles of his childhood. This is honest, organic. Real.

It’s the first of October. Six months exactly since the not-apocalypse. Six months sober - well, six months and a couple days. Six months of failing to conjure Dave. Six months, and what does he have to show for it? A body that doesn’t work, and a family that is going on without him.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but it’s what he feels. He had told Ben - told himself - that he didn’t care, that he wanted his family to go out and celebrate, the he didn’t even want to go, but-

Well, who doesn’t want to feel wanted?

Ben had offered to stay with him. He had declined. The only thing worse than being alone is being pitied, and he thinks he would rather pity himself in peace. He’ll have a half hearted wank, take a bubble bath, and be in bed by nine.

Jesus Christ, he really needs to get out more. He used to be cool.

He adamantly doesn’t think about how easy it would be to relapse, with his siblings all gone for the evening. It’s just a bad day, and the anniversary bring up bad memories, and he knows where Mom keeps the good drugs, and he bets his siblings would feel guilty for leaving-

No, that’s dumb. He’s not doing that.

He’s not.

(God, he hopes he doesn’t.)

They’re probably going soon, he thinks. Ben is still here, but he’s starting to look a bit uncomfortable, like he’s psyching himself up to saying goodbye.

No, that’s probably Klaus projecting. There’s no reason for Ben to feel bad about having fun without him, or as much fun as an invisible ghost can have, especially when Klaus was the one who insisted he go.

He drums his fingers over his knee. Maybe he should go make a cup of tea. Maybe that’ll make him feel better.

He’s gotten no further than standing when Ben demands, “Where are you going?”

Klaus shrugs. “Gonna go make tea.”

Wide eyed, Ben looks towards the doorway and back. “Um. Can you wait?”

“For what?” asks Klaus, scrunching his nose.

“Just. Uh.”

“...Ben.”

“Klaus.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing!”

Klaus squints at him.

“It’s- It’s- The others are… doing something… that you aren’t meant to know about,” Ben says, wincing.

He drops back onto his bed. Right. That… that sounds bad. An intervention? Do they think he’s relapsed? Or something worse? Maybe… maybe they want him to move out. He does mope around without helping out. Even if he wanted to, most chores are beyond him right now. He’s basically been leaching off the rest of them, eating their food and leaving dirty dishes in the sink.

“Wait,” Ben says, “whatever you’re thinking, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” challenges Klaus, prickling with anxiety.

Shaking his head, Ben insists, “I can’t tell you.”

“But it’s not… bad?”

He hesitates. “Well…”

“Oh, Christ.”

“No, I mean, it’s not bad bad, just… I don’t know. It’s, um. Questionable, maybe? I can’t decide if it’s going to upset you or not.”

Klaus runs his hands through his hair, attempting to slow down his breathing. This sounds bad. It’s probably bad.

He stands.

“Klaus-”

“I can’t just sit here wondering what they’re saying,” Klaus decides. “I’m going down there.”

“Klaus.”

Slipping down the hall, Klaus retorts, “Really, this is on you. Did you really think there was any chance that I wasn’t going to eavesdrop?”

“Sorry for having faith in you,” Ben says, exasperated, as he follows Klaus’ careful advance down the stairs.

At the bottom, he has to sit and breathe for a moment, until his heart stops trying to beat its way out of his chest, but then he’s up again, slinking towards his sibling’s voices.

He leans himself against the wall, careful not to poke out into the doorway. He can’t see much from here, just a sliver of the bar, but he can hear plenty.

“...feels like a bad idea.”

“It was your idea,” Diego snaps.

Viktor says, “I mean, yeah, I mentioned it, but it wasn’t my idea to keep it a secret. If we just asked Klaus-”

“It’s more fun this way,” Allison interjects.

“And he doesn’t get a chance to be difficult and say no,” Luther says.

“Exactly!” Viktor says. “Don’t you think this is something he should decide about in his own time?”

“Knowing Klaus, he’d rather avoid it forever,” says Five, snide.

Viktor insists, “But that would be his choice!”

A beat, and the vague sound of something moving through the air. Then, Diego, saying, “Maybe he’s right. What if this just freaks him out? Maybe we should-”

“BLAH-BLAH-BLAH YOU SHOULDN’T BE LISTENING GO AWAY BLAH-BLAH-”

Klaus turns and shoots Ben a deadly look. Unfortunately, Ben is immune to Klaus ire, and seems set on ruining Klaus’ eavesdropping fun. Or anxiety driven spying. Whatever.

He tries to focus, to listen past Ben’s shouting, but he can only catch the odd phrase: are we doing… seems a bit late to… we already have the… return it?... maybe we should vote…

With increasing desperation, he tries to wave Ben away - tries poking his hands through Ben, which makes him shiver with discomfort, but does not reduce his volume. He tries to gather his power, and he manages to make him tangible, long enough to physically shove Ben away-

Without considering how Ben would suddenly be audible to everyone else.

Oops.

Ben cuts off. He doesn’t even look smug, just kind of awkward. Silence reigns, both in the room and outside of it. Then, the sound of footsteps, and the rest of his siblings all filter out into the hallway.

“Um,” Klaus says smoothly. “Hi.”

“Hi!” Luther says, equally smoothly - that is to say, not at all. “Um. What are you… doing down here?”

The siblings look at Klaus. He looks down at his bare feet.

Five is the one to state the obvious; “You were spying on us, weren’t you?”

Klaus waits for a clever excuse to come into his head, or a fairly okay excuse, or even a bad excuse - he’s feeling fairly desperate, at this point - but he draws a blank. “Well. Yeah. Ben told me not to come down here, so…”

“How much did you hear?” asks Allison.

“Nothing really-”

“Klaus.”

“Okay! I mean, I heard some stuff. Something about a secret, and, uh, me. But then Ben decided to drown you guys out with his yelling, so…”

They all - minus Five - look collectively relieved. Five just looks like he’s bored. Who knows with that one.

The silence stretches, until Klaus claps his hands and says, “Good talk everyone! So, I’m gonna go-”

“Wait!” Viktor blurts. “We… Oh, fuck it. We have a surprise for you.”

“A… surprise,” Klaus says, sounding it out, like it's something he’s never heard before. And to be fair, Klaus isn’t sure he’s ever had a nice surprise, and strongly suspects that they don’t exist at all.

“Two, actually,” says Allison. “Uh, you stay here, let me just grab-” she darts back into the room, only to bring out a fancy looking box. It looked like it might be the right size and shape for clothing, although that might be wishful thinking. She hands it to him. “Open it.”

Klaus doesn’t waste any time, flipping open the lid and shoving aside the delicate tissue paper.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “Oh wow. This is- This is for me?” He gently brushed his fingers over the fabric - a rich velvet, in a dark emerald shade, and the lapels, black silk with a delicate gold embroidery. There’s something feminine in the cut of the waist. It looks exactly his size.

“I know a designer who owed me a favour,” Allison says flippantly, but when he looks up, she’s watching him with an earnest excitement. “So you like it?”

“Like it? It’s beautiful! It’s-” The floor tilts underneath Klaus; he’s been standing for too long. He half sits, half falls, clumsy, but laughing.

Diego, who had jumped forward too slow to catch him, asks, “You okay?”

“Dandy,” says Klaus. “Just a little dizzy. But look at this! Ally, it’s incredible!”

Grinning widely, she responds, “I’m glad you like it. Predicting your taste isn’t easy.”

“It’s perfect,” he assures her. “I mean, I don’t have anywhere to wear it, but that won’t stop me.”

Five says, “Well, that brings us to your second gift.”

“I’ll get it,” says Luther, disappearing back into the front room.

“Before you see it,” Ben says, “just know that their intentions were good, even if-”

Luther steps back out, this time with-

“What,” says Klaus. It’s not exactly a question, more an expression of shock. Because. What.

“We can return it,” says Diego, “if you don’t like it, or d-don’t want it, or whatever.”

Klaus…

Klaus doesn’t know what to say.

“You’re upset, aren’t you?” asks Victor, biting his lip in a nervous gesture that Klaus hasn’t seen in a while. “I told them we should have asked first.”

“No, I… This is…”

“Did we break Klaus?” wonders Five.

“This is…”

It’s a wheelchair.

“You said you couldn’t come out to celebrate because of your mobility,” Allison explains, “but this way you don’t have to walk anywhere.”

“Right. I did. Say that.” He swallows thickly. His eyes are burning, and he blinks rapidly, but a few tears still manage to escape.

“Oh, God, we made him cry,” Luther says with genuine panic.

Ben says, “Dude, it’s okay. You can just tell them you don’t want it.”

Finally, Klaus manages to blurt, “I do want it.”

“You do?”

Roughly wiping away his tears, Klaus says, “I mean, I’m a little freaked out, but, like, this might be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” He sniffles. “Can I try it out?”

His siblings scramble to help him, sliding the footrests out of the way and pulling the chair closer, and then he’s seated, hands hovering over the wheels. “So I guess I just…” He tentatively grips the rims, and pushes himself forward. “Oh.”

Viktor checks, “So you like it?”

“I love it,” he says earnestly. He had been afraid that he would feel silly, like an imposter - after all, he can walk, even if it’s not far - but he doesn’t. He feels… hopeful. Happy.

“So, are you coming to dinner with us, or what?” questions Five.

“Yeah,” Klaus says, a grin working its way onto his face. “Yeah, I think I will.”

He pushes again, rolling forward easily along the hardwood floor, testing.

It feels good.

It feels like freedom.