Bring Me To Life | The Originals (1)

Moon Over Bourbon Street

There were generally two types of people in the world; those who could be categorized as a 'morning person' and those who were decidedly...not. Imogen Claire just so happened to be one of the rare people who could be classed as both the former and the latter. Early mornings waking up at 7.00am so that she could ensure that she had enough time to wake up Davina, make breakfast for them both and get them to school before the first bell rang, had programed her internal clock to rise at a certain time. During the witch's sabbatical in South America she had gotten into the routine of sleeping until late morning, often nursing a nasty hangover and strange circumstances, and it was a habit that she hadn't broken since her return to the city.

A distant knocking caused Imogen to groan sleepily as she rolled further onto her stomach, trying feebly to block out the sound that had woken her from the almost comatose sleep. Some part of her knew that it was a lost cause when the knocking persisted after a minute of her ignoring the sound and she sighed heavily in defeat as she slowly blinked open her eyes.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." she muttered under her breath as she forced herself to climb out of the warm cocoon of blankets and she blindly reached for the silk robe handing on her closet doorknob as she started to make her way out of the bedroom. She slipped her arms through the sleeves as she wandered through the empty apartment and she mentally cursed whoever was disturbing her sleep as she approached the front door.

The annoyed frown on Imogen's lips transformed into a bright grin when she saw the impeccably dressed man standing on the other side of the door; her blue eyes lit up in delight and a swarm of butterflies were released in her stomach. It didn't help matters that his own oak brown eyes seemed to illuminate at the sight of her in front of him and she blushed profusely at the unadulterated lust in his gaze when he caught a glimpse of her bare legs as her robe parted slightly with her movement.

"Elijah! Hi." she greeted him warmly in a voice rough from sleep as she moved out of doorway and he took that as an invitation to enter the dwelling, pausing briefly to press a lingering kiss on her cheek before continuing inside.

"Good morning, darling." Elijah returned the greeting with a serene smile on his lips as he strolled towards the kitchen, moving around the apartment with expert ease since he had mapped the layout over numerous visits. The first he had been invited inside he had noticed the distinct lack of personal items decorating the living room and when he had questioned Imogen about it she simply shrugged her shoulders indifferently as she told him, 'These place isn't home. Not yet.' The only personal touch in the apartment was the handcrafted collage that was hanging on the living room wall; an artwork that had been a gift from Davina for her sister's nineteenth birthday.

With every passing visit he noticed that she added little touches to individualize the residence, like the orchid on the bookcase, or the multicolored crocheted blanket on the couch. There were even a series of photographs lining the hallway wall leaning towards the bedroom in the back of the apartment; a four year old Davina and a ten year old Imogen having a picnic outside, Imogen and Sophie with their arms around each other in bikinis at the beach, a teenage Davina, Marcel and Imogen all grinning happily in a self-taken photograph, and his favorite of the sequence was a candid photograph of himself and Imogen, neither of them looking towards the camera but instead they were gazing at each other with undeniable warmth in their eyes.

Imogen trailed after the Original at a subdued pace as he lead the way towards the kitchen and she marveled at the way his shoulder muscles moved under his dress shirt when he removed his suit jacket. She bit the inside of her cheek as her eyes travelled down the length of his back appreciatively and she knew that her heartrate had accelerated uncontrollably so she shook her head to stop her current line of thought. The witch didn't want him arrogantly assuming that her traitorous brain had conjured the image of stripping that shirt off his body to reveal the delicious muscles she was aware laid beneath, even if it was an accurate assumption.