Boy With the Broken Halo

by D-chan

The Vampire Diaries (TV)

Rated T for language and some gore

Pairings: Damon/Elena and Stefan/Elena

Notes: It's been . . . oh, 3 years since I touched fanfiction? And I've been struggling with my original stuff, so I may be very, very rusty.

That said, I have been a fan of L.J. Smith for 15 years, and I love the show in its own right.

That also said, I have been writing for 12 years, so when I say, "Please feel free to critique me harshly," I mean it. I promise you won't hurt my feelings. Point out major character flaws, punctuation errors, grammatical errors, or anything that's generally wrong with the story.

Enjoy.

White fireflies swam in her vision. The howling in her ears rapidly dulled, her head light as though filled with helium. And she was weak. And she was cold.

Her thoughts didn't have much coherency—

Because what I'm about to say is probably the most selfish thing I've ever said in my entire life.

—she only knew that the people who were shouting were focusing on the wrong problem. Arms shouldn't be around her—

I just have to say it once.

—or shaking her, or lifting her, or pressing to her mouth as she gasped and choked. They should be busy getting rid of—

You just need to hear it.

—the body. The evidence.

It's because I love you I can't be selfish with you.

The warm, slick liquid pooling around her.

I don't deserve you.

The fireflies dissipated for moments at a time. She caught a glimpse of steely grey eyes—

But my brother does.

—her great grandfather's plaid jacket, her boyfriend's stitched brow, and all she tasted was the overpowering scent of pennies, all she felt felt—

I wish you didn't have to forget this.

—was the heated liquid against her icy fingers.

But you do.

And then against her frigid lips before the fireflies blinded her and she knew no more.

Elena Gilbert should have been dead.

The plan had been too hasty, entirely dependent on luck and her hands to be steady. There had been little to no doubt Elijah would call her bluff. The bastard was an Original, too old, too careful, too slick. Going up against a high schooler in a battle of wits? Of course he was confident he would win.

And of course he was confident she would be your typical high schooler; that she would never be brave enough to drive the blade deep into her stomach after allegedly drinking the blood of a vampire

Stupid Originals, cursing other vampires with death for staking them.

Stupid human Elena, for being such a stubborn martyr.

Stupid blind Stefan, for not actually giving Elena the blood in case the plan failed.

And stupid me, for giving her the knife anyway, thought Damon bitterly.

The past twelve hours had been one long blur of a nightmare. Cleaning the blood, securing Elijah's body, keeping a keen eye on Elena's prone form after forcing blood down her throat. Massaging it down, practically, as her throttling gasps for air interfered with their attempts to keep her alive. Stefan's blood—his weak blood, his nearly impotent blood—in her system, coursing through her drained veins. All Damon could think the entire time, behind his brother's pleas for Elena to drink and live, was that if his brother screwed up and killed her, he couldn't promise not to hurt him.

So far Elena hadn't drawn an ounce of breath. So far Damon was itching to shatter something; a chair, a door, Stefan's heart . . . whatever seemed most appropriate depending on the outcome.

He glared at Elena's ensconced form on the bed. Keeping her in the cabin had seemed most appropriate. Stefan tucking her into her parents' musty bed seemed a little less appropriate, though sentimental and vaguely weird. Voicing this had earned him an impatient look and a quiet demand that he be more helpful.

Well, he was helpful. He was watching the dead girl he loved struggle to process Stefan's blood after nearly bleeding out herself.

"How is she?"

Damon turned to face his brother, folding his arms over his chest. "Still dead," he said, attempting to sound flippant but coming off more irate. "Just the way she wanted."

Stefan brushed past him, seating himself gingerly beside Elena on the bed. He caressed her pallid face with his knuckles. "It can . . . take a while for the change to take place," he murmured, more for himself than Damon. "She'll wake."

"I'm sure," muttered Damon.

With a shaky intake of breath, Stefan replied, "We should probably be thinking more about what to do when she does wake up. What sort of blood she'll need. Caroline could handle animals—"

"Caroline still prefers the good, fresh stuff," Damon interjected. "As she should."

Flatly, Stefan said, "Elena's not a killer."

"Just suicidal."

In a flash Stefan was up and in Damon's face, looking more furious than his brother had ever seen him. Damon carefully kept his expression blank.

"What part of 'a human has to kill an Original' is hard to understand?" demanded Stefan. "She did what she had to do. I won't fault her for that."

With a sardonic smile, Damon said, "What part of 'Stefan screwed up twice now and forced someone to become a vampire' doesn't bother you?"

"She was going to die."

"And you still believe that your barely decent blood is going to really help her?"

Hesitating, trying to find the right words, Stefan finally said, "She'd never forgive you if you'd done it. I was trying to help both of you."

Damon rolled his eyes. "Well, thanks, little brother, but if she decides not to drink and go full vampire, she's as good as dead anyway."

Tension flowed thick between the two for the next few moments, so distinct Damon could just about smell it. It reeked of terror and heartbreak.

Finally, Stefan broke away and returned to Elena's side, stewing in silence. He sought out the girl's hand, squeezing her fingers with utmost care.

Damon took the opportunity to scrutinize her. But for the whiteness of her face, Elena could have been asleep. Her head was slightly turned on the pillow, dark hair framing her slender face. The quilts should have been rising and falling with slumbering breaths, but were morbidly still.

He hated being right. And he needed Elena to wake up.

Briskly, he said, "I'm going to keep watch on Elijah for now. Keep me posted."

Stefan didn't reply.

The lips were surprisingly warm and sweet on her forehead, making Elena's heart thump in a way she'd never felt before. Anxious and flushed, she had to close her eyes briefly. Tears were on the brink, but she forced them back. She couldn't feel this way. It was always and only Stefan.

Please, don't go there, she thought. Why did you have to go there? Haven't you been hurt enough?

And then she was arrested by his eyes, the pupils shifting and the irises going from grey to an odd muddled glacier green.

"God, I wish you didn't have to forget this," he whispered, sounding more tortured than he ever had drunk or angry. "But you do."

Wait, forget—?

Waking up came with a sudden shrill gasp and the sensation of a billion needles stabbing every square inch of her body. Just as Elena was going to scream, the agony turned off like a light switch and brilliant light and color burned her eyes.

She jerked into a sitting position, immediately finding herself in Stefan's arms. Bewildered, all she could do was cling to him and squint as she peered around.

"What happened?" she asked shakily.

"Shh," Stefan soothed, pressuring her head into resting on her shoulder. "You're safe. You're okay."

Elena closed her eyes briefly, attempting to adjust to the abnormally bright light. She basked in the scent of her boyfriend, the wonderful familiar Irish soap and a new lingering of pine needles and copper and—

And her jaw ached. A small whimper escaped her throat.

"I'm hungry, Stefan," she heard herself say distantly.

He pried her off slowly, unusual dark concern coloring his eyes. "I imagine," he said slowly. "What else do you feel?"

Elena hummed, leaning against the headboard. "Tired," she admitted. "Thirsty. Stomach hurts—" Her eyes flew open, her body going rigid. "Elijah. What happened to Elijah?"

"No, no, no, Elena," Stefan protested, grabbing her arms and forcing her to look at him. "He's dead. You did it. He's dead. We moved him; he's not going to harm you, the stake's still in him."

Adrenaline scraped her veins raw. "And I. . . ."

She hated the look he had, the one that spoke of dreadful events and concepts she was going to loathe. Elena's breathing became erratic, and she was shaking her head even before he spoke.

"We had to, Elena. You were dying."

Weakly, she said, "No. No, it was just going to hurt, you were going to heal me, not turn me."

"You were dead."

"No!" She tried to shove him away, a stinging sensation pouring unbidden from her eyes. "No, that's not part of the plan. Now everyone really is in danger, Jenna, Jeremy—"

A new voice, nearly inciting rage upon hitting her ears, came from the hallway. "I warned you, brother."

In unison, Elena and Stefan snapped, "Shut up, Damon!"

Damon stepped up to the threshold, looking so cool and collected that Elena only grew more agitated. "It is kind of your own fault, you know," he addressed her. "You were supposed to miss vital organs and, oh, by the way, splitting your stomach open tends to introduce acid to the rest of your body. Next time, maybe aim a bit lower."

The entire world seemed fuzzy and unreal. Elena shoved herself away from Stefan, attempting to wrap her mind around the fact they had changed her, forced her to become a murderous monster when her death would have been better for anyone. Not that she necessarily wanted to die, but it was better than this.

In her periphery, she noticed Stefan starting to reach for her, then deciding against it and balling his fists on the bed. "Look," he said, barely audible in her ringing ears. "We did accomplish something. Elijah's dead. We can work with this."

Her voice cracking, she said, "How? Klaus is going to be infuriated. He'll definitely murder everyone now. I can't. . . ."

"You can fight this," Stefan insisted. "I'm . . . so sorry for what I had to do, but we still have options."

"Like you not being so defenseless anymore," said Damon. Elena finally looked at him, frowning. "Like, perhaps, you being able to really fight," he continued, stepping closer. "Vampire strength is, believe it or not, absolutely more useful than human. Not to mention, you can't keep relying on kitchen knives forever."

It was too much. Elena waved her hands around her head, as though doing so would push the brothers out of the room. Claustrophobia began to settle in the pit of her stomach.

Slowly, she said, "I need a minute. Please, just leave me alone."

Damon and Stefan exchanged knowing looks.

"Sure," agreed Stefan, rising. "We'll check back on you."

Damon waited until his brother was past the threshold before he swept down on Elena, locking her in an intense gaze. "But," he said with patronizing sweetness. "Try to kill yourself, without a proper discussion with either of us, and I promise to make you turn against your will. Understood?"

Elena grimaced and mustered a glare, but silently agreed.

It wasn't easy keeping one ear on Elena upstairs and dealing with Stefan's berating with the other, but Damon tried. Simultaneously, he sought the kitchen for scotch. Little brother's whining was always easier to deal with having a warm hum of alcohol in his blood.

"And you can't just threaten her like that. You should know. She's terrified, and angry, and she has every right to be."

Exasperated, Damon snatched an unopened bottle of Syrah and began looking for a cork screw. "She's also desperate and more afraid for everyone else than for herself. In her mind, if she's dead, everyone's safe. She also happens to be wrong."

Stefan rolled his eyes heavenward, speaking through his teeth. "I'm just saying, your lack of tact isn't helpful."

The cork came free with a solid pop, and Damon busied himself seeking a Bordeaux glass. "Elena's a big girl. She can handle it."

Upstairs, there was faint rustling of sheets and quiet, muffled cries. From how it sounded, Elena hadn't even left the bed; she was content to cry her frustrations out. For now.

Stefan leaned against a counter, hands in his pocket and eyeing his brother skeptically. "Did it ever occur to you that Elena might like you more of you were less of . . . you?"

Cocking an eyebrow as he delicately poured the red liquid, Damon replied, "I suppose I could be more of the noble Stefan, but that's less fun." He shot a self-deprecating smile. "Not to mention then I could be viable competition for the lovely Elena's affections."

"Uh huh."

The cries from the bedroom had stifled. There was no sound at all; not a hint of movement. It took all Damon had to keep riveted to the kitchen.

Quiet footfalls spoke of Stefan's pacing. Damon imagined the same thoughts were going through their minds—how Elena was going to ultimately react, if she would accept the change and drink blood, if she was going to go the route of Stefan or Caroline concerning her diet as she obviously would reject Damon's. And, of course, what their new plan was to be concerning the imminent threat of Klaus.

Damon left his brother to his brooding, wandering into the living room and taking in his surroundings for the first time since coming to Elena's rescue. On the surface the house seemed to be one clever death trap, everything made out of as much sturdy wood as possible, very little metal, mortar, or brick to be found. A perfect place for someone as short-tempered and rash as Elena to splinter something and drive a stake through her heart.

Of course, before she drank blood, she could simply die of starvation. Or have her head cut off, or throw herself into a pit of fire, or shoot herself in the head.

Damon really would force her to turn if she tried committing suicide behind their backs, but he honestly hoped it wouldn't come to that. He knew all too well how it felt to turn against your will. Elena had hated him more often than not already. But if it would keep her alive. . . .

His brother's voice broke into his dark thoughts. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

As Damon turned he caught the tail end of a brief, tight hug between Stefan and Elena. "Not great," she said honestly. "But . . . not angry with you."

Relief drowned Stefan's gaze.

Elena inhaled uneasily, lowering her gaze to the floor. "I'm not sure what I want to do yet," she said. "I don't want to be a vampire. I just want the people I care about to be safe."

"We know," Stefan said gently.

Elena pulled her arm away from Stefan's waist. "And, Stefan, I need to speak to Damon alone."

Damon froze in mid-sip.

An equally unsettled air emanated from Stefan.

After a few heartbeats of pregnant stillness, Elena stated, "Please."

Stefan took a step backward, shoving his hands awkwardly into his back pockets. He looked from his girlfriend to his brother.

Shooting Damon a sharp look, he at last said, "I'll be close by." Elena nodded, but offered no more than her forehead when Stefan gave her a comforting kiss.

Slowly swirling his wine, Damon turned and sat on the back of the couch. He lifted his glass as though in a toast, doing his best to hide his anxiety. Elena never wanted to speak to him alone, which could only mean that this was something that would harm Stefan's delicate sensibilities. She had no problem manipulating him to get what she wanted, but poor Stefan had to be spared as much pain as possible.

If they didn't already have a common enemy, Damon would have no problem hating his brother all over again. The guy could be a monster and force his own flesh and blood to turn to an eternity of bloodlust and hell, but so long as he was a darling now, he got a free pass.

The pang of guilt that came with his anger was forced to the wayside.

"So," he drawled, swirling the Bordeaux glass.

Elena didn't respond. Her eyes were fixated on the glass, the barest tremor moving her lips.

With strained patience, Damon said, "It's wine." He offered it to her. "Go on. Smell."

She moved closer, taking a brief whiff before rocking back on her heels. Her cheeks paled, a grimace of nausea pulling her mouth.

"Great," she mumbled.

Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, Damon replied, "Everything but blood will make you nauseas until you turn. Or die."

Elena compressed her lips, her normally soft brown eyes glimmering with the iron-clad resolve she saved for when she was truly furious.

Taking a defiant sip, Damon returned the look with chilling calm that cloaked his rapidly beating heart. She had no reason to be angry at him for her current condition, and she just wasn't petty enough to hate him for giving her the knife.

In a low, trembling voice, Elena growled, "You had no right."

"Okay," he said slowly.

"You had no right to compel me, Damon!"

Her face was lined with exhaustion, her walls were already up. But his resolve was firmer than hers, and he'd had time to consider his actions. She was going to listen, cute pajamas or not, to what he had to say. And then she was going to forget, because Damon had long since learned that bearing his soul only opened him to rejection, ridicule, and manipulation.

"I love you, Elena."

"Whoa. Hey, okay," he said, setting down the wine. Everything went cold, and all he could think was, Damage control. He raised a finger. "First off, you didn't want to hear it."

"I—"

"Second," he interrupted, each word carrying more delicate emphasis. "That wasn't about you."

Her jaw dropped. If she'd had much blood in her system, Damon imagined she would have been red with anger. "How is that not about me?" she demanded.

Sneering, he said, "Maybe you haven't noticed, but the world doesn't exactly revolve around you. Maybe, maybe, big bad Damon just needed to get something off his chest, and finally found a way to do it without you pissing me off."

She threw her arms open, her voice rising. "You can't just . . . waltz into my bedroom, confess, compel me, and expect everything to be okay!"

His teeth clenched, Damon tried to get a word in edgewise, but she just continued ranting, her eyes wet and her face flushed with what little color she could muster.

"Just because I'm human doesn't mean you can use me like that! I'm not your . . . your soundboard for your guilty conscience! I'm not your replacement for Katherine, and I can't be with you! It's—"

She broke off with a gasp as glass shattered. Damon stood rigid amongst what was formerly a Bordeaux half-full of a decent wine, his chest heaving. The cold logic was giving way to a familiar blaze of fury, and it took all he had to remain in place instead of throwing her out of anger. Plus his shoes were going to stain.

"This," he said, baring his teeth. "Was Italian leather."

Elena stood her ground, but her eyes wavered.

"And that," he continued, taking a step forward. "Was not for you. I told you. I was being selfish."

Shaking her head, Elena said, "You can't fix everything with mind erasing."

"I know that!" Damon gestured harshly, jabbing himself in the process. "But I can't tell you how I feel without you telling me no and then still claiming you care about me. Do you have any. Idea. How ridiculous that sounds?"

"Damon—"

"It's all about Stefan," he spat. "It's always about poor, broken, reformed Stefan. No matter how much of a bastard he can be, no matter that he's murdered more people in the year he first turned than I have since, he gets a free pass because I'm the bastard now. It's okay to heap the pain on Damon. Who cares? He's only experienced it from day one. Because Katherine only loved Stefan. Because you only have the capacity to care about Stefan."

Elena appeared unsteady. "Damon, I—"

"Stefan can force this wretched existence on me, but he gets a free pass for being the nice guy now," he continued, spreading his hands. "What do you want from me, Elena? To keep it all bottled up? To be the good man? To be Stefan? You won't get that. I'm an asshole. I will continue to be an asshole. And if I could do it all over again, I'd do the exact—"

"Damon!" Stricken and nearly hysterical, Elena gasped, "It's not. . . ." Her eyes darted about nervously, and Damon took her momentary fear to calm himself. The fire was still there, cooling to smoldering coals in the depth of his chest.

He almost wanted to laugh to her face. Here he was, a man who had only done what he could in a failing attempt to preserve his wavering sanity by confessing to a woman he knew he could never have, and here that woman was, infuriated that he'd forced her to forget something she'd never wanted to hear in the first place.

It wasn't the first time he would have given anything to be an Original, to have that power of compulsion over another vampire or vampire-to-be, but he'd never wanted it so desperately that he'd be willing to spill his blood over his own grave in order to have it.

Elena rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. She pressed them hard into her face, her voice tight when she spoke. "It's not that I don't . . . love you," she finished in a whisper.

Damon blinked.

Her hands fell to her sides, the tears she had tried to hide slowly creeping down her ghostly face. "I just can't be with you," she said in a defeated voice. "Or . . . encourage your love."

A lump began to constrict his throat, as though he'd swallowed an aspirin without the assistance of water.

"The things you've done," she began, and then stopped. "What you did to Jeremy." She was stammering, unsure of herself, and Damon found himself gripping the back of the couch just to stay on his feet.

Damn her and her power over him. Her fragile, overwhelming power.

He fixed his eyes to her bare feet, taking deeper and deeper breaths. From the way her body was shaking, she was going to collapse from sheer need of sustenance, and getting riled up was sapping her energy faster than just about anything else could.

And now they were both at a loss for words.

Seconds stretched into minutes. Damon was the first to move, raising his head and peering at her skeptically from beneath his dark hair. "So. What are you going to do?"

She didn't need to ask what he meant by that. Her arms flopping to her sides, Elena admitted, "I don't know. Still. If I'm dead—"

"Klaus could still kill your family anyway," Damon said flatly. "Just to make a point to anyone else who tries to cross him. Vampires love gossip, too. Word will get around."

"I was afraid of that," she mumbled.

Damon gradually released the couch, hearing the frame beneath creak in protest after his near-shattering grip. He swept past Elena and to the kitchen, snatching a towel from the countertop.

"Um, what are you doing?"

"Cleaning," he returned shortly, refusing to look at her. He crouched beside the couch, pressing the towel to the already stained carpet. "And you should get back to bed. I'll send Stefan up when he comes back."

Her voice was miserable. "I'm really sor—"

"Oh yeah," he cut in, flashing her a cold smile. "This doesn't change anything."

He was pretty sure she didn't mean to gawk, but she did.

Waggling his fingers over his shoulder, he said pointedly, "Good night, Elena. Sweet dreams."

She remained quietly behind him while he continued to pointedly dab the carpet. Damon kept his work deliberately slow, until she turned on her heel and began to hobble weakly back to her parents' room.

A headache began forming behind Damon's eyes in the renewed quiet. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Elena knew now. Well, so what? He'd tried to do the right thing by making her forget. It wasn't his fault she had poor stabbing-herself-with-relatively-little-harm skills or that she had bled out and her innards had begun to burn so rapidly that she died in the midst of drinking Stefan's blood.

Not to mention, he'd been honest then and he was now. He hadn't done it for her. He hadn't done it so she'd feel sorry for him. Had Elena remained human and her memories buried, he would have been equally happy. He'd confessed for himself, to lift that crushing weight of unrequited, pointless love.

Only . . . it wasn't entirely unrequited. She just couldn't reconcile his actions with loving him.

Yet.

Damon had just poured himself a fresh glass when Stefan returned nearly an hour later.

Trying to appear irreverent, Stefan said, "So, how'd it go?"

"Oh, swell," said Damon casually. He knocked the wine back in three gulps, reaching to pour another. "Just swell."

Stefan took a step forward, trying to look into his brother's eyes. "And . . . you're okay, right?"

With a capricious smile, Damon replied, "Never better, little brother." He nodded down the hall. "Told her you'd go to her as soon as you were home, so. Go on." He waved his free hand impatiently. "Shoo."

Stefan raised his hands on mock surrender, backing off and leaving Damon to his thoughts.

The elder brother took his time with this glass, sipping and actually tasting the wine this time. He tapped the rim to a beat in his head, a slow smirk touching his lips.

Maybe Elena was less like Katherine than he had accused her of. Maybe, for once, the boy with the broken halo actually had a shot.