I do not own Vampire Diaries. I do own this story, though.
Stefan sat by her bedside and watched her sleep.
He had been doing this for a long time now, but recently he'd been doing it more and more. The rest of the household was asleep, breathing steady and deep, absorbing the few precious hours of blackness.
He watched her chest rise and fall, but her breaths were shallow. Her sleep was disturbed. She moaned, and he snapped to attention, already calculating the last time she received her pain medication. He was down the hall within a nanosecond, shaking awake the nurse in the den. She awoke with a start but quickly rebounded, jumping up and rushing to his bedroom where she assessed Elena, picked up a syringe and vial of Demerol, and injected the medication into Elena's chest port. Immediately, the moaning stopped as the pain subsided.
Both he and the nurse watched Elena for a moment before the nurse offered to stay while he slept. He politely declined her offer, preferring to stay with Elena. These were the only hours he had her all to himself. During the day, her family and friends were present, clamoring to spend as much time with her as possible.
There was so little time left.
He sat back down, grabbed a hold of her hand and whispered his presence to her. His eyes scanned her body, noticing how gaunt she was. Her flesh stuck to her bones, accenting them. Her eyes were deeply set into her face, and dark purple bruises spotted her arms and chest. It was as if she was slowly disintegrating.
He rubbed circles on her hand with his thumb, caressing the paper thin skin. He wanted to hold onto her as long as he possibly could. He knew it wouldn't be long now.
Elena was seventy-five years old.
And she was dying.