The Ties that Bind Us - Things (Fall) Apart

I comb my fingers through some of the worst of the tangles in my hair before starting to work my hairbrush through the length of it. Slow, even strokes, just the way Mom used to do it when I was a little girl determined to have hair down to my ankles. That was during my fairytale princess phase. Sometimes, I think I've never really outgrown that phase, that a part of me is still holding out hope of my very own happy ever after.

And then I wake up.

The hair thing lasted until the Great Chewing Gum Disaster. I think I cried for a full day after the emergency trip to the hairdresser. At least until Bonnie and Caroline chased Matt down and stuck his head in a mudhole. We never did find out whether or not it actually *was* his gum that was responsible. He's certainly always claimed innocence.

Sometimes I miss those days. Back then, it seemed like there was nothing I couldn't do. Nothing any of us couldn't do. The world was a wonderful, magical place, and the only monsters were in story books.

Now I am one of the monsters.

No, that's not true. I may be a vampire, but I'm still *me*.

What was it Caroline told me to say whenever I start thinking Negative Thoughts? Oh, yes.

I pause in my brushing, leaning forward and looking deep into my own eyes within the mirror.

"I, Elena Gilbert, am a Good Person," I say softly, smiling to myself as I realise I'm unconsciously mimicking Caroline's voice. "I'm not a monster, I just have a condition. Being a vampire does not make me any less fabulous."

I start laughing. I can't help it! I don't think I've made it all the way through the litany once without cracking up. Maybe that's kind of the point, though. I guess it's hard to be emo when you're talking to your reflection about how fabulous you are.

Shaking my head, I bring the brush up again and notice with an odd lack of surprise that my reflection in the mirror is now twinned.

(A riddle: four girls watch each other, but how many of them are reflections and how many are actually real? It's a trick question, of course, and the answer isn't always the same. Maybe it's not even the right question. But I don't know a better one.)

My hand just keeps moving without even the slightest hitch or pause. I suppose on some level I *should* be surprised; startled even. Maybe I should jump, just a little. But all I do is I do is nod slightly, meeting my - her - eyes in the glass.

"Hello, Katherine."

Besides, it's not like I haven't had ample experience with vampires just showing up in my house whenever they please. At least she's just in my room, rather than my bed. This time.

"Elena."

She smiles and holds out a hand. She doesn't say what she wants, but then she doesn t really need to. I silently hand over the brush and she takes over from where I left off, tutting disapprovingly as the bristles find another knot. Carefully, she uses deft fingers to untangle the offending snarl, then gathers up my wayward tresses and arranges them so they hang neatly down behind me. She presses her hand firmly against my back, just below my shoulder blades, marking how far it comes down.

"Almost time for another haircut," she notes, and I nod in agreement. I've been meaning to go for a few weeks now, but for some reason it hasn't exactly been high on my list of priorities. I remember wondering, stupidly, pettily, back when I was... back when I became a vampire, whether my hair would just stop growing. Katherine laughed at me when I asked her. "Fortunately not," she drawled, amused. "It would make keeping up with the changing fashions rather more of a chore. And I've never particularly cared for wigs."

Sliding her hand across my back, she gathers up the leftmost strands of hair and lifts them to check the ends. I watch her as she works, noting the tiny frown of concentration on her face, the way it almost seems like she's studying each individual strand. Maybe she is. When she sets her mind to a task, no one could ever accuse Katherine of not applying herself. Smoothing that first hank back into place, she picks up the next one and repeats the process.

Distantly, a part of me notes that I'd probably be feeling impatient by now if this was anyone else. Even if it was Caroline, I'd probably be rolling my eyes and wondering loudly if she was going to bring out a magnifying glass, or microscope. But Katherine... I just wait patiently for her to finish.

It's... oddly relaxing.

Releasing the final strands, she purses her lips and hmmms not-quite-disapprovingly. So: passable (for the moment), but in need of attention. I make a mental note to add in a conditioning treatment when I (finally) make an appointment at the salon.

I expect her to start brushing now, but instead she reaches out and lightly touches my cheek with her fingers, trailing them along the side of my neck as she slides her hand down to rest on my shoulder. My skin prickles at her touch, like it's come over goosebumps all of a sudden, the unexpectedness of it making me shiver. There's a knowing glint in her eyes as she leans into me a little, her chest lightly pressing against my back.

"So..." she murmurs, her breath tickling my ear.

I raise my eyebrows. "So?"

She grins, wry and amused, and my breath catches at the utter familiarity of the expression. I almost start to say something - I don't know exactly what - but then she starts carding her fingers through my hair and, torn between conflicting sensations, I stay silent.

My mind keeps working, though, even as her fingers move slowly down from root to tip, again and again and again. (Although perhaps my thoughts become a little fuzzier with increasing repetition.) I've seen that expression in mirrors, in photos; it's one I've worn a thousand times, but never really analysed until I gained a new reflection. Until I had to start grappling with questions of nature and nurture, wondering how much of me is, well, me and how much is the doppelganger. And it's at times like this that I can really, truly believe that I actually am someone else, reborn.

This particular grin, I've come to realise, means amusement at *someone*.

Which, in this situation, likely means she's amused at me.

No doubt she'll fill me in on the joke at some point soon, but for now she seems content just to continue running her fingers through my hair, gently and thoroughly seeking out any more tangles I might have missed.

And I'm good with that.

She's certainly much more thorough about it than I was. My eyes drift half-closed as she works, and I can't help the small, pleased noise that rumbles in my throat. The slow, rhythmic stroking, the gentle tugging on my scalp (almost as good as a massage), the feeling of all those knots unravelling under her expert touch...

(If only it was that easy with the tangle of complications that is my life.)

It feels nice.

And that isn't *despite* the fact that it's Katherine doing it. In some ways, some parts of me, I actually think that it's *because* it's her. More and more these days I seem to find her presence oddly... comforting. If anyone had told me back when she first showed up in my life that I would ever think anything of the kind, I would have told them that they were Out Of Their Mind. And yet...

And yet.

It just feels... right.

"Fabulous?" Katherine's voice filters through my happy daze, a whole world of amusement packed into that one word. I force my surprisingly heavy eyelids open.

"Yes," I say, utterly deadpan, wondering how long she was hanging around in my house before actually showing herself. "I am *magnificently* fabulous, darling."

She laughs at my (really bad) attempt at a Greta Garbo impression. (If I'm honest, it ends up sounding more like Arnold Schwarzenegger, but whatever. It has the desired effect.)

"I sense Caroline's touch," she observes.

I shrug. "She was worried about me."

Katherine's smile twists, something stirring in the depths of her eyes. That look isn't one I've ever spotted on my own face, and I haven't yet managed to figure out precisely what it means. Caroline could probably make a good guess at it, if I ask her (and if she's willing to share her insights on our mutual 'it's complicated'), but she isn't here right now.

"Caroline worries about everyone," she says softly, letting her hand fall away from my hair. I frown at her, opening my mouth to complain. (Although I'm not sure whether I'm objecting to her words, or the fact that she's stopped what she was doing.) She smirks as if she knows exactly what's going through my mind, bringing up the brush with exaggerated slowness and starting to ply it on my hair. I find myself starting to relax again. After a few moments, a few steady strokes, she adds: "And so do you."

Her brushstrokes are smooth and even, and I start a little inside to realise that her rhythm matches mine exactly. But then, I suppose that isn't actually all that much of a surprise, not really. Part of me - a large part, if I'm honest - is tempted to relax and just enjoy the feeling of the brush whispering silkenly through my hair, but I make myself respond to Katherine's observation.

"Not everyone," I protest half-heartedly, although on whose behalf I'm not exactly sure. And then my thoughts are skipping ahead, mention of Caroline reminding me of something I've been meaning to ask for some time now. Somehow, I've never managed to find a good opportunity to do so. I don't know that this is a *good* opportunity, but it'll have to do. The question has become an itch inside my mind, nagging and insistent.

A few strokes more, and I deliberately raise my eyes to meet the reflection of Katherine's gaze. "What are you doing with Caroline?" I try to keep my words light and careless, like it's a trivial thing, inconsequential; like she manages so effortlessly. I try, but I don't quite succeed. I've always found it hard to disguise when something matters to me.

"What am I doing with you?" Katherine responds, and her tone is lighter than air compared with the weighty concern in my own words.

"That's not the same!" The protest bursts out of me before I can stop it. As if by coincidence, the hairbrush snags in my hair, yanking sharply and painfully at my scalp as Katherine works it free with perhaps a little more force than is strictly necessary. "Ow!"

"So many tangles," she tuts, disapprovingly. No apology, of course. That would imply it was something other than deliberate. I let it go for now, though, because she's still speaking. "In any case," she observes, in exactly the same tone. "You're asking the wrong question."

I tilt my head slightly, rearranging my features into an expression of mild interest. "What's the right question?" I wonder, as if it's just a matter of idle curiosity.

She flashes a quick smile, stroking one hand over my hair and down my back in the way she knows I like. The silence stretches, but I don't press for an answer to my question. Sometimes, with Katherine, it pays to be demanding, but this doesn't feel like one of those times. Besides, if I push her now she might stop what she's doing. Her fingers linger a little on the back of my neck, kneading and massaging, the firm-yet-gentle pressure easing a tension I hadn't even realised was there. I sigh softly.

"You should be asking what Caroline is doing with me."

I blink, drawing myself back from the brink of bliss to consider the difference between two questions. "Okay," I say slowly, willing to play along for the moment. "What's Caroline doing with you?"

Mischief dances in her eyes and I know I'm not getting an answer this time even before she says: "Maybe you'd better ask her."

"Maybe I will," I say, but she already seems to have lost interest.

A few more passes with the brush, and then she steps back to consider her handiwork. "You're done," she pronounces.

"Thank you," I say, holding my hand out over my shoulder. She obligingly hands the brush over, and we change places as smoothly as if our actions have been choreographed.

Katherine's hair is up in a deceptively simple French knot. (When she's not being me, or otherwise camouflaging herself in modern fashions, I've noticed she has a distinct preference for complicated, old-fashioned hairstyles. The artifice of it suits her. Myself, I tend to prefer something a little simpler and easier to maintain.) I raise my hands towards it, a question in my eyes.

"Let me," she says, doing *something* with her fingers that simultaneously unbinds the knot and sends her hair cascading down her back in a shimmering wave. I can't help but be a little envious. She shakes it out, then turns to look over her shoulder so that our eyes meet directly, rather than through the mirror. "There you go."

"Thanks." Of course, I can't brush her hair when she's twisted all around like this. I could just ask her to turn back around, I suppose, but some imp of the perverse takes hold of me. (Perhaps it's contagious.) Instead, I put my hand on the base of her skull, applying pressure to the back of her neck until she turns back around.

"You could have asked," she notes. But the little smirk on her lips tells me she's anything but displeased.

"I thought that's what I just did," I reply, and I sound so much like *her* that I almost scare myself.

"Apparently," she sighs, stretching her neck and shoulders exaggeratedly.

I frown at her moving back. "Are you going to stand still anytime soon? I can't do this if you're wriggling around."

"Well, since you ask so nicely..." With one final stretch, she settles into a comfortable position, gesturing grandly with one hand. "You may begin."

"I'm honoured," I say dryly. She just smiles regally, so I roll my eyes and get to work.

Honestly, though, it isn't exactly a chore. There's something oddly soothing about seeking out the knots and tangles, unravelling them one strand at a time, and then steadily drawing the brush through the soft tresses. Maybe my fingers aren't as deft at this as hers, and perhaps I don't have so gentle a hand, but somehow she doesn't seem to mind.

Some time passes while I give all of my attention to the task at hand. The rhythmic, repetitive motion of my hands is almost hypnotic, soothing away any lingering tension not already banished by Katherine's ministrations. In a placid, detached way, I realise that I'm breathing in time with my movements. In on the upswing, out on the downstroke. In and out, up and down. A languid wave of amusement ripples across the surface of my thoughts. This is better than any yoga class or meditation training. Maybe stressed yuppies should try brushing each other's hair instead of hitting the gym.

"What are you smiling at?" Katherine's voice, although soft, startles me out of my reverie. I jerk my head up to see her watching me in the mirror.

"Oh, nothing really." I'm obscurely pleased by the fact that, despite being startled, I managed to maintain my steady brushing rhythm with barely a hitch.

Katherine is still watching me, a considering look in her eyes. She opens her mouth to speak again, but instead of the half-expected request for further information (which I'd probably answer, unless I was just feeling contrary), she says: "I saw Stefan today."

I blink, temporarily nonplussed. This time I do pause briefly before picking up the beat again. "Oh?" Much to my relief, my voice is steady.

"He came looking for me."

I see the glint of almost malicious amusement in her eyes. It's another game, just like all the others.

She wants me to guess what happened. She wants me to ask her. And I'm fairly certain that she even wants me to *know*. But she'll only tell me if I play along and ask the question hovering on my lips.

I briefly consider deviating from my part in her little script and just letting it go, but it's a fairly one-sided struggle. Of course it is.

She knows me far too well.

"And?"

Now her lips twist in a slow smile; pleased, but with an edge to it. "He wanted to warn me away from you."

I frown. "I thought you said you were being discreet."

"I was. I am." Her shoulders roll in a careless shrug that turns into a fluid stretch, her movements slow enough not to disturb the brush as it glides through her hair. "But the Salvatore brothers tend to... pay attention to things that involve you." A full breath's pause. "And me. It was more or less inevitable they'd find out sooner or later that we were spending time together. Although..." A trace of annoyance crosses her face. "Later would have been more convenient."

"So... What did he say?"

"First of all, he demanded to know what I was doing with you. Then he demanded to know if I was the reason you've been avoiding him. Finally, he demanded that I stay away from you and from Mystic Falls." Lowering her voice as if confiding a secret, she adds: "He was very *demanding*."

I suppose that means things went... interestingly. That their encounter was violent pretty much goes without saying, but the rest of it... I can't help feeling a stab of jealousy. Over whom, I don't exactly know. I'm not sure I really want to find out. Katherine, naturally, gives me a knowing smirk, as if she's fully aware of what's going through my mind. Was that her reason - well, one of them - for bringing this up? To make me jealous? And did she deliberately push Stefan into being 'demanding'? Neither would surprise me.

Katherine always does like to provoke those who are bound to her.

Abruptly, I can feel the weight of it all pressing down on me, suffocating me. The secrets, the lies. The not-knowing. I thought I'd - we'd - found a balance, but maybe we're just in freefall waiting for the kick.

Je ne regrette rien?

No, I am made of regrets right now. And something has to give.

"Things can't go on like this."

I only realise I've spoken the words aloud when Katherine replies.

"So change them," she says, matter-of-factly. Like it's just that easy. Like changing who I am is as straightforward, as simple, as cutting my hair. But then for her, maybe it is. They say necessity is the mother of invention; maybe determination is the mother of reinvention. And she's been running for so long...

Katherine clears her throat, interrupting my train of thought. When our eyes meet, she looks meaningfully at the brush, arrested mid-motion during my distracted musings. I take the hint and get back to work.

"Thank you," she murmurs, only a little sarcastically.

"You're welcome," I reply, in the same tone. It looks like this conversation is over, at least for now. I can't deny a part of me is almost relieved at the derailment. I focus all my attention on brushing Katherine's hair, trying to lose myself in the rhythm once more. I don't quite achieve the same state of zen as I managed earlier, but it does help, calming the turmoil in my mind to manageable levels. And, as a side-benefit of my dedicated focus, I fancy I'm doing a pretty good job of making sure that Katherine enjoys my ministrations as much as I enjoyed hers.

"Mmmm," she says, arching her back a little as if to confirm my theory. I preen a little at her response, but then she has to go and spoil it all by adding: "I see I've trained you well, young one."

Impulsively, pettily, I twist my wrist a little on the downstroke, tangling the brush so I end up pulling her hair. She leans back into me, her breath hissing sharply through her teeth, and I feel an instinctive apology bubbling up. (I was only paying her back for earlier; I didn't mean to actually hurt her.) But the apology dissolves again unspoken when I get a good look at her face.

Katherine is... Her eyes are black, practically all pupil, but they're not the sunken pits that indicate a vampire is currently in the throes of blood lust. No, this is an entirely different kind of lust.

Apparently, I don't need to apologise after all.

And it suddenly seems *really* bright in here.

Impulsively, I wrap an arm around her middle, pulling her against me so that our bodies are flush and tight. We fit together perfectly. Tilting my head forward just a little, I press my lips against the soft skin of her neck, laying a trail of kisses from just behind her ear to the junction of her neck and shoulder. From there, I work my way up again, occasionally punctuating the kisses with the light press of teeth.

Katherine makes a low rumbling noise deep in her throat, part purr and part growl. The sound of it makes me shiver inside.

"Oh yes," she murmurs, "you are definitely learning..."

I bite just a little harder.

"You," I breathe against her neck, kissing the slightly reddened area, "are incredibly patronising sometimes. Do you know that?"

Her answering laugh is perhaps a touch breathless. "Something of the sort has been said before," she agrees. "And I think perhaps you've finished brushing my hair for the time being."

I pause in what I'm doing, smiling into Katherine's neck. "Oh, I don't know," I muse, artlessly. "Isn't it supposed to be a hundred strokes before bedtime? I think I lost c-"

The word turns into a yelp as Katherine moves with blurring speed, and suddenly *she's* the one holding *me*. The room reels around us and I'm bent over backwards so far that the ends of my now-gleaming hair are brushing the ground. Katherine's arms are the only things keeping me from falling.

"Katherine!" I protest, my voice somewhat higher and squeakier than I would like.

"Elena," she purrs, looking at me in a way that makes me forget why I was even objecting in the first place. "I think it's time for bed, don't you?"

And when my answer emerges from a suddenly-tight throat, I honestly can't tell my voice apart from hers.

"Yes."