The sun hasn't even begun to crest the horizon when she picks up the phone. Days have passed since Elena last sat on the roof of the Salvatore Boarding House, and still her daylight ring sits heavy on her finger, as present a reminder of her death as her keen hearing that detects every sleeping breath of Jeremy's on the floor above her. Her own breath is shaky, even as she scrolls for the most familiar number in her phone.
The ringing is unnaturally loud in her ears; she flinches from it without thought. It isn't until the voice she longs to hear most graces the other side that she presses her ear firmly to the speaker.
"Elena? It's the middle of the night. You okay?"
Is it because of her heightened emotions that she has to swallow a shout of relief, and whittle it down to a sigh of relief? Or is it simply him, the boy she trusts with the rawest parts of her, that which she can't bring herself to trust to her friends in Mystic Falls?
"Stiles." His whispered name sends a shudder of happiness through her, as potent as if she were seeing him in person for the first time in too long.
"Elena, I know you're terrible at remembering the time difference, but it's three in the morning here." Bedsprings squeal on his end, and he grunts, presumably standing. "What's up?"
"Nothing." The word is so quick, so automatic, Elena's sure that they both know it's a lie. She bites her lip. A creak filters through the phone, recognizable, despite the distance between them, as the sound of his bedroom window opening. A sudden vision fills her, and she's a child again, using Stiles' shoulder for balance as brown irises surveyed the world outside his window. He commented it wasn't a bad view, and she held his hand, begging him to move back to Mystic Falls. Californian air ruffled their hair as they watched each other, knowing the distance that was about to be put between them.
"Hey, Elena, talk to me." His concern is obvious, and she blows a strand of hair away from her face. "What's wrong?" A familiar, wistful fantasy twists the memory, until they're as they are now, nearly full grown, but looking out that same window. A clear night is above their heads, and he winds his fingers around hers. She isn't a monster; she's just Elena Gilbert, childhood companion turned long distance pen pal, and he's just Stiles Stilinski, long lost best friend back with her again.
"I just wanted to hear your voice." Her voice cracks as she tries to hold back the tears pricking the backs of her eyes. It's partially true, she did want to hear his voice, but she also aches with all her being to be beside him, to wrap her arms around his familiar frame, and feel the steadying weight of his hands on her back. "I've had a bit of a rough week."
She supposes one could call it that. Drowning had been traumatic enough, but the gnawing hunger in the pit of her belly, unable to be sated by blood bags or animal blood is nearly unbearable. She's even terrified to be near Jeremy when all she can think about is the thrum of blood in his neck, audible from over a block away.
"You wanna talk about it?" She almost laughs at his request, the absurdity of it impossible for him to know. Despite the fact that she pours out her soul to him time and time again, she hasn't been able to confide in him the existence of the supernatural. Its existence only emphasizes to her how beautifully human he remains, how kind, how compassionate, and how loving he will always be.
"Not really." Momentary silence envelops them, and she can just picture him rubbing sleepy eyes, trying to decide whether or not to press the issue while he's still half asleep. She decides to distract him instead. "How's Lydia?"
"Ah, you know. She still doesn't know I exist." He pauses to stifle a yawn. "I tried talking to her again yesterday."
"What happened?"
"She and her stupid boyfriend didn't even see me."
The concern over something so trivial as crushes makes her smile. She misses this, the simplicity of it all, the wondering of "does he like me back" being enough for hours of discussion with Caroline and Bonnie. She still remembers the first time she ever saw Lydia Martin, on her second visit to Beacon Hills in fourth grade. Stiles had pointed her our across the street, and she remembers feeling a glimmer of envy for the beauty of the other's strawberry blonde hair. Stiles watched her wistfully, even with his hand tucked into Elena's, a childhood way of reminding the other of their affection.
How Lydia Martin has never noticed Stiles Stilinski is beyond Elena Gilbert's comprehension. She hasn't seen him in a year and a half, and her entire being aches without him beside her, especially now, with her own humanity hanging precariously. He reminds her of all that was once right in her life, everything inside of her that was good before she went off that bridge. She might no longer be human, but Stiles, her Stiles, would always be a link back to the Elena that was.
"How's Stefan?" His words shake her out of her reverie, and she glances at the clock.
"Good. He's good." Though how their relationship would change now that she died remains to be seen. "We're actually going out in a half hour or so."
"Ah, an early morning breakfast with the love of your life." Though his tone is teasing, her mouth twists at the thought of her impending lesson on hunting.
"Something like that."
"Did you get the photos I sent you in the mail?"
"Yeah, you and Scott look good in your uniforms." She grins, her feet automatically carrying her to the dining room where said photos are still scattered over the table. She traces a finger over his face, still familiar after their long separation. "I wish you'd let your hair grown back out, though." She picks the photo up, carrying it with her to the window overlooking the deserted street.
"I'm trying something new. Isn't that what high school's all about?"
Perhaps, in a normal world. In a normal world, where she hadn't died scarce days ago, perhaps she would be trying new things herself. Maybe she would cut her hair short, and try wearing heels in her everyday life. Maybe she would cultivate an appetite for exotic foods, or discover an obsession with history. Maybe she would even travel across the country, back to Beacon Hills, and stay with Stiles and his father for a while.
She sighs, leaning her head against the glass. It's only slightly colder than her own starving body. No, the new things she gets to try are the taste of human blood, the rush of superhuman speed, and the scorching heat of the sun on her dead skin. "Yeah, I guess so."
"You know, maybe I could convince Dad to take us back to Mystic Falls for some of Christmas break. I haven't seen you at all lately."
The thought of Stiles arriving in Mystic Falls, put in the center of fights with original vampires, the deaths of the entire council, and her own bloodlust, makes her sick to her stomach. Could she live forever with the guilt if she ever hurt Stiles in a blood fueled haze? "Or, maybe, I'll try to come out there for a bit. I haven't seen Scott in forever either, and I miss him too."
"Sounds like a plan." His stifled yawn is more obvious this time.
"Go to sleep, Mischief," she can hear his chuckle at the familiar nickname. "I'll call you again soon, okay?"
"Okay." This time, the yawn isn't so stifled. "Talk to you seen, 'Lena."
"Sleep tight, Stiles."
When Stefan arrives on her doorstep scarcely twenty minutes later, thoughts of Stiles still linger on her mind, even as she's vomiting animal blood on the forest floor. After the funeral, she has fleeting thoughts of being grateful for his absence. She can only imagine how he would be tainted by the hell that is Mystic Falls if he still lived her. It isn't until she's watching her lantern fly against the dark backdrop of the night sky that she realizes her conflicting feelings. Despite what it would do to him, she guiltily misses the pressure of his hand in hers, the silent understanding and companionship. Yet, the grief hanging heavy over her world means there's no place in it for the kind, untainted soul of Stiles Stilinski.