A.N.: Hello! So, this is the first chapter of my Kol/OC fanfic – it will be a while before Kol actually makes an appearance, because I'm beginning this story just after the tomb plot-line, just before Isobel comes to town the first time.

I don't know if any of you have ever worked in an understaffed, overcrowded café where the suppliers constantly screw you over with their deliveries, you're out of everything on the menu and people are being shitty and the regular group of useless upper-middle-class mothers bring their darlings in on their nannies' night off, loading them up on brownies and marshmallow-whipped-cream hot-chocolates and let them run around misbehaving and getting underfoot, wilfully oblivious and rude to you, quibbling over a dollar and the ingredients they don't want on things, rewriting the menu and giving you attitude about wanting money off their bill – but I have! Imagine any nonstop, high-pressure task you've done, when everyone's giving you the evils like everything wrong is entirely your fault, you're there doing your best to be polite even when they're the most toxic beings on earth… So that's where I decided to start with Sophia.

I watched the trailer for season two of The Originals and literally gasped – Elijah has scruff! And Mikael dared point Original!Ric's steroid-enhanced white-oak stake at his heart?!

I'm thinking about the direction this story will take if I can write it all the through to the 'Originals' plotline. I'm already planning several huge differences for this story, so it'll be interesting. Things like keeping Pearl and Anna alive; Jenna coming to realise the Gilbert family legacy before John tries to execute his plan for Isobel and Katherine; Bonnie's spell not working during the sacrifice; Elijah appearing when Bonnie drops the veil.

Cuckoo In the Nest

01

Crash

They were out of hazelnut creamer, they had no seeded granary rolls, they were completely out of lettuce for the salad-garnish, they had no more batter prepared for the gluten-free oat crêpes, and no more Danish meatballs, and Marcia couldn't stop to make up more of either as she filled Panini orders, made sweet and savoury crêpes, had to frost new cakes and send one of the waiters to the bag-and-buy for more milk and every customer who came in had been rude and impatient, snapping and arrogant as she tried to make hazelnut frappés and soda-with-syrup and single-shot decaf skinny lattés (but they want chocolate sprinkled on top), and if someone asked her for another babyccino she was going to scald them with the frothy milk; they kept demanding she procure more highchairs out of thin-air like she was freaking Hermione Granger and told her while she was trying to ring through a transaction as she danced around trying to froth cappuccino milk, take orders to tables, that the table they wanted to sit at was dirty and why didn't they have more staff and there was no tissue in the bathroom and why weren't there more restrooms?

Compounded by the fact the weekly cluster of spoiled mommies had arrived with their darlings in tow, filling the already cramped café with strollers, taking the two highchairs and commandeering the two largest tables – they came every week, spoiled mid-thirties housewives who lived in luxurious mansions out in Mystic Gardens gated-community, all of them driving excessive SUVs and Range Rovers and huge Mercedes despite the fact they only drove their kids to the expensive private elementary-school, and she knew they only brought their darling little brats because the nannies had the day off – she'd babysat for a couple of the families, knew their lifestyles – and today, the older kids were allowed to run around, making a huge mess of the tables, scrawling on one with a Sharpie, taking their mother's chilli-red lipstick to a cushion; they had stolen all the straws; decided after receiving their food they didn't want this in their Panini so Marcia had to remake it, rather than Mommy just remove the 'nasty' bits they didn't want to eat, after they had rewritten almost everything on the menu as they always did. These women glittered with diamonds, looked down their noses, had a thousand better things to do than parent their own unruly children, smiled and nodded as she had asked them to please make sure their children didn't get underfoot as they carried trays of boiling-hot beverages and food around, and promptly turned back to planning their shopping trip in Richmond and their weekend in Vegas celebrating someone's fortieth birthday.

No matter how many times they were asked.

Pregnant women and those on maternity leave with brand-new humans loved Marcia's café – great, organic, locally-sourced foods, a beautiful venue full of Marcia's personality, smiling (and very pretty) staff with a wide array of beverages, a fresh, seasonal menu and the prettiest treats, and usually she was the one smiling; she was great with kids, could get them to stop having a tantrum, joked and teased with them, got them smiling, but the Mystic Gardens mommies were unapproachable, their children spoiled brats. She couldn't believe her mom was friends with some of them…had been. Had been friends.

And no matter how many times the wait-staff asked them to please not let their toddlers crawl around on the floor with their toys everywhere, or told them that their adorable five-year-old had filled the toilet with an entire packet of hand-towels and flooded the restroom; or the time they had made Sophia clean up poop from a highchair when a diaper had exploded while they were chatting, despite her intuition the baby was very unhappy, the mom just shushing them when they screamed… She couldn't stand these women with their kids.

She had spent one sunny afternoon in the summer bouncing a five-month-old around the café in her arms; he'd been the cutest, with enormous blue eyes, perpetual smile while his mom and grandma had enjoyed a baby-free meal. She loved those days, enjoyed smiling and cooing at the babies, had met one newborn two days after her birth after watching her mother's bump get steadily bigger, the debate about names ongoing until she had popped – the story about baby's birth had been hilarious, going into labour at home at three a.m., her husband on the phone to the emergency-response, when asked what he saw, screaming "A mess!"

This was not one of those calm afternoons where she could linger at a table having a chat with the customers she had come to know by name and coffee order, having a cuddle with their babies. Today was hell.

And as she rang through a cheque at the cash-register, she gave an older, frowning woman dripping in diamonds her change and receipt, dazed and wired from running around nonstop all day, she hadn't had a break, or even a glass of water, or even time to pee while Nicole was being a stroppy little bitch – she did not handle extreme pressure well, and this tiny café was not built for an excess of customers bombarding them like a tsunami of rudeness – and this woman had the nerve to lean over as she took her receipt, gave her a look, and sneered, "Pleases and thank-yous."

Stunned. She was stunned – and disgusted, that this woman, standing in the middle of the bomb-blast that was Marcia's teeny café, seeing her running ragged while Nicole swore like sailor on leave in the back as she stormed off for another cigarette break, the tables that needed waiting, the coffees that needed making, the fact the bakery display was wiped out except for a few crumbs, they were out of soup, they had run out of pizza dough an hour ago and people were being assy with her like it was her fault, this woman, who wore at least six carats on one finger alone, had the nerve to say she needed to be more polite.

There were several things she wanted to say – Get the fuck out and don't come back; Can't you see I'm emulating Wonder Woman? I will if you will – but all Sophie could do, with her brain frazzled from needing to do a hundred different chores, starving, angry with the Mystic Gardens mommies and their pampered, undisciplined brats, all she could do, was hitch an enormous, vicious grin onto her lips, and say jauntily, "Have an absolutely fabulous day, ma'am!"

Her mom had always taught her to take the high road. Marcia had taught her to be polite as possible and ask how any situation could be fixed, what customers wanted her to do, to dispel tension. But she was under intense pressure, wanted to smack this woman in the face with one of the ceramic cake-stands, but couldn't. So vicious smiles and being exaggeratedly chipper were her weapon.

Nicole finally reappeared, reeking of tobacco, scowl still in place but vibrant lipstick reapplied as she set out a fresh Black Forest gateau and a tray of frosted cupcakes and a tub of macarons, as Josh returned with a shit load of milk from the cash-and-carry, taking over the cash-register; she topped an iced latté with some frothed milk, made a cappuccino, a mocha, a hazelnut latté, and stopped by the window to take a dish of pasta alla norma, a bowl of wild-mushroom soup that made her stomach cramp at how hungry she was, and a pointy oval dish of various bruschetta from Marcia and hitched it all up, palm flat, to shoulder-height. She had to dodge a large group of obnoxious people blatantly ignoring her trying to get past as they chatted away, huffing to each other about the service and how long it took to make a coffee and why weren't there any tables free and clean – and edged around a table of customers waiting for their foot – she smiled and said an apology, Marcia would be preparing their food now, she edged around, aware of the vengeful looks she was getting from other customers, riled by the insidious comments of people who knew she could hear them, rattled by someone shouting to her that they wanted a refund for waiting so long seconds before she set their bruschetta down, and she balanced her tray, knowing Josh was under fire at the counter, sought table eight in her view, started off in that direction, and suddenly, her ankle was twisting.

One second she was upright, everything was chaotic and the god Stress was literally squeezing her from every direction, she manoeuvred the narrow space between people at different tables, tried not to focus on the fact the Mystic Gardens mommies were laughing raucously as their kids jumped on the leather-upholstered booth seat, one of the highchair-bound toddlers throwing carrot-cake all over the floor, then suddenly, her foot had connected with something soft but sturdy and out of sight, her ankle twisting, and then – nothing: an enormous crash, she didn't see anything until she was flat on her front, winded, the awareness everything had gone flying, and pain – it seared her skin, all the way up her right arm, seeping through her t-shirt, so sudden, so hot it felt almost icy before sensation caught up with action and she froze, trembling, at the scalding pain, she was dazed, aware her arm was covered in a mixture of frothy, fragrant milk and mushroom-soup, eggplant spaghetti was splattered all over the carpet and her t-shirt as she sat up, flinching at the pain splashing across her neck and ear from the drinks, her knee and her chin pounding from where she had fallen without anything to brace the impact, the heel of her palm starting to bleed where she noticed one of the plates had broken into large shards, glass glittering where a latté glass had shattered, milk everywhere, and…she blinked.

Then she became aware of the silence. And then, the screaming baby – and a manic rush, Josh appearing suddenly with an armful of towels, hastily wiping the scalding liquid off her arm and neck and ear, while the Mystic Gardens mommies all jumped out of their seats, one of them scooping up the screaming toddler – the toddler she had asked them, three fucking times to put in a highchair so he wasn't underfoot while she carried boiling fucking soup to other customers. As she sat, stoic and wide-eyed, uncertain what had happened and how she should react, blinking, realising they had other customers waiting to be seated and she had to replace the drinks and needed to apologise to Marcia and could she re-make the spaghetti and soup order before the customers at eight left in a huff, and the mucky cotton of her t-shirt was sticking to her, her hands were shaking as everything felt too hot, her skin was too tight for her body where the soup had burned her, she was aware of an acute rage as the mommies clucked over the little darling she had kicked – Josh hooked his hands under her arms and gently lifted her to her feet, pushing her toward the staff staircase upstairs, telling her to go rinse her arm under cold water, as he threw a couple towels down over the spilt spaghetti, smashed crockery and called for Marcia to come out the kitchen.

Eyes smarting, the pain of the scalding catching up with her after the initial shock of being sent flying by an eleven-month-old, she hurried to the door into the staircase, itching to scrape her soaked, ruined t-shirt off her as she took the stairs two at a time, desperate to get to the bathroom. Upstairs, the tiny apartment where Marcia did her ordering, cleaning supplies and extra ingredients were kept in separate store-rooms, and the staff-room was located where in theory they could eat a free meal on their breaks, relaxing on one of the sofas, there was a full bathroom, complete with shower – and today, Sophia was grateful for it, as she tossed her t-shirt into the tub, grabbed the showerhead and turned the water onto cold.

Her neck was okay, it had only been splattered by spaghetti and splashed by cappuccino foam, but her arm and her waist were a splotchy, angry red. She sat awkwardly on the edge of the tub, the edge of the sink digging into her back, the showerhead pointed toward her arm and waist as she tried to get the spray over the tub rather than the floor, and rested her head back against the wall, shivering as the icy jet started to cool her skin. Her eyes burned, and her throat hurt. The sudden calm and intense quiet of the bathroom pressed in on her, and despite the cold water dousing her, soaking the top of her jeans, she allowed herself to let go for the first time since the rush started.

Today had started out such a good day. She'd managed to recreate the style her hairdresser had created when she'd had a trim and redesign last week, using her straighteners and curling wand; she'd been up early enough to watch some TV and filed and buffed her fingernails, done some drawing and texted Damon for a little bit. The weather had been mild, though chilly, and she had taken a leisurely pace to work. The eighty-three-year-old grandpa who came in every Saturday morning to take one of his four girlfriends to breakfast had invited her to chat with him about his experiences in the Far East in the 1950s when he was in the Army, the fact his other girlfriend, not the one he brought out for breakfast, had bought him an iPad, and he had to have lessons from his five-year-old grandson to work it. She had met the brand-new baby Poppy who had arrived only two days ago, her mother a regular customer who came for cake and coffee several times a week, and she had laughed so hard with Josh this morning that his face had gone bright red, tears shining down his cheeks, over nothing.

Now the cramps she had gotten from laughing so hard at something she couldn't remember had been replaced by the pain of being scalded by mushroom soup that had ruined her t-shirt, tiny bits of blended mushroom stuck to the cotton with strips of eggplant and pork ragu, she was livid at those spoiled women, angry that Nicole was such a lazy, foulmouthed cow, and…didn't know what to do.

This was the first break she'd had all day, the rush hitting them suddenly near eleven a.m. and not stopping now even at half-past four, she was starving, hadn't realised how the last five hours had completely exhausted her, she was hurt and there was a lingering thought in the back of her mind that she'd have to go home later to a kitchen stocked only with off-coloured guacamole, coffee beans and Jeremy's Rocky Road cereal. Unless they went out, again.

She'd officially tried everything on the menu at The Grill. She was tired of eating out, of scrounging a meal of nachos and mayonnaise after jazz-band while she did her laundry and tried to struggle through Biology homework. She had been dreaming of her mom's venison brisket with gravy-soaked carrots, mash and braised savoy cabbage. She daydreamed of the surprises her mom used to slip into their bagged-lunches every day. A five-dollar bill for lunch didn't cut it: she'd been hoarding the lunch-money Jenna had been giving her and Jeremy every day, intending to buy something nice for Jenna. The Dior perfume she liked, or a subscription to eHarmony. Hopefully the site filtered out the usual kind of losers Jenna dated.

And if Sophia had been under pressure today, she couldn't imagine how Jenna was doing it, keeping it together for them, going to school, exhausted by the realisation her social life had been put on the back-burner while Jeremy succumbed to drugs and an older woman and Elena disappeared without calling for over twenty-four hours and pouted over her new off/on boyfriend…

She let her mind switch off, drifting, as she sat under the cold jet, she didn't know for how long; all she knew was the tiny roll of flab at her stomach was creasing as she sat hunched, she was shivering in her little triangle-bra and her jeans were sticking to her, the mess on her t-shirt was gross and she had brought no spare, she would have to ride her bicycle home topless…and she wasn't Elena, she didn't want or need a boyfriend to help her deal, and, yes, her boobs were little but she thought they were cute. Ish? Enough to warrant a guy's attention, maybe? But it was cold out, and she didn't fancy Sheriff Forbes giving her the she's-an-orphan sigh and excuse her the public indecent-exposure arrest.

A knock sounded gently on the door, and she sat up straighter, blinking sluggishly, pulled out of a doze, hoping it wasn't Josh. Sure, she had just been thinking she didn't mind her boobs, but she didn't want to be topless in front of Josh – tall, built and with pale-blue eyes blazing from a deeply-tanned Mediterranean complexion, he could lift her with one arm and was this big, sturdy, cheeky little ass who loved to tease her. He was cute, and had a string of girlfriends; Jenna had seen him a few times over the summer and almost gone into cougar-heat over him.

She grunted softly, and the door opened. Marcia appeared. She was in her late-forties, a former nutritionist who had earned certification at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris as a fortieth-birthday gift from her husband, and a wonderful person. Sophia had been bussing tables and making coffees for Marcia for over a year, but had never been invited into the kitchen until this past June. Marcia had brought Sophia into the kitchen on a slower afternoon, and taught her how to make an omelette. And then a savoury crêpe; and different pasta sauces; and ratatouille. And dough she could make at home into rolls or thin-crust pizzas. Simple, flavoursome and healthy things Sophia could make when the cupboard at home was bare and she couldn't carry a whole load of groceries home on her bicycle. The idea of takeout and restaurant-food had started turning her stomach around August-time, after one too many Dominoes, when she had started missing her mother's cooking more than anything else.

The water still rinsing off her arm, a chill to her bones, her jeans decidedly soggy, she sniffed and sat up a little straighter, shy in only her bra, and she ducked her chin shamefacedly. "I'm sorry about all the mess."

"Hope you gave that baby a real hard kick for all the hassle he caused," Marcia said, and Sophia's lips twitched to a tremulous smile. "I hope that woman's new baby has a really fat head when it's born."

"She cause a scene?" Sophia asked miserably, heaviness settling on her chest. A sufferer of asthma, she acutely experienced what it felt not to be able to breathe. This was similar, but had its own flavour of pain and despair, guilt weighing on her for the broken crockery and the mess they would have to clean up. Not even embarrassment about wiping out – her anger at the customers being so obnoxious neutralised any humiliation.

"She tried – I know you'd asked multiple times for them to keep their kids in highchairs," Marcia sighed. "I've asked repeatedly, so's Joshua."

"Was the kid hurt?"

"He was fine, just screaming his head off," Marcia sighed, rolling her eyes. "I think his mom was angrier you kicked him than upset he was hurt. Before I cut her off she tried giving me a tongue-lashin' about my staff, I told her she and her friends have been asked at least twice every time they come in to keep an eye on their kids because we carry trays full of hot food and drinks. How is your arm?"

"Cold," Sophia mumbled, sniffing softly.

"Keep it under the water for ten more minutes," Marcia advised, wincing in sympathy as she peered at Sophia's arm. "It'll stop the burn from getting worse. And I'm calling Jenna."

"No, no, no, you don't need to do that," Sophia said, starting, sitting up straighter. "We're crushed already!"

"I've closed the kitchen," Marcia said sternly, giving Sophia a look. "Josh is gonna fill any existing food orders in the kitchen, and Nicole's cleaning up the mess." Sophia's lips twitched. Burned and turning into an icicle as she was, livid at the Mystic Gardens mommies, she couldn't help smirk at the karma, that lazy, unpleasant Nicole had been forced to clean up the mess Sophia had made rushing around pulling her own weight and carrying Nicole's load. Forced to clean up the cappuccino froth, the spaghetti, the little bits of mushroom and shattered glass.

"What were you and Josh laughing about so hard this morning?" Sophia shook her head gently.

"I don't remember," she said hoarsely, her eyes stinging.

Marcia sank down onto the toilet, wincing at Sophia. She reached out to hold Sophia's hand, patting it lightly. She gave Sophia a pained smile, sighing. "Today started out such a good day."

Lip trembling, eyes burning ominously, Sophia nodded, the choking, hot, painful feeling in her lungs she associated with asthma-attacks, and crying, creeping up on her, but she closed her eyes, internalising it, looking away from Marcia and letting out a slow, shaky breath. A cool hand resting on her shoulder, she winced and refused to look up; Marcia sighed and pulled her into a hug. For a second, Sophia resisted, then melted, refusing to cry but the delayed-reaction of being burned and tripping and all of the stress of the day piling on her… She needed to go home.

"I'm going to call Jenna, to come get you," Marcia said, after giving Sophia's back a rub.

"I have my bicycle," she said hoarsely, sniffing. She had her jacket and thick pashmina-scarf.

"I don't think you should cycle home, Sophia."

"Jenna has to go to campus," she sniffed. Jenna wasn't happy she had to go to campus today, but it was the only day her thesis-adviser was willing to put aside some time to go through Jenna's work with her, Jenna's schedule so hectic during the week as she parented three teenage orphans. "She's working on her thesis… She needs this meeting."

"Alright. I'll let you bike home, but you send me a text on my cell when you get in, okay?" she said, and Sophia nodded gloomily. Home. To an empty building that had once been full of the scent of her mother's perfume, the news on so loud due to her dad's poor hearing, board-games usually half-completed on the coffee-table in the den. No more: the house hadn't been truly clean since May, hadn't felt the same since then.

"Okay," she agreed. Just like that, and she was allowed a reprieve from the last hour of her shift: she tucked her fur-lined suede jacket around her, her pashmina wrapped warmly and thick around her neck. She tugged her gloves on, wincing at the heat already ensconcing her from her jacket, and made her way outside via the back staff exit. Her vintage-style bicycle was propped against the wall, basket and gel saddle misted over from a light rain, but her jeans were already wet and she put her purse in the basket. She had saved babysitting money for ages to pay for the vintage bicycle, and instead of getting her licence freshman-year, Sophia chose to get daily casual exercise by cycling everywhere.

And given her emotional state, and the heat suffusing her skin, cycling home was exactly what she needed. After a long day working on her feet, her dad had always advised cycling or going for a walk or a run, to reinvigorate her, rather than taking a nap, but she was going to stand in a cool shower for an hour when she got home. She was going to scrub the cake-crumbs and sugar and the coffee grounds and simple-syrups from her hands, clean her fingernails of the muck that accumulated under them during every shift she worked; she was going to buff her fingernails ready to paint in the morning, she was going to make herself something to eat and climb into bed and just sleep. The cool, clear air helped her to breath as she cycled home; the humidity and heat of a Virginia summer always made her regret the sunshine and freedom of summer vacation: she enjoyed the clear air and turning foliage of fall, and the first hints of spring only people who cycled or walked everywhere noticed – the tiny snowdrops peeking in the grasses where what little snow they'd had this year had started to melt away, the odd splash of purple or rich golden-yellow from the earliest crocuses… Cycling was cathartic to her, needing less physical exertion than kickboxing, and it relaxed her, as she cycled she could feel her anger at the Mystic Gardens mommies drifting off her like filmy veils whirling in the breeze…her imagination started whirring, a clue she was recovering from the stress of the day and her exhaustion, the physical pain she had experienced.

That didn't last long, though. She cycled all the way home – not far; this was Mystic Falls, and everything was within walking distance, though nobody did walk – and stayed on her bike as she pedalled to the gate, unlocking it, and, still straddling her bike, walked it to the yard. In an attempt to get off the bike, it collapsed on the grass, and Sophia sighed, staring down at the polished frame, the back-wheel spinning, her shoulders heavy, tired. She gathered her purse where it had spilled out of the basket onto the grass, and sluggishly made her way to the back-porch. She left her bicycle where it was – a sure indication to Jenna, who could tell how Sophia's day had gone just by her bearing, the way she walked, that something was up. Running her hand exhaustedly over her eyes, smearing her makeup, she yawned, her throat tight, and as she closed the back-door quietly, she heard Jenna's footsteps. She was growing accustomed to the new sounds in her home; Jenna's quick, light footfall was one of them.

"Marcia called," Jenna said in greeting, already wearing an expression of concern. Her eyes went wide, and she asked, "Are you okay?"

Sophia shook her head, and burst into tears.

A.N.: I have to go to work for a meeting/anniversary barbecue, which I do not want to go to, but I thought I'd upload the first chapter before I go. There may be a few chapters of build-up, showing the difference between Sophia's life and the secret-life Elena is keeping from everyone in canon. I'll get to the context of where the plot is, canon-wise, where my story starts, in another chapter. But Damon will appear in the next chapter, you'll start to see his relationship with Sophia. Please review.