A/N: I don't know what this is honestly. Me feeling especially sorry for Stefan, I think, haha. It follows on from around 3x14.
Enjoy!
The days passing without her are few and far between now. He had counted, while he was away with Klaus. As they stretched into long, lonely weeks. He had counted those days without her, not letting himself possibly consider the hopefulness of counting the days until he would see her again. Until it would stop and he could stop; until he could let himself drown and see anything but blood and feel anything but thirst and hate.
When the only thing he would remember was the way he loved her.
He remembers now; he remembers so vividly that closing his eyes isn't enough. Even though the guilt presses upon him, claws at his back and shoulders, at his ankles and feet, he remembers the way he loved her and it isn't enough. Only remembering.
He wants to tell her.
He can see her now and it's both a blessing and something he still can't completely believe. Because he had held himself against the finality of it being over. His life, all of it; his life with her. The crippling thought of never being able to hear her breathe again pressing now, so delicately, against it being the only thing that can calm him. The familiar, sure sound of it.
The sound that clambers around him, fighting against something he swears to never be again but knows is embedded within him. The refined structure of his shell; that he's simply just a killer. That he drinks blood and wants blood but has stopped. Drinking from people.
Drinking from her.
That night after standing on her porch, the places where her hands had been leaving soft, open wounds on his body, he had walked for miles. His hands in his pockets. Thinking. Forgetting. Wanting to, only, just forget. Maybe not her but the way he feels about her and that he hasn't felt anything but her and that she had carried him for months without even needing to be there. That he loves her, so completely.
He wants to tell her.
Wants to tell her a hundred things; wants to tell her everything. Explain it away. But as he walks and walks and the sun comes up, warm against his back, guilt seeps, running down his toes. Running down his spine, like liquid that burns and sticks and freezes. He can't bear it, the suppressing guilt; it won't let him breathe.
She's better without you, he tells himself, and stops moving when he realizes that he has only walked in circles, standing along the white frame of her house.
He wants to tell her.
She's better, he thinks, knows, believes, has to own because of the things he had done, not just to strangers but to her. He has her palms memorized. He has traced them, back and forth, inside and out. He knows her hands and her smile and the way she'll press against the corner of his shoulder and he has hurt her still.
From feet away, Stefan hears the way she lies there quietly in her bedroom. He hears the way it's slow and soft and lonely; his throat aches. Why is she so lonely?
He wants to tell her.
Elena, he thinks and can only then, begin to walk away from her. Her name is his memory, like the curve of his spine, permanent to his body, to him. Slowly, he begins to walk, convincing himself the further he becomes, that it was better this way.
Knowing that telling her would never be enough.
He listens to the voice message she left him; she sounds tired, like she hadn't slept. Her voice is a tinge of confusion, hurt and something else that's stuck in-between. Something else, he realizes, that no longer belonged to him.
He spends way too long thinking about what he would've said if he had picked up.
Longer thinking about the sound of her voice, a sound that was strange now, even to him.
The feeling, that desperate, manic and overwhelming feeling of fear, knowing she was unsafe, doesn't change. Won't ever, he knows.
He looks for her in places he knows she would never be but has already searched all the places she would. And as he searches and searches, he starts to think about those 2 months. What it must've felt like, not knowing where he was. Not knowing if he was hurt or even alive. She's been gone for almost 2 hours and it's already too much; he's already choking. Already, within just 2 hours of not knowing.
He told her to give up and stop, over and over did he try and it's pathetic, becomes obviously so now, that he would ask her to do such a thing when he wouldn't stop, that he would wait and keep searching for her, no matter how lost she was.
The feeling is the same. Exactly, exactly the same.
She limps to her front door; it takes all the self-restraint he has to remain where he is, hidden in the darkness, right by her car. Both hands curl into fists, turning quickly white. He wants to go to her, more than anything, Wants to see where else she had been hurt by Rebekah but stays, frozen, where he is. She was safe, he repeats in his head. That is all that mattered.
But as she turns, her face as pale as the moon above them, her eyes find him like she had known all along that he would be there.
They find him perfectly.
He moves; flees, racing away his troubled mind and the heaviness of a heart that wanted too much, remembered too much. Held too much.
Held only her.
He swears he's dreaming.
It's not quite light out but it was no longer night. He had left the balcony doors of his bedroom open and they let in the cold, crisp air of a winter morning.
She's not wearing enough clothes, he thinks as he stares at the girl in front of him, the girl in his dreams with warm eyes and long, dark hair.
"Don't say anything." She whispers and crawls across the bed; he's making room, remembering his side already.
Her body is freezing and he enfolds it, wishing this dream would last. Hoping it would be fresh in his mind for him to remember when he woke up.
Elena's hands find his; he's dreaming, he hopes desperately, he has to be.
"Go back to sleep." Elena whispers and his eyes are closed, his face pushed against the skin of her shoulder; buried suddenly he was beside her. Inhaling her, seaming with her, connecting that line of his body that connected him to her.
Stefan wakes up; panting, covered in a thick layer of sweat that makes it impossible to tell whether or not they were tears on his cheeks or just marks across his face.
You're here, he thinks as he slowly pulls himself back down along the bed, turning himself against the images across his mind, her face so bright it's practically blinding.
You're here.
They are working as a team. It's odd to see her like this, so brazen and ready to fight. Holding a crossbow in both hands and standing beside him, convincing Matt and Caroline to work with them when so many months ago, it would've been him trying to convince her. He hardly says a word during the meet but shares a nod with Caroline when she shoots him a weary glance just as they are about to break up and leave. They could do this, if they prepared themselves and communicated between them, a solid plan could be formed in order to rescue Bonnie who had been taken by Klaus and help Damon, who didn't really need it, fighting against Rebekah.
Elena drops her arms, leaving the weapon on the ground when Matt and Caroline have long gone.
Her body is trembling and he tries but fails to pretend that it isn't.
"Hey," He starts; digging the fingers in has in both pockets, into both palms of his hands, "Are you okay?"
Elena looks up at him, a little caught off guard and he doesn't blame her considering his track record at pretending not to give a shit about her.
"I'm fine." She says in a clear voice even though it's obvious that she isn't.
She begins to walk, leaving the bow on the ground and as he starts after her, he picks it up and holds it by his side. They wouldn't need to use it and he's glad she had no intention in thinking they should try to.
They move in silence and he falls at least a foot behind her but as they near the edge of the forest, where the trees opened out and you could make out the length of the road, she stops suddenly.
Stefan hesitates, stopping also, hearing how her heartbeat seemed to slow and not, as he expected, speed up.
"Klaus took everything from me too, you know."
It hits right against his chest, moves up to his throat and he swallows, tightens his jaw, tightens his body and wills himself to move around her without looking back.
"I know." He says and listens, waits for her to follow. Breathing out only when she does.
He listens to the way she talks to Damon. It's different to the way she used to, it has an edge to it that's soft in all the right places; like she isn't afraid anymore of saying the wrong thing, something that might set Damon off.
He wants to ask her if she's in love with him.
He knows, though. Has known all along.
"Stefan?" She's standing at his doorway, watching him anxiously. It had been a close call today, they left Klaus reeling and pissed and just managed to free Bonnie with the only casualties being Damon, who healed in a matter of minutes anyway.
It had tired them both though, in different ways.
She eyes the wooden stake in his hands and he hadn't even realized the way he had been holding it, pointed directly towards his chest. They didn't use it today but like the crossbow, they hadn't really planned to unless it was absolutely necessary. He honestly doesn't remember bringing it home with him and drops it to the floor, standing up just as she walks further into the room.
"I'm sorry." He says even though he has no idea what for and she takes another step forward, her hands restless by her sides, like she was unsure of what to do with herself; unsure of what to do with him.
She looks at the ground, taking a moment and he can tell that she knows what she wants to say but can't quite figure out how to word it.
"Since that night…since Wickery Bridge, that's how long it has been."
So he says it for her. She immediately looks at him, eyes wide and alarmed; her face is suddenly flushed and he wants to tell her that she shouldn't be embarrassed. Dislikes, almost, that she would feel the need to be at all.
It's bitter in his mouth, sharp like acid, how much like strangers they had become.
"Is it…is…will it be permanent?" She asks weakly, almost defeated and leans a little on her side like she is.
Without really thinking about it, he closes the space between them and reaches out for her cheeks; her face is soft and he forgets, almost, just standing there, what he had wanted to tell her.
"Stefan…" She starts and she looks sad, doesn't quite lean in the way she used to and he thinks it's only to not give herself false hope. Maybe not even for herself but for him. He can't drop his hands even though he knows that he should.
The words seem to tip out, all at once. "I'm trying, Elena. I'm going to try and I'm not expecting anything, nothing at all because I know what I did to you, I know what I've done and I don't deserve forgiveness but I'm-"
"Do you love me?" She suddenly asks and he wasn't expecting that, not in the least; he drops his hands. He's finding that he can't focus on her face enough, can't really understand that there are tears in her eyes like there are tears in his enough. Can't do anything enough because yes, he did. So desperately. So entirely. He always would, always.
Her hand grazes his arm; she's grazing him. His eyes fall closed and he takes a gulp of air that gets stuck somewhere in his throat.
"Elena." He tries but can't and she's suddenly at his cheeks, at his face. Holding him just as he had been holding her.
"Do you want to know what I said to Matt, when he asked me why I fell in love with you but didn't with him? What I used to tell myself when you were gone and we had no idea where you were? What you keep thinking you can't tell me even though I already know because I think it too?"
Stefan opens his eyes; she's so close, her eyelashes stick together like webs. It's like falling and slipping only to land completely secure, completely safe, looking at her.
She bites her lip before she can go to speak, "It's not knowing why or how. It's knowing you couldn't possibly be without it. Even if you tried."
She has feelings for his brother, has kissed him. Loves him. But it's easy, standing there, to forget all of that. To let it fade, to let her lean in, press her lips to his and kiss him.
To kiss her back.
It's slow and so gentle, they breathe across lips and leave stains and suddenly she's close against him and he has her entangled, has her wrapped up tight. Has her pressed against a heart that can't beat but seeps, leaving him for hers.
He trails his lips along the curve of her jaw, up to the skin behind her ear, kissing and kissing and kissing and as he's panting and she's breathing, he smothers his face against the side of hers to just whisper and tell her all over.
"I love you, I love you, I love you."
And as she's repeating it, as they seem to be stuck together, unwilling to break apart, that guilt that's been pressing. Intoxicating and endless. That guilt seems to quietly leave him like it had never been there at all.
They'll figure something out. They'll struggle and work at this, deal with what comes even if it'll be much more of a fight. Much more of a battle, he thinks and knows and wants to believe.
But those words are solid, loudly defying it; the doubt and the future.
Loudly defying it all.