Warning: Nothing explicit BUT strongly hinted consent issues because of compulsion, unhealthy and abusive relationships, messed-up people, bad coping mechanisms, the list probably goes on. If you have any specific concerns, message me.
| Miles South of Heaven |
by MirrorShard
|| Part 0 ||
before
Jeremy doesn't think about Denver often.
It was calm and normal, sort of like watching a high school movie on TV, and just as real. He made friends, he walked the dog, he went to school, he played baseball. Granted, he really sucked at the last one, and one of his friends turned out to be a blood-crazed original vampire intent on using him as leverage against his sister and girlfriend, but despite that, it was a pretty decent, ordinary time overall.
Sort of like a holiday.
And when Jeremy is dragged back to Mystic Falls — kicking and screaming because fuck, Elena, what did I tell you about having me compelled and what the fuck is going on between you and your boyfriend's brother? — he is immediately swamped by the supernatural craziness. So busy keeping his head above the water in an increasingly mad, dangerous world, he doesn't spend much time reminiscing.
Or questioning for that matter.
Elena asked him. Once.
During the car ride to some stupid motel in the middle of who-knows-where whilst Damon was yelling at someone on the phone.
"Kol— He's dangerous, Jer. Did he— Did he hurt you?"
Jeremy can't remember what he told her. It doesn't matter.
Elena never asks again. Jeremy doesn't offer.
The truth is, Denver seems far away long before they ever leave the city limits.
It's not that Jeremy forgets it ever happened. He doesn't. There are small things, sometimes. Reminders. The kind you ignore until you stumble over them unexpectedly and lose your footing for just a second.
Kol's number in his phone.
A few pictures from various parties, all displaying one very familiar face in one of the photo albums on Jeremy's laptop.
The way Kol tilts his head first, observing, before his lips twitch into a seemingly ever-present smirk. A motion so familiar, Jeremy can replay it over and over again in front of his inner eye.
Waking up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, skin chilled, the echo of a hazy pain burning through him that his consciousness can't seem to grasp.
The flash of something that runs down Jeremy's spine, every time Kol manages to twist the word 'mate' into something else he struggles to put a finger on.
But there's crazy, overpowered creatures running around, trying to kill him and those he cares about. There's a guardian stabbing himself and apparently turning into a serial killer. There's a sister that dies and comes back less human.
And Jeremy—
Jeremy doesn't think about Denver often. Nothing worth remembering happened anyways.
Becoming a hunter is more than gaining a new tattoo and a couple of killer instincts that may or may not cause him to want to murder half his friends. It's hard to put into words — and it doesn't matter anyways, not like there's anyone around to listen.
Everyone is so busy with helping Elena, keeping Jeremy from killing her, learning more about the cure, and it just seems so— unimportant.
But it isn't. It isn't.
Jeremy has never been turned into a vampire — will never be turned into a vampire — but he thinks maybe it would be similar to this. To wake up one day and look at the world differently. Not knowing what has changed because everything feels right and normal to you, but still carrying that dead certainty that just yesterday, you didn't see things the way you do now.
Just yesterday you didn't know that if you kicked that chair leg at the right handle, you'd have the perfect make-shift stake to take out your sister. Just yesterday you didn't understand instinctively where the rips of your sister's not-boyfriend part and leave his heart vulnerable to you.
Just yesterday you didn't know.
Kol's hand closes around his wrist, an unforgiving grip that feels threatening, even though the smile never leaves his face. Absently, Jeremy thinks that he really should have invested something less obvious than that stupid bracelet.
"Trust me."
You don't get used to pain, just because you feel it more often. You simply learn to recognize whether a bone is sprained or broken, whether you fell asleep or passed out.
Knowing doesn't make it any more bearable.
"Shut up."
Jeremy doesn't talk sometimes.
Not for an entire week. Maybe longer. He doesn't think about it.
Kissing Kol feels familiar.
Feels nice enough.
Feels like going through the motions.
"Forget about this."
Jeremy doesn't bother pretending he's still asleep. Kol always knows. He doesn't stop running his fingers down Jeremy's back though — tracing the bruises he left there hours ago, no doubt. When he starts talking, it's a low whisper just loud enough to be heard.
Not to be remembered, but definitely to be heard.
Maybe Kol forgets how breakable humans are sometimes. Maybe he simply wants to rip and tear and destroy. Jeremy doesn't know. He doesn't ask.
"This is pathetic. You're pathetic."
Getting your throat ripped open doesn't get easier to bear through repetition.
Jeremy gets used to the taste of blood on his tongue.
"Don't tell anyone about me."
He's crying and shaking and he doesn't know why, he doesn't know what's happening, he's not afraid because he trusts Kol, but he doesn't— he doesn't—
"Forget about last night. Nothing worth remembering happened."
Becoming a hunter is about more than weird tattoos and blood-thirsty instincts.
It's—
For the first time since his parents' death, Jeremy's head is clear again. Is his own again. There's no compulsion anymore, nothing that can touch him beyond the whispers of how simple it would be to turn around, reach for the stake he's taped under the kitchen table, and end Elena's existence once and for all.
And Jeremy remembers. He remembers every time Damon compelled him. Every time Klaus compelled him. Every time Kol compelled him.
He remembers.
And when Kol walks into a bar filled with bloody corpses, hands raised in mock-surrender, Jeremy sees him raising his glass over the crowd of partying students to give Jeremy a silent toast. When his lips form that mocking smirk, Jeremy thinks of the hundred times he has turned around to find Kol watching him with that same derisive expression. When he notices the blood on Kol's clothes, he thinks of all the times those stains were his.
"C'mon, Jeremy." Kol mocks. "We were mates in Denver."
And Jeremy wants to laugh. He wants to drive a stake straight through Kol's heart. He wants to scream. He wants to shout 'Liar!' for all the world to hear.
But the words remain stuck to his lips, held in place by too many conflicting emotions and a heart that's too busy beating to think about what it's beating for. It's not fear — except, of course it is, how could it be anything else? — and then Jeremy remembers how to breathe again, how to scoff, how to tell this uncaring, fucked-up bastard to go fuck himself.
Not for Elena. Not for the cure. For himself.
It doesn't feel as good as Jeremy thought it would.
Two days later, when Jeremy drives a white oak stake through Kol's heart, he tells himself that he is doing what he has to do to find the cure. To save Elena. To protect Elena. Hell, to protect himself.
But that isn't why he's doing this. Deep down, Jeremy knows that. And that knowledge, that certainty, kills the last remains of what was left of the boy Kol had first gotten his hands on all those months ago.
Elena doesn't ask him how he feels about killing Kol. Jeremy wouldn't have known what to tell her if she had.
Wouldn't have been able to explain why he keeps looking over his shoulder, expecting Kol's ghost to be standing there, watching and raging. Wouldn't know how to put into words that there was more than panic he felt when he watched Kol be consumed by the flames. More than fear. More than relief.
A lot happened in Denver. But Kol is dead, and there is a cure to be found, and Jeremy has been suffering from nightmares long before the arrogant vampire came along. It doesn't matter anymore.
Jeremy tries not to think about it. It's not like there is anything worth thinking about.
after
It's in his eyes.
The first time Davina meets Kol — Kaleb, back then — that's the first thing she notices about him. His uncanny, bright, blue eyes, sparkling with mischief and amusement. It's the kind of eyes that are so pretty to look at, you can't help but try to reach out and touch. It's the kind of eyes her mother warned her of. The kind of eyes that can't be trusted.
Maybe that's why she shakes his hand.
Because she can hear her mother's voice snapping at her not to — and Davina has never done well with demands. That hasn't gotten any better since the woman who birthed her stood by and watched as her friends were slaughtered.
And maybe Kol's eyes are a bit like a lobster trap: easy to get in, almost impossible to get back out again. And maybe… Maybe she doesn't mind so much.
In the beginning, Davina doesn't expect it to go anywhere. There are too many nights still, when she wakes up sweaty and shaky, screaming Tim's name, feeling his clammy skin under her trembling fingers. But Kol is new and interesting and funny.
He's a witch, and Davina hasn't realized how much she missed her coven until they're standing side by side and she feels the air vibrating with his love and joy for the magic they guide.
It's beautiful.
Kol is beautiful.
Davina knows better than to trust him. She sees it in his eyes. The eyes of someone who has gotten so good at lying, they've forgotten how to speak the truth. But when Kol turns his head and smiles at her, so bright it blinds her to everything else, Davina finds herself not minding as much as she thought she would.
When the first truth is finally revealed — "You're one of them!" — Davina isn't surprised. She knows better than to put her trust in someone with eyes that make more promises than they can hope to keep. The only true surprise is that despite everything it still hurts.
"Yes, I am a Mikaelson."
That's where it could have endend. That's where it should have ended. For good.
All her life, Davina has heard stories of the cruelty of vampires. Of the massacres, following in the Mikaelsons' wake. Of all the blood they spilled, all the crimes they never had to pay for, all the thoughtless acts of violence and death. She's listened to the hushed whispers about Kol Mikaelson, the wildest of the lot, and the terror and wisdom he brought.
It's been months since the Mikaelsons have returned to New Orleans. And if there is one thing their arrival has taught Davina, it's that whenever they're around, people die. Guilty, innocent, it doesn't matter.
Death haunts their every step and Davina is a witch — something she can't deny, something she doesn't want to deny because it's who she is. She should turn around and run the other way, as far and as quickly as she possibly can. That would be the sensible thing to do.
But… the noose hidden behind the glint in Kol's too bright eyes draws tighter around her every day.
And Davina has never been particularly good at letting things go.
Losing Kol feels like tearing apart the last shreds of hope Davina had left for a normal life.
"You're gonna like me, Davina Claire."
It hurts, the way a dying dream always does. Davina doesn't know how long she cries. How long she clings to Kol's slack hand, until someone — Klaus, she thinks — gently forces her to let go.
It's like a snap.
The tears, the desperation, the choking pain, it's all still there. Davina still feels it, still trembles with the force of it, and yet. When she opens her eyes this time, when she watches Klaus carry his brother's body with a care she's only ever seen him show his own child, Davina takes a deep breath. Forces herself to push past the all-surrounding loss, the denial, the refusal to accept this.
"We're gonna change everything."
So Kol is dead. People die all the time, in New Orleans more so than in many other cities. Davina has been there herself and made it back. And she's not the only one.
No, this isn't the end. Because she's Davina Claire. She's the harvest girl that told them all to shove it. And she doesn't care about the ancestors, doesn't care about fucking balance, doesn't care about whatever new scheme Klaus will undoubtedly start tomorrow.
She's Davina Claire and Kol is Kol Mikaelson and this isn't going to be the end of them. She won't let it be.
Davina has never been particularly good at letting things go. Kol is no exception.
On an intellectual level, Davina has known for quite a while that Kol isn't really Kol. That the face that she has become so familiar with isn't real — or at least isn't the right one. She's known that, yes. But it's still a different matter altogether to see it.
Seeing Kol live and in person — or as close to alive as they can get, trapped in this particular brand of hell — should ease the relentless pressure in her chest. Should be a relief, a breath of fresh air. And it is.
Sort of.
Davina hadn't expected the differences to matter.
You fall in love with the person, not the body, right? It sounds so simple, so superficial, when you put it like that. And it's true, when she looks at Kol, at this Kol, Davina doesn't see a stranger. She recognizes that teasing smirk, those playfully raised brows, the way he utters her name, like an absolution, like a condemnation.
But there is something different about this Kol. Davina knows that she's staring too much, looking too closely, trying to put a finger on what it is that's bothering her, but she can't seem to find it.
Kol notices. Of course he does. Then, they're talking, quick, because they're running out of time. Because they're so close to victory, she can almost taste it, and she can't, won't let this chance slip through her fingers again. It's so easy to read him still, comes naturally to her— "You know, I can tell when you're lying to me no matter what face you wear."
And it's in that moment, as Kol lifts his hand, reaches out for her but aborts the motion half way through, dark eyes fixed intently on hers, voice serious and desperate — "Find another way. Nothing is worth what they'll make you do." — that Davina realizes it.
"There is no other way!"
What's different.
"…there might be. One. Possibly."
What's changed.
"What? Kol, what are you talking about?"
It's his eyes.
"The magic you've been searching for is focused on raising the dead. There might be another way, to pull someone back."
They are warm and bright and focused entirely on her. It's the kind of eyes you can't help but hold dear to your heart, too consuming, too genuine to doubt. It's the kind of eyes that her mother used to tell her bedtime stories of. It's the kind of eyes that can be trusted.
"Darling, you have to let me go."
Davina shakes her head, refuses to listen to the too-honest words he's saying. It doesn't matter, whatever nonsense it is he's sprouting now, and sooner or later Kol will realize this as well.
Because Davina isn't the kind of girl who lets herself get wrapped up in pretty lies and empty promises.
Because Davina has never been particularly good at letting things go.