Two Roads (Converged)
AU: Elena is a bank teller. Damon is a bank robber. Stefan is the detective who has been tracking Damon for months, and is also his half brother. It's complicated.
Chapter 1: In Which Damon Robs a Bank. Again. This one is different, though-it happens to have Elena in it.
It was a surreal experience. Almost like a scene from a grade B spy thriller; she would have been amused, if she weren't smack in the middle of it.
They'd come in through the front doors, same as all the other customers—wasn't there supposed to be security to keep suspicious people out? But there wasn't anything obviously criminal about them at all, or, at least, there hadn't been until they'd pulled their weapons.
"Everyone down on the ground, hands in front of you!"
There had been a pause as shocked disbelief rippled through the bank lobby. Then there was some screaming, some praying, some threats, and a shot was fired into the ceiling, silencing them all.
Elena, who'd just begun her shift, had gone to her knees immediately and, shielded by the counter, was busy scrambling for her cell phone in her purse. It was in there somewhere, dammit, and she was going to find it before—
"Stand up, sweetheart."
Too late. A dark haired man, mid-twenties, had his gun pointed at her head. He gave it a little flick, and she stood, dropping her purse.
"The silent alarms have already been triggered," he told her, "so don't fret, there's nothing you can do. Who has the key to the vault?"
Elena swallowed. "I do."
He smiled at her, and she noticed, so inappropriate she could have smacked herself, the striking way it brought out his eyes. "Lead the way."
It was too easy, she realized, to criticize the cowering bank tellers in movies. Something about a gun aimed at your head really short circuited logical thought processes. She didn't stall for time, try to extract information about his crew, tackle him for his gun, or trick him into revealing his identity. All she could think about was getting to the vault and having that killing machine pointed elsewhere. Like at the floor, or the inside of a holster.
The dark haired man gestured two of his men—she was sure they were his, the dark haired man was clearly the boss—over to help load up the money. They swiped the top packets of bills from each stack and tossed them into a bag, then dropped that bag into the corner and began loading up everything else.
The dark haired man noticed her frown and explained, "Those are the most likely to have some sort of tracking device, though, of course, we'll check the others as well. Hurry it up boys," he added, raising his voice, "clock's ticking."
He lifted his wrist and pulled back his sleeve to glance at his watch. The ring on his third finger caught her eye; it was huge, gaudy, definitely an antique or family heirloom of some sort. She stared at it, trying to memorize details. Then she looked back at his face. If nothing else, she would have no trouble describing him to the police.
He noticed her staring, and winked. She glared back.
They were finished in the vault, and not a moment too soon—she could hear the faint wail of police sirens in the distance.
"All right, gentlemen," the dark haired man said, "you know the drill." He and the men pulled ski masks from their pockets and donned them, and then the dark haired man turned suddenly to Elena and grabbed her around the waist, pressing the gun back against her temple.
She froze, muscles locking. He shook her a little, said, "Don't do that, I need you to walk with me now. Let's move."
They emerged from the bank, onto the front steps into the chilly November air and a mess of police and media. The sudden onslaught of camera flashes nearly blinded her, and she cringed back. The dark haired man tightened his grip and pulled her closer.
"If any of you clowns try to follow us," he called out, into the sudden hush his voice created, "I'll shoot her. Let us go, and we'll show her the same respect."
The police were watching him with a look that was more resigned than enraged, and Elena's heart sank. He began to move toward a silver car parked on the side of the road; the two men carrying the bags were already in a black van and moving. The dark haired man opened the passenger side door and slid in, dragging her with, then shifted to the driver's seat. The gun never strayed more than two inches from her forehead throughout.
The dark haired man started the car one handed and pulled away smoothly, moving in the direction opposite that of the black van.
He glanced at her as they pulled into traffic, said, "Put your seat belt on, and don't do anything stupid," then floored it.
She'd never gone this fast in her life; she was convinced that he was making the gun superfluous now, since clearly he intended to kill them both by wrapping them around a light pole. They drove like this for almost ten minutes; for Elena, it felt like an eternity.
Finally he pulled off the highway onto an exit ramp and resumed a normal speed. Elena took a breath like a drowning woman coming up for air, and he laughed, pulling the gun away and transferring it to his left hand.
"Not much longer now," he said, almost kindly.
"Easy for you to say," she muttered, feeling a sudden bloom of confidence now that the gun was moved and the speedometer was back to double digits.
He raised his eyebrows, and looked at her, "Are you getting bold with me? I'll give you a hint, that's not the ticket to freedom."
"So then what is?" she asked, challenging.
He smiled, eyes bright, and she looked away sharply. "Stop making yourself interesting. Try to look a little more pathetic."
She shut her mouth deliberately and turned her face toward the passenger side window. They were out of any area she was familiar with, and still moving quickly through these country lanes. With any luck, he'd let her out near a gas station so she could at least phone for a ride home. Home. She felt a pang of guilt. Jenna and Jeremy would probably find out about her on the nine o'clock news tonight. Jenna would call the police and demand action; Jeremy would try to swipe the car keys and start searching immediately.
"Shit," the dark haired man said suddenly, and the car slowed. There were flashing lights in the rearview mirror. The police car behind them let the sirens blare for a moment, and the dark haired man maneuvered them to the curb. He looked at Elena, eyes intense.
"We're a couple, on our way to visit your parents in Atlanta. If you make any comments or gestures that suggest otherwise, I'll shoot him in the head and then I'll break your wrists. Understand?"
"Yes," she said, and then the police officer was rapping on his window.
The dark haired man rolled down his window and gave the officer a friendly smile, "Yes, sir?"
The officer leaned back and crossed his arms. "Young man, are you aware that this is a forty mile an hour zone?"
"Yes, sir."
"And how fast do you think you were going?"
The dark haired man smiled sheepishly, innocently, and it was so convincing Elena had to remind herself: this is an act. He is an actor. A brilliant actor, apparently, because he was now saying,
"Probably at least ten over that, sir, and I apologize. My girl's mother gets more bearish every minute late we are; I was just trying to save our skins."
He glanced at Elena, his smile still friendly, and she pasted on a smile of her own, grabbed her cue and ran with it. "Mom always blames Clyde—" the dark haired man glanced at her sharply out of the corner of his eye "—when we're late. She didn't approve of him to begin with."
The officer had had enough. "All right now. I'm going to let you two off with a warning this time, because I've had more than my fair share of mother in laws, but keep it under the limit from here on out, you understand?"
"Yes, sir," they said in unison.
"Have a nice Thanksgiving," he added as he walked back toward his car.
They waited until the police car passed them by before easing back out onto the road. The dark haired man looked at her and said, "You're lucky he was an idiot. Don't try to throw people hints. It won't end well."
"Lots of people are named Clyde," Elena pointed out. He was right, though, she'd been making an effort to project that something was wrong.
"And lots of people aren't," he replied, but he didn't seem angry.
"So what are you called?" Elena asked, after a moment.
There was a long silence, and Elena had resigned herself to not getting an answer when he said, "You can call me Damon."