disclaimer. I, unfortunately, do not own anything related to The Vampire Diaries; characters, show, nada.
As your Guardian,
I was instructed well,
to make sense of God's love,
in these fires of Hell.
"Damon! Wait up!" a brunette shouted out for the boy in front of her, her long legs pumping beneath in attempts to catch the sprinting child in front of her. He was pale, with unruly dark hair, but most of all—he was shorter than her. And not to mention faster. Peering over his shoulder, he threw a laugh and finally came to a complete stop.
With her hands on her knees, she paused in front of him, feeling as if someone had shoved something hot down her throat. She could barely get enough air in and out of her lungs. The boy came closer, placing a hand on her back. "In and out, 'Lena," he coaxed, stroking her shoulder. Smiling, she slowly nodded.
"You run fast," she stated, still a bit out of breath but breathing nonetheless. The five-year-old flashed a mouth full of white teeth at her, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Yeah, I can almost out run my Dad!" he exclaimed proudly, though his head was shifted down at his feet sheepishly.
Elena's eyes were alit as she gazed at the boy in adoration. "Really!" she gasped when he nodded. "I can't even out run my brother. And he's only a year older than me," she pouted, crossing her arms across her chest. Quirking his mouth to the side thoughtfully, Damon finally gripped her arms, grinning.
"I'll teach you! I'll teach you how to run fast like I do! Then we can run together!" he stated, the excited gleam in his cerulean hues soon reflecting in doe ones.
"Really? Thank you!" Elena threw her arms around the boy, nearly crushing his lanky body. But he never complained, only grimaced when she wasn't looking from the slight irritation of being smashed.
"You know, you're my best friend, 'Lena," he stated, his hand reaching out to grasp hers.
"Yeah, I know," Elena replied and they made their way back into the school, the bell signaling the last recess of Kindergarten.
Twelve Years Later
The memory had long since left my mind; I would not be reminded of such a day until the familiar pair of blue hues looked me in the eye once more—as bright as they always were. The day was January 7th, 2011, the first day of school after a long Christmas break during my senior year of high school. It's actually a wonder that I remember the memory so vividly.
I was rushing down the stairs, my hair drawn up in a messy bun while I was trying to simultaneously slip my jacket and shoes on while brushing my teeth. I rinsed and spit using the sink, placed my tooth brush down onto the counter, and left quickly after grabbing my keys.
The drive to the school last no more than a few minutes that not even a Katy Perry song could be completely enjoyed. I lived in Mystic Falls, Virginia—a small town with only a few hundred people, a large forest, and a small lake. Usually, I was cursing the small town for its blandness, tradition, and gossip—but today I was thanking the good Lord above for such a small drive to make me on time for my first day back.
As valedictorian, I had an attendance to keep clean for my records. A good student equaled a good college and a good college equaled a good future—and that's all I thought of at the time. A good future. I wanted to get out of town and I only had the time for two things: work and school.
I think of how focused I was and laugh to myself because I was so clueless; so clueless to what God had in store for me. I wasn't very religious back then, being eighteen, but I still believed I had a purpose and I did. But it was not to create my own firm or publish a book about teenage romance or be a teacher. Actually, my purpose was much more important than any of those vocations.
So I listened to the first three minutes and thirty-six seconds of "I Can't Make You Love Me" by Bon Iver before I arrived at Mystic Falls High, parking in my usual spot near the back door leading into Senior Hall.
It was a pretty basic and normal day for me—one of the very many reasons I hated Mystic Falls: everyone seemed to be moving robotically. My mother use to say there were two ways to break the cycle: you die or you leave. Though most were too dim-witted to choose the latter.
"Miss Gilbert," my daydreams of a small sign off I-85 reading 'Now leaving Virginia' were interrupted by a stern tone. I looked up from where I had been scribbling the number six repeatedly on my notebook to see Mr. Saltzman gentle hazel eyes staring back at me.
He grinned. Alaric Saltzman was the history teacher, and also my uncle. Him and my Aunt Jenna had married out of college, about ten years ago, and had twins: Miranda and Jason. He was always patient with me when I dozed off—he too once shared the desire to leave Mystic Falls years ago but he said the town had an act of pulling people back.
I had no intention of allowing this hell to do that to me.
"Open your book to page three hundred," he repeated, and I noticed the corner of his mouth threatening to curl into a smirk. Rolling my eyes, I reached into my backpack, only to realize I had mistaken my AP Calculus textbook for my World History textbook.
"Uh, I accidentally grabbed my Calculus book—can I go switch it out?" I asked, hearing a soft laugh behind me. I glanced over my shoulder at a bubbly blonde I had been able to call my friend since she had been born.
Caroline Forbes was probably the most beautiful woman to ever be born in Mystic Falls. Next to her, I felt reduced to the image of a troll. Her hair was naturally silken and shiny and so easy to style while mine was straight, a bitch to curl, and a dull brown. Her eyes literally reduced sapphires to shame while mine was similar to mud.
I gave her a brief, unamused glanced before I stood and made my way into the hallway, having to walk down Junior Hall. Echoing off the walls, I heard rather loud whispers. I remember creeping closer to the voice until I could hear clearly what, by the sounds of it, Mr. Tanner was saying. When I finally did pick up on them, my hand covered my mouth. While it's been so many years since that moment, I still remember them to this day.
"I already fucking went over this. There's reason the others have passed you along you dumbass bastard—that bullet in your father's skull was due to incompetence that you are so clearly full of."
I had made my presence known when I gasped, my head peaking around the corner. Mr. Tanner's wide black eyes stared at mine before he quickly made his way back into his classroom. Mr. Tanner was an Algebra II teacher as well as a football coach; an extreme hard-ass and an overall asshole that Ric and I had continually discussed his assassination.
A desk had been brought out to the hall, occupied by a rather broad body. I was staring at the back of his hair, covered in raven hair that was currently fisted in two large hands. As I made my way closer, I could see his shoulders were shaking—and I thought perhaps he was crying. But his breathing became increasingly louder and I rushed closer to notice he was trying to breathe.
He must have heard me because he immediately looked at me, bright cerulean hues wide like a caged animal. And then, slowly but surely, his breathing even out as his eyes softened. My mouth was opened to speak but I couldn't find words to say—what do you say to someone who was just called a dumbass bastard by his teacher?
"Hi."
Well that was a start.
He was unresponsive, but if he had spoken, I most likely wouldn't have been paying attention—instead, I was too busy glancing over his body. Now, I periodically forget the previous day's events, but I can still remember what he was wearing: dark jeans, a tight white shirt, a leather jacket, and leather boots. I even remember glancing under the desk to look at what style of shoes he wore.
You can always tell a man by the shoe he wears.
"Hi," I finally heard his voice. Here was a guy literally cowering but his body suggested he could quite easily be a linebacker and his voice hardly sounded like the voice of a high schooler—he sounded like a man.
Slowly he stood and I had to take a step back. He was tall—most likely about six feet. We stood in awkward silence, my eye wide as I continued to stare up at him. He let out a brief cough, motioning down with his eyes and I noticed his hand was extended towards me.
His hands were big too.
I felt absolutely intimidated by someone who not moments before was quivering at the voice of a five foot six inch football coach whose been bitter ever since he tore his ACL in a bowl game while he was in college. However, I sucked in a breath and straightened my posture. I was valedictorian after all; it should be my duty to take care of the fresh meat around school. Sliding my hand in his, I squeezed his fingers politely.
"Elena Gilbert," I introduced with a grin. He grinned back—a purely white, All-American crooked grin that I was immediately won over by—and squeezed my hand back.
"Damon Salvatore," he introduced, looking rather expectant towards me. The name, no doubt, sounded familiar, and so I stood there with my hand still in his. I contemplated about where I'd seen the name or possibly heard it. There's a kid named Damian in sophomore class but the name Damon just seemed like a character perhaps my mother had read from a storybook.
Slowly I slipped my hand out of his, and I noticed his grin falter and I hoped I hadn't offended him.
"I guess I'll get back to class," he murmured quietly, reaching down beside the desk to grab his backpack. It was camouflage with a badge sewed onto the front that read: Private Giuseppe "Pope" Salvatore; United Stated Marine Corps.
That name sounded familiar too.
I watched as he began to slip his book into his bag and suddenly, an idea popped into my head. I'm ashamed to admit it—but when the idea occurred to me, it was not supplemented by the thought I'd be helping another. Instead, it was followed by the fantasy that in my resume I would have a file on how I tutored someone in Algebra II during my senior year. It would definitely back up a career as a professor if that's what I desired to do in the next decade.
"I could tutor you—if you want," I blurted out, hugging my Calculus book to my chest as I shifted from one foot to the other.
He glanced over me, skeptical no doubt, his eyes becoming narrow.
"Most people don't wanna spend that much time with me," he murmured. "Besides, I'll pass math. Perhaps not with the best grade, but I'll pass," he assured, and I thought I heard something muttered below his breath but he said it so quietly I could not detect any clear vocabulary.
"Why don't people want to spend time with you?" I demanded and immediately blushed as the words fell from my mouth. I wanted to be a journalist—what could I say?
He, fortunately, grinned at me. "I'ma smoker, Elena—I drink too. They had to give me a Breathalyzer test before I entered the building today," he canted his head to the side, motioning towards one of the on-campus police who was standing in the hall, staring directly at Damon.
Damon seemed to pay him no attention whatsoever.
"Why?" I asked once more, suddenly very curious of the male before me.
"Criminal record—I have a lot of DUI's," he shrugged his shoulders. "But I promised my Uncle I'd be good if he let me come back to Mystic Falls so—"
"Wait," I interjected him. Yes, it was rude—where do the manners of a woman go when they become a senior?—but I had to ask. "You were out of Mystic Falls—out of this hell hole—and you came back?" I exclaimed.
Damon nodded calmly, leaning against the desk with a single strap from his back pack perched onto his shoulder. "Yes I did," he murmured, staring at me rather intently.
Am I still blushing?
"Why?" I repeated, taking a step closer. I watched his mouth closely—though, at the time, I had not realized I'd taken an interest to his lips—as they twitched up into a small smirk, his eyes glistening.
"Would you be satisfied if I told you that you'd soon find out?" he asked softly, his voice warm, comforting, and familiar.
God it was going to drive me crazy not knowing why he was so familiar.
"No," I replied tartly and he let out a hearty laugh.
"Of course not. Perhaps you'll figure it out. You are going to be my tutor, no?" he mused, a dark brow raised.
Sighing, I nodded with a scowl. I did not like surprises—I never have.
"See ya later, 'Lena Gilbert," he drawled before disappearing into Mr. Tanner's classroom.
I looked at that door for the next seventy years until Ric finally called me back to World History.
an. so i have the entire fic practically mapped out so hopefully I won't abandon this fic.
xx. bigbadamon