Author's Note: I've decided to continue with this story, but so far I've been having some problems writing it (writer's block issues, etc). Hopefully I'll get another chapter up in the next few days or so. Reviews/feedback always appreciated!
Anger. Wrath. Fury. Confusion. Sadness. Dismay. Anguish.
The words float around Stefan's mind, but no word can fully describe the torrent of emotions he's feeling right now. There's nothing he can do about it either- he can't drive or run off because that would mean leaving Elena, which is completely not even in his vocabulary right now. Leaving Elena. Just those two words linked together send icy chills down his spin, make him want to hit something, someone.
So he throws rocks at the lake. It's not much, but it's something.
It's his anger at Elena that, frankly, is kind of scaring him. Nix the kind of. He feels like he's never been mad at anyone like this before, not Damon, not his father, not Katherine.
Because he's never loved anyone like Elena.
He grits his teeth and throws another rock, not particularly noticing or caring that it skips far across the water. Fuck the rocks, fuck the lake, fuck the Originals.
Breathing in, he tries to calm himself down, tries to think logically, rationally. That, however, pretty much stops when he thinks of where he left Elena, standing in the shower, admitting that she wasn't sure if she wanted to fight. Unsure if she really meant those words- but she sure as hell meant what she said last night, about not wanting anyone else to die for her. Part of him thinks he understands that, thinks it's selfless, noble even.
By far the larger part insists that it's not, that it's one of the most selfish things he ever heard of, at least from Elena.
Turning back to the house, he stared at the windows, trying to pick out movement. He thinks he catches a glimpse of Elena gazing out from an upstairs window, staring at him, but he might just be imagining it, hoping too much. Maybe she's just as angry with him as he is with her. Maybe more.
The nagging thought- why didn't she tell him? If she suspected that Elijah's plan was for her to die, why the hell didn't she tell him? To protect him, probably. Another rock gets thrown.
But then, protection is usually behind the majority of Elena's actions. Or inactions. Keeping Jenna in the dark, for instance- dangerous, yes, stupid, probably- but Elena was hellbent on protecting her aunt from the supernatural. Keeping Jenna's life as normal as possible under the circumstances.
He just wishes she had told him.
Then again, he thinks as he glances back at the house, he's done the same thing countless times. To Elena, to Lexi, everyone. He bites his lip, thinking of 1864, the first few wild weeks after he was turned. The time he doesn't like to think about, what he tries never to think about, what he wants desperately to keep hidden from Elena. Not out of malice, but shame, the deepest sort that's rooted in him, of the memories that always, unfailingly appear whenever he's not on his guard. Torturing women, torturing the Founding Families, torturing Damon.
Sometimes at night, a random face or picture of the past will startle him from sleep. Jonathan Gilbert's terrified face as he catches sight of Stefan in the shadows. A nameless girl covered in blood. These images wake him and he'll have to detach himself from Elena's arms, feeling too evil and monstrous to be near her, too dirty and full of too many mistakes, too ashamed that she'll come to her senses and see him for what he is. What he was.
Somehow the movement always wakes her. She'll either roll back against him, or, if he's gotten out of bed, drowsily cross to the window where he always stands, wrap a blanket around the two of them, slowly coax him back to bed. In the morning she doesn't interrogate him or question him too heavily; she seems to understand.
It's similar to her nightmares. Or at least he guesses. They don't happen very often, not anymore. She'll wake, her body covered in sweat, her eyes terrified, her hands clutching the sheets while she cries softly. She's only ever said of these, "The first time you saw me," and he knows it's of the crash, of drowning, of her parents dying. Or maybe it's not even of the crash itself, but a bundle of what ifs.
He throws another rock. Pointless and getting no where, reminiscing of lost time.
Maybe it's a place to start, telling her about that time. He doesn't want to tell her, doesn't want to see the look on her face when she learns what he did.
But maybe he has to. Maybe, if he tells her about that time, a time where he was ready to give up and how Lexi saved him, maybe that will trigger something in her.
Squaring his shoulders, he turns back to the house, no where near ready for this conversation, not ready for the look of disappointment that will inevitably come across Elena's face, but willing to do anything really to convince her to fight.
And then Damon calls with yet more bad news, and Stefan is left to think that there's no possible way in hell that this weekend can get any worse. After starting out so well, full of quiet romance and tangled limbs, this weekend has turned into suicide plans and seriously unadvised dinner parties. Still, he tries to give himself a pep talk: Alaric will be there! Alaric will stop Damon from doing something seriously stupid! Elena will... well, they'll talk, start talking again, maybe get back on track. At least, he thinks, the worst part is over, probably.
He's wrong.
Author's Note (Again): Thanks for all the helpful reviews so far! I have a couple other stories (more one-shots mostly) that I'm working on, so more stuff should get posted shortly... hopefully.