Notes: I've been working a job recently that allows me a ton of idle time and an endless supply of legal pads, so this is the result of three days of intense workday boredom. Hey, if someone wants to pay me to sit and write fanfic on their legal pads, you can bet your ass I'm taking it.
This one is dedicated to nrynmrth, whose review last chapter made my heart swell for quite a while. ;)
As always, the wait time on this story is unacceptable and you're all far more brilliant than I deserve.
Specific Chapter Note: This chapter is incredibly heavy on the Salvatore Trio (or Triangle, if you prefer) feelings, and I'd like to make a disclaimer about why. While this is not a Stelena nor a Delena story (or a Trio OTP story, although I really want to make one of those), it is a story that is meant to function as a 4th season of TVD, in every sense of the word. There are primary ships, but because this is at its heart, an ensemble based fan-continuation of the first 3 seasons, it functions as an entire TV season. And for that reason, we see a lot - a lot - more than we would if this were just an Elejah, Datherine etc. story. Also, there's a huge underlying theme to this story that transcends romantic ships and explores the romance of friendship, and even more than that, friendship as family.
I just think that's a very important thing to keep in mind here. I do realize this chapter is very filler, but unfortunately, this chapter was meant to be the 2nd part of the previous chapter, which was meant to be one long filler chapter. Things are definitely going to get very real action-wise in the next chapter though. I hope you still enjoy this one.
Thanks. 3
As the familiar backdrop of grand windows and stained and tempered wood panels pulled sharply into view, a stunningly vivid memory assaulted her senses – Caroline and Matt, seven years old, smiles goofy and concerns non-existent, racing across a make-shift brick playground that doubled as the barrier for the Boarding House centerpiece fountain.
Zach had gone off on some hedonistic Las Vegas trip – Carol Lockwood had quite a few words to say about that as Elena hid behind some shrubbery in a game of hide and seek – and, naturally, childish glee etched ear to ear, she proposed they break in and run around.
The first time Elena Gilbert flopped onto the Salvatore's checkered parlor chaise for a blissful nap, she was seven years old, eyes bright with mischief and success.
It sure as hell wasn't the last time.
Now, eleven years later, wracked with uncharacteristic trepidation in the face of a structure she has always adored – and for the last year, actually legally owned – her hands stutter as she reaches for the bell.
If that's not an indication of how much things have changed, she's not sure what is.
Stefan's eyebrows arch in surprise, but it isn't in any way unpleasant – his grin is subdued, but still present in that warm, solid haze that always made her heart leap.
She knows that she's not even kidding herself with use of a past tense here, however. Her heart still leaps, even if just slightly. Whether it's just muscle memory or else lingering affection isn't clear, but it really doesn't matter.
(It's both. She knows it's both. It's understandable though, isn't it? Emotional connection might as well be a damn Horcrux for how impossible it is to destroy.)
His expression finally catches up to the moment, and it's light, affectionate.
"How may I help you, ma'am?"
The shit-eating grin is infectious, and the beams of blinding white autumn sun sinks its teeth into them both.
"Heard about that gorgeous Southern Hospitality down these parts - " she breaks off, smile stoic and steady, but chestnut eyes bathing in benevolence and sheer joy. "Looking for a place to lay my head – my current residence is temporarily" – she searches for a word that won't break the mood, that won't swallow the sunlight in stale, done – to –death angst, " – unfeasible. Do you have a going rate?"
Her question is so unexpected it jolts him back a step – not in displeasure, or even in anxiety, but in an unadulterated show of pure shock.
He picks it up quickly, decades of composure and social graces instilling in him an impressively quick turn around.
"I'll have to confer with the owner – we haven't boarded in quite a few years, but she's pretty understanding, and god knows she sure as heck would love someone else to fawn over her breakfast spreads."
The slight old-time Southern Accent he affects almost breaks her, and her brows arch despite herself.
"She sounds like a hell of a woman," Elena jokes, her eyes creased with affection.
He holds her gaze, an unwavering dark moss green – "She is."
They both feel the air of levity and humor around them give way to something harder, to something with a keen simmer, not of unease but of uncertainty.
The pretense falls away at his hand, and she'd expected nothing less.
"You know I'm not allowing you to give me one penny for this, and if I find one taped under the coffee table, I swear to god I'll tape it to your napping forehead."
She laughs, a low baritone full of nothing but relief and easy amusement.
"How about I help out the owner with that delicious breakfast spread you were raving about?"
Stefan holds his hand out to her, waving her inside, dorky and impish like she hadn't seen in years
(To be fair, he was really obsessed with her spinach and feta omelets.)
"Now that's one deal I'm sure as hell on board for, ma'am."
The return of the put-on Southern twang makes the grin in his lips close the gap between them.
His eyes harden, something thick and serious, a strand of steely determination, the kind he only employed in service of the protection of someone he loves.
"You know you're always welcome here, 'Lena. You never have to ask, deed or no deed."
"I do know," she states, her fingers itching with a need for purchase, an ache for a grounding touch – "But I wanted to."
He moves to the side, and despite their confidences, doubt seeps into every crevice between them.
And then she burns it to the ground, relentless and unapologetic – "Do you ever hold poker nights?"
His bark of a laugh draws a smile, but neither comment further.
They're going to be okay. She knows they will.
(Because she will not fucking allow the grim alternative.)
"I'll have what he's having."
Jeremy Gilbert was far too used to the fine hairs on the back of his neck protesting unknown advances nowadays – far more than any sixteen year old high school student should be.
His jaw ticked and fingers clenched entirely instinctively, his high alert senses were soothed immediately by the peppy voice of Caroline Forbes – a once slightly irritating scratch that turned utterly relieving in its harmlessness.
(Harm – or the threat of it – felt as constant as change these days, so the absence of it quickly became something of a luxury.)
Mystic Falls was certainly not the town it used to be – or maybe the façade was just lifted, a black smoke of actuality that followed the Originals into town like a dog on a leash.
He'd mourned for too many people in his short life, and he supposed he could now add authenticity to that last.
Fuck if that wasn't unnerving.)
His lips twitched into a sloppy, endearing smile – one that was a staple of a 2008 Jeremy Gilbert. Someone so far removed from his heart that he almost felt like a fictional character.
"Well alright, but I should tell you, Miss Forbes, that I don't put out for anything less than top shelf."
Her light punch to his shoulder actually felt wonderful – a normal display of childish impudence and immaturity, something light and appropriate and real, it almost knocked the air from his lungs.
It damn near made him shiver.
Eric brought her a tonic and lime – the tiniest drop of gin, too, almost imperceptible to the tongue but warming to the stomach as was customary when their friends were tending the bar. There was a touch of Baileys in Jeremy's coffee as well, after all.
Her hands wrung together in a distinctly strained gesture, her despondent voice was a relentless knife to his composure.
"Do you know what I spent the day doing first day of school last year?"
"No?"
Her smile waned completely now, a ghost he was no longer sure was there in the first place.
"I was gathering any and all gossip I could pry out on a new kid with perfect hair and broad shoulders – all the girl's favorite new mystery, Stefan Salvatore. Can you believe that?"
His breath stuttered, labored and shallow, as he heard the question under the question.
"Fuck," was his only response, eloquent as ever in the face of discomfort.
"What's happened to us?"
Tragedy, he thinks. A vengeful fate disguised as destiny. A Tears for Fears hit song embodied in physical form.
He doesn't vocalize this, though. Doesn't finalize it, doesn't allow it a physical foothold, keeps it caged in the back of his throat.
"They don't call it supernatural for nothing."
She hummed morbid assent into her glass – "No, they really don't."
His jaw ticks again, not in fear, but in indignation. "You okay?"
The succinct answer and sad smile were so morose, so jarring, the antithesis of everything Caroline Forbes is, that it reeled him back slightly. "Not at all."
"Me neither."
A long pause passes between them, thick and unyielding, and she breaks it on a indulgent laugh in an attempt to save face – "You were a very annoying kid, y'know."
His guffaw was intense, but oddly pleased – "Damn Forbes, what a segue."
She backpedals a bit, strangely conscious of her words in a way she never would've given credence to just a year before.
(In her other life. In his other life.)
"I was just – "
"I know," he assures her, strong and tangible, without the foggy convictions that usually came tailored with youth.
Because he did know. She was looking back, stalling the brakes, hydroplaning – enveloping her musty sinuses in a warm bath of nostalgia, remembrance and purity.
A blanket of snow for the soul.
"You're a good guy, Jer. You've always been the best of us." Her words were sweet, honey and honesty, a sharp contrast to the kick of her next ones: "I think we're going to need that."
His smile is easy, coaxed right out of him with little to no resistance. "You're better than this town has treated you, Caroline."
The 'thank you' doesn't leave her lips directly, but her cheeks tell the story well enough on their own. "I think most of us are."
"Mhm," he agrees. He's spent too many hours of too many nights drowning in thoughts of how much he agrees.
She leaves with her quintessential Caroline flair, a light, breezy laugh and a broad, whole smile and it leaves him a little hazy – somehow he'd just had an entire deep, gritty conversation with Caroline Forbes of all goddamn people with barely a lick of objective depth.
Something of a mind meld, he thought.
With Caroline Forbes.
A Mad World, indeed.
"This your doing?"
Elena hung by the doorframe, playfully smug, eyebrows arched in genuine affection and good cheer.
(Maybe if she smiled enough, joy would seep straight into her bones and replace the hunger, the ravenous itch for hunt and destruction. Per Elle Woods wisdom, happy people just don't shoot their husbands. Or snack on their brothers, as the case may be.
Damon's stance tells a narrative of disinterest bordering on annoyance, but the gleam in his eyes was a flagged clue Elena has been well versed in for years.
('Yes, Elena; you're a complete nuisance.')
Her lips tug up at the memory – an actual smile, one without an agenda or a plea attached to it.
He snaps a kernel of popcorn into his mouth, a red vine dangling between his fingers.
With a noncommittal shrug, she hugs her arms closer around her stomach in transparent anxiety, because despite the mantra of self-help book 'wisdom' that's been sloshing through her head all day, she's been dreading this conversation with Damon since she found herself bunking on a metal slab in a morgue.
(The red vines might have been a bribe. Maybe.)
"I was thinking a movie night might be in order."
"Oh?" – This seems to peak his interest – or perhaps it was the tone of her voice, erratic and a little jumpy, that drew him. Maybe a vampire's inherent pull towards vulnerability extended further than just blood. "A Walk To Remember? The Notebook?"
Her snort of bewilderment softened his expression, shifted his body language just so to create a more open and available demeanor.
(He clearly sensed her concerning skittishness, a temperate lion divesting his instincts to sedate a gazelle.
Except she wasn't a gazelle anymore. It's been over a month and she still often forgets that.
Her stomach jolts in unpleasant realization at this thought, and she forces herself to shake it off. Beneath it, though, she finds a part of her – somehow both small and overwhelming simultaneously – that purrs in satisfaction at the same thought.
A part of her that whispers, low and enticing, 'If you're not a gazelle, then stop fucking acting like it.'
She hates that this sadistic, terrifying anomaly has a point.)
"Y'know, I swear I looked in the mirror this morning, and I don't recall seeing a Freaky Friday with Caroline."
"Point taken," he barked out, his boisterous laugh – that one that creased the corners of his eyes and pulled his furrowed brows into a more open, content disposition in a such a stark contradiction to the man she once met in a 'little kitschy for my tastes' parlor room.
('So I think you should stop with the flirty little comments and that eye thing that you do.'
'What eye thing?')
She'd been through so much with these two men. And whether she was residing in their beds or else a room down the hall, there'd never be a single moment in her – now eternal – life that wouldn't be endeared to these men that changed her life. That saved it. That charged headfirst and heartfirst into the fire to drag her by her self-sacrificing ankles.
But she wasn't the same girl that had stood in the rubble of a once grand Salvatore Estate gawking at a sweet, guarded man with 145 years of pain and worry dragging down the curve of his lips, the ghost of a (not-so dead) ex-girlfriend hanging in the space between them, her inadequacies a sharp pinch in her lungs.
Nor was she the girl that kissed a ruffle-haired Damon Salvatore in a run-down motel because frankly she had been just so goddamn tired.
She would always be a girl who loved the Salvatore brothers, but she knew she would never again be a Salvatore's girl.
And for whatever reason – an uncertain future, a cling to safety, and impending identity crisis – clawing that truth from the lump in her throat was proving much more difficult than she'd anticipated.
"I got a job."
"Did you?" The sharp grin on his lips was so thin and flimsy it was basically paper. "Groceries at Whole Foods?"
The jab was playful, so she responded in kind. "Writing for Richard Bennings Publishing House."
Damon whistled, low and pleased – "Damn, Gilbert, get it."
Her smile was still pleasant, light and airy, but her voice was hard, resolute. "I plan to."
A tense pause ate at the comfortable silence between them.
"We should talk about this," she suddenly blurted, her slick palms protesting the suggestion, sweaty and fidgeting. "I kissed you, everything went to hell with the almost – apocalypse and now Katherine is upstairs, according to Stefan."
Direct then. He seems as surprised by the approach she employed as she is.
Abruptly, though, she starts as her words echo between them.
"That – that came out wrong," she stutters – "I didn't mean anything jealous or contemptuous." He hummed his understanding, his sharp grin now entirely authentic. "Concerned, maybe," she continued, attempting levity; "It is Katherine, after all."
"It's – " he breaks off, staring at some distant memory above her eyeline. He searches for a descriptor that doesn't exist, for an explanation that eludes both language and sanity. "She's Katherine."
She nods, as if it makes perfect sense. And perhaps it does – god knows there's no objective truth in love.
His next words are delivered on a choke, a painful emotional belaying beautiful words: "But I do love you, Elena. You know that, don't you?"
"I do. I really do," she assures. His eyes hold a glimmer of fondness, senses her unease, wipes it clean. "But I think we might have been doing each other a disservice trying to force something that makes it all stale and inauthentic, something I really don't want to allow, especially with you. We're better than that, we should be better than that." Her features softened, blatant relief relaxing the rigidity of her shoulders. "I'm not sure when or how it happened, but you're my best friend, Damon, and I'm done letting this twisted sense of obligation force us to make something wonderful into something distorted."
"I'm your best friend?"
Her eyes rolled, dark with bemusement. "That's all you got out of that?"
His stretched back slightly, posture smug, clearly thrilled to grab the lifeline that propelled him back in his element. "Do you want to tell Bon-Bon or should I?" His smile widened, broad and loud.
"Damon, I swear to god – "
"No really, I'm honored," he continued, voice sharp with delight – "I should write an acceptance speech."
There was little tolerance on her lips, but her gaze was still tinged with warmth – "You're an asshole."
"Well gosh," he says, light sarcasm dripping from every word, "I wonder what the hell I did to end up with such a bitchy best friend."
The glare she shoots him is chillier than the damn Artic.
"Okay, okay – " he stood, red vine still teased between his lips, looking particularly somber, the weight of his next words heavy: "I'm sorry. I think I wanted so badly to love you like I loved her – "
('I will always choose you.')
" – and in the process I stopped loving you."
It's an incredibly sober and poignant realization, and she's physically struck with the stripped bare confirmation of just how old and tired this man really was, the glint of his eyes both resigned and stalwart, a maturity and sapience unmasked from its usual dry wit. "You deserve better than that."
Elena hesitated in her response, the magnitude of these words changing the very quality of the air – "I strung you along with a possibility I don't even know that I ever concretely felt. I can't apologize enough for that."
His sharp breath was heavy, needles and ice.
Finally, he delivered his words on a deep sigh – "What movie are we watching?"
She produced a VHS from her bag, worn and dusty but no worse for wear, big block letters decorating with 'The Godfather' – "I know my audience."
"That you do," he agreed, "The red vines more than proved that, best friend."
A loud groan tore from her throat, elated and annoyed in turn. "I'm going to regret that, aren't I?"
No, she thinks, as she watches the childish glee in his expression as he inspects the VHS, as she listens to Stefan reading mystery fiction to the sounds of 90s grunge on an antique victrola in the next room, as she feels the freedom brought by being able to express her affection authentically, as she feels the burden of expectation evaporate, easily and eagerly,she knows that she won't.
She would never regret a single moment of this.
Four hours later, her belly full of relief, whiskey and laughter, ready and downright hungry for sleep her body doesn't need, she strips off her shirt before a voice from the darkness of Elena's new room stutters a heart that doesn't beat, unsteady and drunk feet tangling in surprise.
"Man, this is good shit. I never knew you were actually funny."
Katherine sits at the desk, feet perched on a red velvet ottoman and a wry smile on her lips, unrestrained bark of laughter stunning and strangely genuine in a way that knocks Elena even further off her feet, her body sinking into the plush sheets of her four – poster bed entirely without consent.
"Jesus Christ, Katherine, what the fuck are you doing in here?"
"Reading," she deadpans, a roll of her eyes with that quintessential Katherine dismissal – sweet and sour, contradictory and somehow charming – etched in every curve of her expression. She waves a hand towards the laptop in front of her in indication.
"That's – " Elena splutters, affronted – "Those are my old articles I was flipping through."
"They are," the elder woman assents, "And they're fucking hilarious, and really, more than a little vicious. What on earth happened to this girl?"
('What makes you think that I'm sad?'
'Well, we did meet in a graveyard.')
"She killed my parents. I killed her."
At Elena's chilled, uncharacteristic tone, Katherine's hands stilled, the smile slipping straight off her face. The stoic countenance it left was startling in its vacant impassivity.
"Dear sweet Elena," she began, and without her usual sharp condescension or sweet, fake coyness, her tone sent chills down Elena's spine, terrifying, blank and utterly hollow; "We need to talk."
You should know that literally no one is more angry than myself at how long I've been teasing this Kat & Elena conversation. It'll be worth it, I promise. 3
Also, random but one my favorite super random TVD headcanons is that Elena cooks and Stefan is obsessed with it. I'm sorry, but it just seems so in character for both of them that I'm not really sorry at all. ;)
Thanks for reading, please leave a review if you enjoyed, have comments, suggestions or constructive criticism. 3
Next Time on D&R: Katherine finds time to fill Elena in on what she knows, albeit with her own unique flair, school resumes and the Kids Are Most Definitely Not Alright, and Christmas brings new developments for many relationships, along with some fluff, some angst, some cheer, some alcohol and all topped with a cherry of unexpected horrors. ;)