Disclaimers: Elena Gilbert, Stefan Salvatore and friends, along with the Vampire Diaries I - IV belong to L.J. Smith. Everything else is mine. No harm intended or money made from this fic.
Notes:
~ Chapter ~
::Thoughts or telepathy::
_emphasis or italics_
~ Six ~
Work was dismal. Elena unenthusiastically tossed the masking tape and scissors into the box of supplies. She scowled, but that, too, was half-hearted. She'd worked late the past two nights, helping to prepare for the charity arts and craft show coming up this weekend.
She didn't really mind the long hours – what did she have to look forward to in the evenings? No, she was glad for the excuse to stay out late and avoid going back to the apartment.
Unfortunately, her depression turned work that may have been fun, interesting and challenging into tasks that were tedious, menial and difficult. It didn't help that her attention wandered and she messed up the simplest jobs.
"Miss Godfrey."
She had taken her mother's maiden name shortly after leaving Fell's Church as a precaution against people looking up Elena Gilbert and finding a death certificate or an old newspaper article or obituary.
She turned, her expression becoming sourer. When she saw the Jayne Levitt standing with Timothy Fielding, her heart sank. "Mr. Fielding," she replied. She had intended to sound neutral but the acknowledgment came out flat instead.
The burly man eyed her down the bridge of his long, pointy nose for a pregnant moment. He reminded her of the dead Mr. Tanner, her high school history teacher; condescending, haughty and spiteful.
"As you know, your status here with us is provisional until you have proven yourself capable. The agreement was for a one-month probation period. However," Elena stifled the urge to grab his loud orange neck-tie and use it as a garrote to silence his pompous, stuffy speech. "However, I feel it is my duty to inform you that your current performance is far, _far_ from the acceptable level. Unless you improve," and his tone indicated how likely he felt that to be, "Your employment with us will be terminated at the end of one month."
Elena hung on to her temper. "Yes, sir. I understand," she managed to say. He nodded, stared at her consideringly for another two seconds, then left. Elena turned to go, forgetting Jayne until she felt a touch on her elbow. She rounded, ready to snap but the clear green eyes made her pause.
"Hi," she said shortly.
"Problems?" the older woman asked.
Elena hesitated, then her chin tilted up. "Yes." She didn't say it, but her tone added a "So?" behind that statement.
Jayne's eyes momentarily darkened to a color that sent a stab through Elena. "Ah. Pity. We thought you had a lot of potential," Jayne said dismissively.
Elena stared after her, jaw set and clenched. Jayne had been the main speaker in the panel of interviewers and she and Elena had gotten along well. She was a handsome woman, vibrant and dynamic. Elena held deep respect and admiration for her, then and now, after two days of slogging it out on the exhibition hall floor.
Disappointing Jayne added to Elena's burden of bitterness, hurt and anger. ::Damn him for this, too.:: Melancholy hung about her like the proverbial black cloud and trailed her as she gathered her things and set off home.
Dinner was no less an ordeal; Elena picked at her food, unable to bring herself to look at Stefan. Since they had had it out, she had been brooded over their relationship and where they were headed. Try as she might, she could not see how things might work out.
She jabbed her fork through a pea, held it up without really seeing it, then put it in her mouth. She could get a pea around the lump in her throat. Sure, she could. No sweat.
She studied her plate, wondering what to try next, resolutely ignoring the way her eyes were burning.
* * *
Stefan could not stand the silence any longer.
"I'm stepping out for a while. I won't be long," he said. A tiny nod was all the acknowledgement he got. He grabbed his jacket and closed the door behind him. Instead of heading down, though, he climbed the stairs to the roof.
Their building was by no means the tallest structure around, but, thankfully, neither was it dwarfed by its neighbors.
He sat on concrete edge, dangling his feet down into thin air. Before him, below him, Seattle sprawled, urbane, savvy, alive.
::What was it Elena had said? 'You will be young and handsome and powerful and wealthy, with the whole world spread out at your feet.':: He irritably shook away the memory.
Stefan remembered other times through the years when he had sat just like this on other buildings, with other cities stretched out below him. He was, he recognized humorlessly, feeling more suicidal than he had in a while. Perhaps the worse part of it all was the little voice inside that mocked him, "What if you really jumped – and didn't die?" As always, the irreverent suggestion drew a reluctant smile from him.
He was tired. Not physically but mentally, emotionally, spiritually. After two days of replaying the fight, analyzing the arguments, pounding his head looking for solutions – two days of alternating between self-recriminations and angry tirades at the absent Elena – he ached.
It was so tempting to not-think about any of it, except that he could sense Elena's anguish and it twisted him inside. Resolutely, he let his mind wander unfocused...
::I've never felt so alone.::
Her thought was like a small mental voice, lost and scared. He was all she had now, and she didn't even have him to turn to just then.
::Think, think... how are we going to resolve this?:: a silent voice urged. ::Think. How?::
Stefan was suddenly fed-up with thinking. He skidded away from the ledge and stood.
When he let himself back into the apartment, he saw that Elena had tidied up and turned down the lights for the night. He found her in the bathroom, motionless, forehead pressed against the cool tile of the wall. The hand that had paused in the act of pulling the towel off the rack was fisted and white-knuckled.
He came up behind her. His hands cupped her hips lightly and he rested his lips on the juncture of neck and shoulders, feeling the familiar ache in his canines.
Still, she did not react. He drew her towards him and turned her to face him, gently but firmly. She pressed her bowed head against his chest, stubbornly refusing to look at him.
He caressed her back and arms, helplessly trying to comfort her. Minutes passed in silence. Then, Stefan felt the tremors shaking her body. Her breathing roughened until, with a little gasp, the dam broke.
She sobbed like her heart was breaking, her shoulders heaving with each painful breath. Stefan closed his eyes, grieved. She didn't say anything, but Stefan saw the questions that went around and around in her mind.
What was happening to them? Were they breaking up? How could Stefan love her when she looked like an old woman? Could she bear to be with him then? Was she willing to trade her humanity for eternity with him? Were they just wrong for each other? How could they have gone through so much, only to come to this?
He did the only thing he could. He held her – as he had nearly a year ago, beneath Margaret Gilbert's window – and let her cry. He held her all through the night, silent but giving her the touch and closeness she needed. Near dawn, they fell into exhausted slumber.
Notes:
~ Chapter ~
::Thoughts or telepathy::
_emphasis or italics_
~ Six ~
Work was dismal. Elena unenthusiastically tossed the masking tape and scissors into the box of supplies. She scowled, but that, too, was half-hearted. She'd worked late the past two nights, helping to prepare for the charity arts and craft show coming up this weekend.
She didn't really mind the long hours – what did she have to look forward to in the evenings? No, she was glad for the excuse to stay out late and avoid going back to the apartment.
Unfortunately, her depression turned work that may have been fun, interesting and challenging into tasks that were tedious, menial and difficult. It didn't help that her attention wandered and she messed up the simplest jobs.
"Miss Godfrey."
She had taken her mother's maiden name shortly after leaving Fell's Church as a precaution against people looking up Elena Gilbert and finding a death certificate or an old newspaper article or obituary.
She turned, her expression becoming sourer. When she saw the Jayne Levitt standing with Timothy Fielding, her heart sank. "Mr. Fielding," she replied. She had intended to sound neutral but the acknowledgment came out flat instead.
The burly man eyed her down the bridge of his long, pointy nose for a pregnant moment. He reminded her of the dead Mr. Tanner, her high school history teacher; condescending, haughty and spiteful.
"As you know, your status here with us is provisional until you have proven yourself capable. The agreement was for a one-month probation period. However," Elena stifled the urge to grab his loud orange neck-tie and use it as a garrote to silence his pompous, stuffy speech. "However, I feel it is my duty to inform you that your current performance is far, _far_ from the acceptable level. Unless you improve," and his tone indicated how likely he felt that to be, "Your employment with us will be terminated at the end of one month."
Elena hung on to her temper. "Yes, sir. I understand," she managed to say. He nodded, stared at her consideringly for another two seconds, then left. Elena turned to go, forgetting Jayne until she felt a touch on her elbow. She rounded, ready to snap but the clear green eyes made her pause.
"Hi," she said shortly.
"Problems?" the older woman asked.
Elena hesitated, then her chin tilted up. "Yes." She didn't say it, but her tone added a "So?" behind that statement.
Jayne's eyes momentarily darkened to a color that sent a stab through Elena. "Ah. Pity. We thought you had a lot of potential," Jayne said dismissively.
Elena stared after her, jaw set and clenched. Jayne had been the main speaker in the panel of interviewers and she and Elena had gotten along well. She was a handsome woman, vibrant and dynamic. Elena held deep respect and admiration for her, then and now, after two days of slogging it out on the exhibition hall floor.
Disappointing Jayne added to Elena's burden of bitterness, hurt and anger. ::Damn him for this, too.:: Melancholy hung about her like the proverbial black cloud and trailed her as she gathered her things and set off home.
Dinner was no less an ordeal; Elena picked at her food, unable to bring herself to look at Stefan. Since they had had it out, she had been brooded over their relationship and where they were headed. Try as she might, she could not see how things might work out.
She jabbed her fork through a pea, held it up without really seeing it, then put it in her mouth. She could get a pea around the lump in her throat. Sure, she could. No sweat.
She studied her plate, wondering what to try next, resolutely ignoring the way her eyes were burning.
* * *
Stefan could not stand the silence any longer.
"I'm stepping out for a while. I won't be long," he said. A tiny nod was all the acknowledgement he got. He grabbed his jacket and closed the door behind him. Instead of heading down, though, he climbed the stairs to the roof.
Their building was by no means the tallest structure around, but, thankfully, neither was it dwarfed by its neighbors.
He sat on concrete edge, dangling his feet down into thin air. Before him, below him, Seattle sprawled, urbane, savvy, alive.
::What was it Elena had said? 'You will be young and handsome and powerful and wealthy, with the whole world spread out at your feet.':: He irritably shook away the memory.
Stefan remembered other times through the years when he had sat just like this on other buildings, with other cities stretched out below him. He was, he recognized humorlessly, feeling more suicidal than he had in a while. Perhaps the worse part of it all was the little voice inside that mocked him, "What if you really jumped – and didn't die?" As always, the irreverent suggestion drew a reluctant smile from him.
He was tired. Not physically but mentally, emotionally, spiritually. After two days of replaying the fight, analyzing the arguments, pounding his head looking for solutions – two days of alternating between self-recriminations and angry tirades at the absent Elena – he ached.
It was so tempting to not-think about any of it, except that he could sense Elena's anguish and it twisted him inside. Resolutely, he let his mind wander unfocused...
::I've never felt so alone.::
Her thought was like a small mental voice, lost and scared. He was all she had now, and she didn't even have him to turn to just then.
::Think, think... how are we going to resolve this?:: a silent voice urged. ::Think. How?::
Stefan was suddenly fed-up with thinking. He skidded away from the ledge and stood.
When he let himself back into the apartment, he saw that Elena had tidied up and turned down the lights for the night. He found her in the bathroom, motionless, forehead pressed against the cool tile of the wall. The hand that had paused in the act of pulling the towel off the rack was fisted and white-knuckled.
He came up behind her. His hands cupped her hips lightly and he rested his lips on the juncture of neck and shoulders, feeling the familiar ache in his canines.
Still, she did not react. He drew her towards him and turned her to face him, gently but firmly. She pressed her bowed head against his chest, stubbornly refusing to look at him.
He caressed her back and arms, helplessly trying to comfort her. Minutes passed in silence. Then, Stefan felt the tremors shaking her body. Her breathing roughened until, with a little gasp, the dam broke.
She sobbed like her heart was breaking, her shoulders heaving with each painful breath. Stefan closed his eyes, grieved. She didn't say anything, but Stefan saw the questions that went around and around in her mind.
What was happening to them? Were they breaking up? How could Stefan love her when she looked like an old woman? Could she bear to be with him then? Was she willing to trade her humanity for eternity with him? Were they just wrong for each other? How could they have gone through so much, only to come to this?
He did the only thing he could. He held her – as he had nearly a year ago, beneath Margaret Gilbert's window – and let her cry. He held her all through the night, silent but giving her the touch and closeness she needed. Near dawn, they fell into exhausted slumber.