Hours bleed into days in the search for Stefanie. Community members come out in droves, searching creek beds and wielding casserole dishes and offering somber vigils, doing all the things that humans do when their children go missing.
Actions meant to comfort only haunt Elena, taunting her with the reality of the situation. Her eldest daughter, her spitting image, has vanished into thin air and she wants nothing more than to scream at the news outlets that cover the story with presuming headlines like "kidnapping" and "runaway." If only it were that simple.
When she drops into bed at the end of a particularly long day with no leads, she's surprised to find her husband's solid form filling the hollow on his side of the bed. These days, he typically sleeps on the sofa, if he even sleeps at all. Years of vampirism turned him into somewhat of an insomniac and stressful situations like the one they are living do nothing to ease his blaring soul. If she's honest with herself, she can relate quite well. But they don't talk about what they have in common anymore.
"Remember what you told me when I was frantically searching for Stefan…" Her voice is soft, but it fills their silent room, settling about them in an unspoken truce. It's the first time she's acknowledged his presence since she pointed to his keys yesterday before work, the first time she's spoken directly to him in over four days.
He doesn't know what to say because the moment seems so paper thin. Is she baiting him? Is this another one of her schemes to prove he's unworthy of everything on the face of the earth? Probably.
Even so, the moment can't last forever, so he punctures the silence with his hesitant reply. "I told you we'd find him and we did."
She reaches out for him in the darkness and it startles him at first, but then he's rescinding under her touch, as he always does, letting her pull him closer until they are chest to chest, skin to skin. They both draw in a breath in unison at the contact.
"We found him and I found you." Her voice is barely above a whisper, and if he weren't already completely tuned in to her methodical breathing, he probably would've missed it entirely. And then he's drifting off to sleep, caught in that winnowy world between reality and dreams. Just as he loses consciousness, he wonders if she even said it at all.
"Sterling!" From the bustle of the school courtyard during lunch hour, it's a wonder she hears her pseudonym being called across the crowd, let alone remembers to respond to it. She's surprised when her eyes lock with one of the upperclassmen who is walking her way with a look of purpose painted across her brow. "Are you Sarah Sterling?"
The young girl swallows, mentally weighing the implications of her answer. "Yes, of course. It's nice to meet you…" Her voice trails off when she realizes she hasn't the slightest clue who this girl is, only the sixth sense that she is some sort of cross between a vampire and a werewolf and that she has a lot of power that she has yet to fully understand.
"Hope," the teenager croons. "I'm Hope Michaelson and I've been sent by Dr. Saltzman himself to show you around. Why, I don't know, considering they usually plan for the new recruits to join orientation groups, but here we are." The girl, Hope, has a warm smile, but it doesn't completely mask her suspicion.
When this plan first came to her, it wasn't her intent to run away from home and stay at the Salvatore School for an extended amount of time. She only wanted to drop in and use her name to leverage answers that her parents refuse to give.
The web of lies she's hidden herself in is already proving to be too much. My name is Sarah Sterling, she rehearses in head. I am nine-years-old. I was born in Atlantic City to a no-count teenage couple involved in hardcore drug abuse. My mother was turned into a vampire when she was pregnant with me and accidentally turned me on a high a few months back.
It's a gruesome story, one that a middle-class suburban elementary schooler should not bear the burden of carrying. That's the reason, she's guessing, why no one has questioned it so far.
Early on, she picks up on the fact that Hope has a lot of freedom at Salvatore School. While most students follow a strict schedule and are expected to abide by all rules at all times, Hope seems to float under the radar. "Is there anything in particular you want to see?" Hope dangles a set of keys in front of her, keys that, if Stefanie had to guess, have the potential to unlock a lot of the answers to her questions. So rather than attempt to poke and prod for answers like an annoying eight-year-old, she decides to make friends in hopes of leveraging the opportunity. "Show me your favorite things about the school."
Warmth. It overtakes her when she awakes and she allows herself to drown in it for a moment, breathing in the scent of Damon's firm chest and sighing in utter contentedness. Only when the haze of sleep wears off does she come back to her senses, remembering that her daughter has been missing for a week and that the man who's arms are encircling her hips is partially to blame.
The more productive, mature way of handling this situation would involve forgiveness and solidarity, but Elena simply doesn't have the energy to reconcile right now.
He shifts in his sleep, drawing her impossibly closer against his chest, sending her heart shattering into a frenzy. Despite everything that's happened, her body never fails to respond to him, and in a moment of pure hedonism, she lets herself drown in pleasure, breathing him in as his lips drowsily trace the shell of her ear.
He's asleep, she's sure. He would never have the audacity to touch her otherwise. Ever since their Valentine's Day fiasco, he treats her like a hand grenade and maybe she deserves it.
"Mommy!" Little feet pitter-patter around the edge of the bed and the mattress gives as four little feet climb up the bed frame and bury themselves under the covers. "Mommy! Daddy! We're hungry!"
A family was something Elena always dreamed of, but she'd be lying to herself if she said the routine domesticity of it suited her. In that way, she is more like her sleeping husband—or at least she used to be. It's Saturday morning and she peels herself out of bed before she can talk herself into something less responsible.
If she's being honest, she wants nothing more than to return to her husband's arms again and fall into a fitful, oblivious sleep. But she makes six pancakes anyway because old habits die hard and she refuses to give up hoping that her little girl will come home.
Author's Note: As you can see, this story has become a bit of a crossover with the show Legacies. My intent is not to marry the two (I've only seen the first two episodes of Legacies), but to create a sense of continuity with the existing canon. Besides, who doesn't want to bring back the glorious boarding house? As always, reviews are appreciated!