AUTHOR'S WARNING: Shit's about to get real guys. Brace yourselves, it's gonna be a bumpy ride.
There were certain perks to being a vampire, and Stefan was looking forward to taking full advantage of one of those perks as he pulled into the driveway of the Salvatore boardinghouse.
His blood was running hot, his temper running hotter. It just about killed him, seeing Elena, with that intense, undeniably sexual spark in her eye as she drank Damon's blood.
Damon's blood. Not his. Damon's. And it wasn't like Stefan hadn't offered. Hell, he'd been tempted to force her to take a taste if only to heal the ring of bruises Kol had left around her slender throat. But Stefan didn't operate that way. He wasn't going to force her - not after Damon having done just that only months ago.
Besides, he hadn't thought he'd need to resort to the use of force. He really hadn't considered that she'd turn him down.
He'd wanted to question her, to find out why she'd say no to such a simple, easy fix. But he'd chosen not to challenge her decision - to respect it, and respect her.
He wished he could convince himself that Damon had done what he, Stefan, hadn't. That Damon slashed open his wrist and made Elena drink, made her heal. And really, if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he would've laughed at the very notion. Elena willingly drinking his brother's blood, right from his very wrist? Christ, Damon could've at least been civilized enough to use a glass.
The whole episode had been too much for Stefan to process. So rather than face whatever the hell he'd just witnessed, he jumped in Damon's car - his careless brother had left the keys in the ignition - and peeled out of the driveway.
He drove aimlessly, with only his own pain, his own distraught confusion keeping him company. Something was there between his brother and Elena. Something always had been - he wasn't blind. But Elena had never embraced that 'something' - she hadn't been interested in pursuing the devastating whirlwind that was Damon Salvatore.
The look on her face as she drank Damon's blood wasn't an interested look. It was much, much more. It was hot, fiery. It was pure, naked desire. And it was aimed not at Stefan, but at his reckless, impulsive, unreliable, total dick of an older brother.
Within fifteen minutes of leaving the boardinghouse, Stefan had abruptly turned the car around, unknowingly retracing the marks left by Damon's u-turn earlier that day. He'd thought that being alone was the necessary step, but there was another option, and it was much more appealing. Fuck being sad. Hadn't katherine put it best when she'd told him to just get mad?
Yes. Hold tight to the anger. Keep it close, keep it burning bright. And go home and beat Damon's stupid, cocky, irritatingly handsome face in.
Because that was the thing about two vampires fighting: you didn't have to hold back.
Stefan certainly didn't plan to.
Damon swung the front door open and headed to his car, already mulling over possible places Stefan might be. He pulled up short when he saw only an empty space where his car should be. He dug through his pockets and came up empty-handed; he'd left the keys in the ignition. Again. Damn.
He was contemplating hot-wiring Stefan's little red speedster - he was a little rusty on the skill and figured a bit of practice wouldn't hurt - when his own car came roaring into the driveway. Stefan stopped the car a breath away from the closed garage door - prompting Damon to let out his own breath, one he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Stefan stepped out of the car and shot Damon a brilliant white smile. His black wayfarers hid his dark eyes, but Damon knew his brother, and knew when Stefan's smile was friendly, and when it was feral. This one was most definitely the latter.
"Hello, brother," Stefan called out in a deceptively cheerful tone.
"Close one," Damon answered, tilting his head in the direction of his car. "Nearly kissed the bumper."
"I know," Stefan said, giving a negligent shrug. "I'm the one who was driving it, remember? Indulging myself with one of your toys for a change."
Damon's jaw clenched involuntarily. "What are you getting at, little bro?"
"Just that it's so nice for us to share the way we do. You played with something of mine, so i thought I'd play with something of yours."
"Elena isn't a fucking car, Stefan."
"But she's an easy ride, isn't she?" A devil had taken hold of Stefan's tongue, and he didn't care enough to shake it loose.
Damon closed the distance between himself and Stefan in a fraction of a heartbeat. He gripped a fistful of Stefan's shirt and slammed his younger brother against the garage door.
"Do not talk about her like that."
Stefan shoved Damon back with enough force to send him flying across the yard, but Damon was on his feet, quick as a flash.
"Suddenly you're Mister Chivalry, huh?"
"You wanna hit me? I'll give you a freebie. It's only fair, since I fully intend to kick your ass."
Stefan rushed Damon; Damon stepped aside at the last moment but left one foot in place, causing Stefan to tumble. Quick as a very lethal, very poisonous snake, Stefan's arm snatched one of the belt loops on Damon's jeans, yanking his older brother down and wrestling him to he ground. His green eyes gleamed against his olive skin.
"What other bodily fluids did you two exchange, anyway?" Stefan aimed for a flippant, uncaring tone, but the bite behind it betrayed his anger, his hurt, his emotional turmoil.
"Forget the freebie," Damon said, slamming his fist into Stefan's face. Stefan's lip split; the scent of blood had both their eyes going red, going wild.
"You don't deserve her." Stefan spat out the blood in his mouth. "I love her."
"Fucking newsflash, brother: I love her, too!" Damon paired the declaration with another hard shove, tackling Stefan to the ground again. Limbs tangled, and for several minutes, the only sounds were those of flesh hitting flesh, of fragile bones snapping. Of panting breaths and the occasional moan of pain, not so much because of the injuries they inflicted on each other but from the pain of their bodies healing those injuries even as more rained down.
"Shit," Damon muttered, pulling back to examine the bloody, broken knuckles of his right hand.
Stefan didn't answer, couldn't answer, couldn't even breathe; a sharp pain in his side told him why. He'd felt that pain before. Damon had broken a rib, and that rib had punctured Stefan's lung.
The brothers burned each other with their searing gazes. If looks could kill, indeed.
"Got a rib, didn't I?" Damon grinned viciously.
Stefan made a grab for his brother, and when Damon's fist swung forward, Stefan caught it in his own hand and squeezed brutally. He gave Damon's arm an unforgiving twist, forcing his brother to his knees.
"How's the hand?" Stefan asked, returning the smile. His lung was mending, re-inflating. He could breathe again.
Damon aimed a kick to the back of Stefan's knee; caught off balance, Stefan hit the pavement, scraping his palms on the unforgiving concrete.
"It hurts like a bitch, but it'll still get the job done." Damon said it with a sneer, but the fight was going out of him. Because he knew what his brother was feeling. How many times had he experienced the heartbreak caused by loving Elena Gilbert? Slowly, he got to his feet, then extended his still-healing hand. After a moment of tense silence, Stefan accepted his brother's hand and let Damon pull him upright.
Damon's tone was deliberately light when he spoke. "Feel any better?"
"Not particularly," Stefan said. "It sure as hell was easier when she hated you," he added as an afterthought.
Damon let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Sure as hell was easier when you were still in Ripper Stefan mode."
Damon leaned back against the brick flanking the glass entryway of the boardinghouse. Stefan stood across from him, legs shoulder-width apart, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans. Both their faces were healing; there wasn't time for the black eye Stefan had given Damon to swell into a full-on shiner, and the lip Damon had torn open was long closed, leaving Stefan's mouth twisted in a wry grin.
"It is easier. Much easier, not to care."
"I know it," Damon said, sending his brother a small smile. "Look, I'm sorry you had to see... I'm sorry, okay? But it was only right that I heal her, you know? I'm the asshole who hurt her in the first place."
Every muscle in Stefan's body went rigid. his mouth barely moved when he spoke. "Excuse me?"
Damon was unaware of the change in Stefan's posture; he was staring into space, replaying the moment when Elena's eyes closed, when she succumbed to unconsciousness. He was hearing the sound of her head slamming sharp and loud against the car, remembering how shocked he'd been at his own actions, remembered staring in horror down at his hands, too stunned to catch her before her head connected with the side-view mirror.
Now Damon shook his head in an effort to shake the thoughts away. When he refocused his eyes, he was startled to see his brother, inches away, looking at Damon with molten anger bubbling in his eyes.
"Are we doing this again?" Damon asked, feigning indifference.
"What do you mean, you hurt her in the first place?" Each word was like a bullet, bitten off by Stefan's hungry teeth.
Suddenly uncomfortable, Damon tried to shrug his shoulders. Guilt made the movement jerky, tense. Guilt made him look exactly like what he was: guilty.
"The bruises on her neck. They were from you?" Stefan fist was clenching and unclenching at his side, his body going back into fight mode. He took the hand he wasn't flexing and brought it to Damon's neck, closed his long fingers around his brother's throat. "You did that? You strangled her?"
Damon opened his mouth to respond, only to find that he had no words. There was nothing to say to defend himself; what he'd done had been one hundred percent wrong. He didn't remove Stefan's hand, but returned his brother's gaze and managed one barely perceptible nod.
Stefan's vision went red, his hand tightening on Damon's throat before he lifted his brother into the air and threw him against the door. Glass shattered, blood spilled, but it wasn't enough. Damon fell through the jagged opening left by the broken glass, and Stefan launched himself onto Damon's prone form, leveling his brother with blow after blow. Damon wasn't even defending himself. Because he knew he was getting what he deserved.
And then he thought, fuck that. No, he would fight. Because even though he'd done something terribly wrong, if he let his brother kill him he'd never have the opportunity to right that wrong. He'd never have the opportunity to see what could, what just might, happen with Elena. The past few days, God, the past few nights - they were so full of promise. He wouldn't, couldn't give up when he was so close to something so, so good.
He wouldn't give up because he loved her. And he'd promised never to leave.
When he launched himself at Stefan, it was with a renewed ferocity. The banister of the curving stairway splintered; Stefan dodged Damon's fist so that it punched a hole in the wall. Neither could see through the bloody haze of anger. Neither could hear anything but the sound of their own blood pounding in their ears.
The outer world ceased to exist. Elena ceased to exist. The only thing that mattered was blood, was making it pour from each other's bodies. The only thing that mattered was the sound of flesh pounding flesh, of bones snapping and hot blood pumping through hot veins.
They were completely unaware of anything but each other. Of anything but the thrill of landing the next blow.
So neither one saw Elena, neither one heard her, as she strode into the room and yelled, pleaded, her voice rapidly going from calm - "Okay, enough of the testosterone display, guys" - to panicked - "You have to stop this! You're going to kill each other!"
Stefan shoved Damon; Damon staggered back half a step. Elena, who had been trying to shake Damon's shoulder, stumbled to the floor.
She struggled to get to her feet. Damon stayed on his, feinting left and catching Stefan off guard with an attack on the right. Stefan groped blindly for a weapon, his hand closing on a bust of some long dead poet. The piece, carved out of marble, was heavy. Hefty. Perfect.
Stefan drew his arm back, power singing through his veins as he put every bit of anger and energy behind his swing. He launched it into the air; the piece of statuary went flying toward its intended target. Stefan waited with grim satisfaction to hear the resounding crack the marble would make when it smashed Damon's skull.
Damon anticipated the move. He ducked; the marble arced over his head, and he wore an infuriating smirk as he looked at Stefan.
"Missed me," he said, smirk widening into a full on grin.
But Stefan wasn't moving. His features were frozen in shock as he stared at something over Damon's shoulder. The boiling blood in Damon's veins turned to ice. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
Slowly, sheer terror pulsing in every individual cell of his body, Damon turned around.
Stefan had missed Damon.
He hadn't missed the innocent bystander caught in the melee of fists and fury.
Elena lay crumpled on the floor. Blood, gray matter, and shards of bone formed a grisly halo around her head.
She didn't move. She didn't breathe.
She couldn't. Her heart was silent. Her eyes were vacant.
She was dead.