AUTHOR'S NOTE/APOLOGY: I'm so sorry for being so shitty about updating, but I've been having some family issues and I just haven't had the time to give this chapter the attention it deserves for readers who deserve my best. Or at least my pretty good. This is one more DE-less chapter, but it felt necessary to me to see into the brothers' heads, especially Stefan's. Enjoy, review, follow, but most of all, READ! Thanks for your patience guys, I promise I'll post the next chapter before Thursday's TVD, hopefully earlier.
Damon found Stefan sitting on the porch staring into space as dusk fell over Mystic Falls. Tension came off Stefan in waves; his jaw was clenched so hard that Damon could practically hear the grinding of his brother's teeth.
"Getting chilly," he murmured, more to himself than to Stefan.
Stefan started. He'd been so detached, so lost in the roaring silence of his own mind, that even with vampire hearing he hadn't heard Damon's approach. He looked up at his brother and quickly looked away. The pain haunting Damon's eyes served only to remind Stefan that none of this was a dream. That Elena was dead.
That she'd be back as a vampire.
He closed his eyes and saw her lying unmoving on the floor. He opened them and saw her lying unmoving on the floor.
Would he ever see her any other way?
"Stef."
A slight shift in posture was the only sign that Stefan heard Damon.
Damon leaned against one of the pillars flanking the small porch and sighed. He wanted to go to Elena, to hold her, to see her smile and know she was okay. But right then, it was more important to do damage control with Stefan. He had to help his brother get it together - no way in hell was Stefan going to make Elena feel even worse about the whole fucking mess by having to see the guilt in his green eyes. It would probably prompt her to apologize for getting in the middle of their fight. That was Elena, though. Always trying to protect those she loved, even when she had to protect them from themselves.
Damon drummed restless fingers on his thigh, and when he spoke he aimed for a blank tone, carefully editing the grief from his voice. "Okay, listen up, little bro. That girl upstairs, the one we both love? She's gonna have a hell of a time dealing with all this without having to handle your big sad puppy eyes, too. Christ, I can't believe I'm saying this, and if you ever repeat it I'm gonna say you're full of shit - but Caroline's right. Vampire Barbie apparently comes with a brain as an accessory."
Damon's attempt at humor fell flat. He let out a sharp huff of frustration. "Seriously, Stefan. We've gotta get it together. This is gonna be a hard enough transition for her without us being all screwed up about it. Caroline may have a flaw or two or I don't know, a million... but at the end of the day she's a good friend. When it comes down to it, you want that girl on your team. I know I'm glad she's on ours."
Some distant part of Stefan's brain recognized the sentiment, even the familiar phrasing, of Damon's words. He was fairly certain that he'd once described Caroline in a very similar way. Stefan had a great deal of respect for the girl. He'd shared the doubts Damon had voiced after Caroline changed - she just hadn't seemed like the best candidate for surviving the transition into vamphood. But she'd proved everyone wrong. And she wasn't merely surviving. She was thriving.
Would Elena thrive? Would Elena even survive?
Damon's next words echoed Stefan's thoughts. "I'd be a hell of a lot more worried" - like that was possible, he thought darkly - "if we didn't have her around. Caroline, that is. Somehow she managed to actually improve once her fangs grew in. There's no one better to have on hand than a well-adjusted vampire when we're dealing with a newbie."
Stefan remained silent, unmoving save the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his fist. Damon's irritation spiked and he shoved a hand through his hair, pacing the porch.
"Look, Stefan, this sucks. I mean it just all around sucks. This was never supposed to happen. What we are? It was never supposed to touch her. Jesus, I never wanted this to touch her."
He abruptly stopped pacing and dropped to a crouch in front of his brother, meeting Stefan's tortured gaze.
"You helped make Caroline who she is now, you know. Helped her handle the transition and everything. You can do the same thing for Elena, Stefan. Between the three of us - not to mention the witch, little brother, maybe even teen wolf - we'll make this work. You know why, Stefan?" Damon's voice had a decidedly desperate edge to it now, and he paused for a moment in an attempt to rein in the overwhelming emotions threatening to drown him.
"We'll make it work because we have to. There's no other option. We're gonna pull her through this and take care of her. Teach her how to take care of herself."
When Stefan finally spoke, his voice was raw.
"Maybe it doesn't have to come to that."
"What are you talking about?" But Damon had a feeling he already knew. He watched his brother warily as he stood again, with Stefan following his example. But while Damon looked deceptively at ease, Stefan was tense, wired, restless. Now it was his turn to pace. As he did, Damon saw hope - pathetic, useless, pointless hope - all over Stefan's face.
"Maybe we can stop it. Before the change is complete. I mean, who knows - maybe there's something we can do." There was a feverish energy to Stefan's movements and when he spoke it was more to himself than to Damon.
"A witch, we've got a witch... and she's got the Grim Noir... maybe there's something in it, maybe there's some charm or potion or, God, I don't know, maybe there's a time travel spell! And we can just go back and it'll be as if none of this ever happened. It'll be like - " his voice cracked. He was grasping at straws and he knew what Damon was going to say before his brother even opened his mouth.
"Stefan, there are no charms or potions or spells. You know that. There's only one option. We're gonna get her through this. But you've gotta wrap your head around what's happening and deal with it yourself. Caroline's right - you need to get the hell out of here if you can't keep it together. All we can do now is help her."
"You don't know that's all we can do," Stefan shot back, whirling to face his brother. With his typical lazy grace, Damon propped a hip against the pillar and crossed his arms, raising one dark brow.
"Wrong, Stef. I do know. And you do, too. In the history of history no vampire has ever been... un-vampired. Come on, dude, we don't have time to fuck around, and we definitely don't need to give her false hope. You know that's what it'd be, to make her think there's even the smallest possibility that she can reverse this."
Hating that he spoke nothing but the cold hard truth, Damon lifted a hand to his temple, massaging it in concentric circles. For the first time since becoming a vampire, he was getting a headache.
Stefan had resumed his pacing, but now he turned again to look at Damon. His eyes were bright with tears and his voice was pure anguish.
"Damon, I killed her. I killed her."
The pain vibrating through Stefan's words hit Damon like a wave. He found himself wanting to succumb to that ocean of grief, to simply drown in it. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. The idea of a fanged monster setting up shop in Elena's soft, small, sexy body - it was unbearable. No matter what she went through, no matter the trials she faced, somehow Elena had always maintained a beautiful innocence, a glow of youth, a sense of hope when everyone else had given up.
He couldn't stomach the idea that she could possibly exist in this world without that innocence, that youth, that hope.
Christ, what had they done?
Damon forced himself back to the present, closing his eyes and scowling at the strength of the headache that had crashed full force down on him.
Like the statue that had crashed full force down on Elena's fragile skull.
He fought to shake the image away, opening his eyes and looking sharply at Stefan instead.
"You don't get all the credit, brother. I'd say it was a combined effort."
Stefan wasn't fooled by Damon's wry tone. Humor, sarcasm - they were Damon's standard coping mechanisms. And while they weren't particularly efficient or useful, opting for wit rather than flat out denial was, in this case, definitely the healthier, and smarter, choice.
Stefan considered, for the first time, that he wasn't the only one feeling terribly, sickeningly guilty. Because yes, Damon was the reason Elena had vampire blood in her system in the first place. And yes, he was the one who'd injured her to the point that she needed that blood to heal.
But then, had she really needed it? She'd been functional, left with nothing more severe than some angry bruising and a headache easily conquered by one or two Vicodin. She hadn't truly needed to drink Damon's blood. She wasn't stupid; if vampire blood was absolutely necessary to her survival she wouldn't have been picky, would've accepted Stefan's. No, drinking from Damon's wrist wasn't about fixing physical wounds. Knowing the truth about her injury helped him recognize the blood sharing for what it was - a gesture of forgiveness, a sensual, intimate move that had meaning far beyond simple healing. She'd wanted that exchange, wanted to absolve Damon of his sin, wanted to share that vital, passionate act with him - and the knowledge had torn Stefan apart.
Even if Damon hadn't slipped up and confessed to having hurt Elena - and now that Stefan had a moment to think, he considered the significance of Elena's lie, and exactly what it meant in regards to her feelings for Damon - Stefan still would've gone on the attack. He'd been blind with rage, with pain. He'd needed an outlet for both, and Damon was the obvious choice. The fight was supposed to be bad. It was supposed to inflict gross amounts of pain, to spatter the walls with blood.
But it wasn't meant to end in death. Not his brother's, and never, never Elena's.
He'd been so consumed by his anger, so lost inside it that everything else fell away until the world consisted only of bone grinding against bone, fists slamming against flesh, blood spilling, sweat streaming, curses flying. And it was that precise feeling, that of being completely and entirely enslaved by the need for violence - that was what caused this whole horrible situation. It was frighteningly similar to the things he'd done as a ripper, to the way his tunnel vision blacked everything out except the target of his rage so that nothing mattered except blood and pain.
No, Stefan wasn't like Damon. He'd never been able to drink blood fresh from a warm human vein, without losing it - without leaving a broken body in his wake. Once the ripper was loose there was no turning back. He hated that part of himself, hated the lack of control - yet in this instance, he'd welcomed it. He had gleefully embraced the fire raging inside him, had given himself over to it entirely. He'd pulled into the driveway and stepped out of the car, practically salivating over the fight he fully intended to pick. His heart beat faster at the thought of spilling his brother's blood. He'd fed flame and fury to the animal inside him, excited and a little desperate to set it free.
And the cost of indulging his anger was greater than he could ever imagine.
Yes, Elena's death was a tragic accident. but it was also the result of Stefan giving in to a part of him he knew to be dark and wild and beyond his control. When he fed off a human, it was like the ripper inside him was a vicious, snarling dog straining at its leash until finally, inevitably, that leash snapped.
Today, though, it wasn't about breaking free of a binding tether. It wasn't like a caged animal escaping. No, it wasn't an escape, not when he'd purposefully reached for the lock keeping the monster at bay, not when he'd calmly unlatched it. Not when he'd knowingly, eagerly opened that cage door.
It had been a conscious decision, letting the ripper loose. And it was a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
"Okay, you know what Stefan?" Damon's words intruded on Stefan's thoughts. "This whole strong silent stoic thing, it's not working for me. If you can't get your shit together you need to leave, Stefan. We can't make this worse by being all fucking mopey and upset. We fucked up. We fucked up in the worst possible way. Now we've gotta pick up the pieces."
Damon jammed his hands into his pockets and sent his brother a long, measuring look. "What's it gonna be, brother? You in or you out? Because she's bound to be awake by now. Time to get this complete and total freak show on the proverbial road."
Stefan let out a slow breath. In that instant, he found himself wanting to be like his big brother. To be able to accept the facts regardless of how terrible they were and to just deal. But he simply didn't know if he'd be able to look at this new Elena. And God, how would she look at him? Would there be blame and condemnation in her deep brown eyes? Pained resignation?
In a sudden move that had Damon taking a half step back, Stefan drew back his arm and sent his fist flying, punching the brick exterior of the house hard enough to shatter his knuckles. The pain was sick and sweet and satisfying.
"She never wanted this," he whispered, hoarse, tired, defeated. He remembered the day she'd spoken those words, the day of Klaus' sacrifice, the day they thought would be her last as a human. "She never wanted this."
Damon shook his head and sent his brother a burning glare. "Shit, Stefan, I know that, you think I don't know that? No one wanted this! But you know what? It happened. So go ahead and keep tearing our house to pieces until you get a grasp on the only thing that matters right now."
Damon pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, trying to will away the paralyzing headache thundering in his skull.
"It's not about what Elena, or you, or I, wanted yesterday. It's about what she wants today. And how we can help her get it."
Damon was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to Stefan's bleeding hand.
"You definitely broke more than one bone in there, genius. Healing all those little bone fragments, that's gonna hurt like a bitch."
He turned toward the door, reflexively reaching for the handle to pull it open despite the gaping hole he could've easily stepped through. He stopped, arm still extended, and flicked a glance over his shoulder to meet Stefan's gaze.
"I'm gonna go check in with Barbie, see what's going on. You might wanna get some ice. You're gonna want that hand to be numb while it's healing."
The door swung shut behind Damon's retreating back. Stefan stayed where he was, realizing that Damon was right - he'd shattered bone, making the healing slower and far more painful. Looking down at his hand, he gingerly flexed his fingers, wincing as muscles and tendons and ligaments began the process of mending.
He knew he should follow his brother. He knew he shouldn't stay in hiding for the sake of his own bleeding conscience.
And then he replayed his brother's uncharacteristically accurate words of wisdom. It wasn't about what he, Stefan, should or shouldn't do - and it certainly wasn't about what he wanted to do. It was about Elena, and what she wanted.
Stefan had a feeling that seeing him didn't make the list.
He let out a long sigh and walked inside, but from there his path diverged from his brother's. Damon had gone up the stairs; Stefan skirted them. There was really only one thing for him to do.
He headed for the kitchen to find an ice pack.