Title comes from 'Blood Bank' by Bon Iver.
Thank you for all the reviews! The time you take to review is very much appreciated. :)
She is pulled from her dreams with a loud, gasping breath, and she finds herself pushing the heavy duvet off of her body, trying to rid herself of any weight that reminds her of the nightmare. Elena draws her knees up and presses back against the pillows resting on the headboard, breathing heavily and feeling frantic.
"Are you alright?"
She turns and finds herself the subject of Elijah's concerned gaze. He's drawn one of those plush armchairs from the fireplace over to the edge of her bed, and he has been sitting, neatly, with a leg folded over the other, and leaning one elbow against the chair arm closest to the bed, head resting on that hand, a finger to his brow and another on his lip. His coat is thrown over the back of the chair, neatly folded. Evidence of this casual position is erased as he sits up straight in the seat, the book on his lap long forgotten.
She bobs her head frantically, because her throat is dry and she's still trying to catch her breath. He passes a glass of water to her, which she gulps down greedily and passes back over with a shaking hand.
"You were having a nightmare." It's a statement, but it's a prompt for her to talk about it.
She draws hands through blond hair – feels a jolt of strangeness as she always does, especially now as she's jumpy – and whispers an affirmation before asking in a stronger voice "Were you in there?"
He seems shocked by the question, even though it's quite legitimate. "I would never be so bold as to do such a thing without your permission beforehand."
"Thanks," she croaks, tearing her hands through her hair once more with clawed fingers. She doesn't think he'd passively sit by if he had been in her head and had seen what was going on. "It was...I was in a coffin and they thought I was dead, I think I was dead, I don't know I was..." she trails off, taking in a shuddering breath, and feels the pillow beside her shift slightly.
Elena looks down and sees Elijah's carefully offered hand, palm open and she latches on to it.
"But Maggie," she whispers, voice high with the first notes of encroaching hysteria. "She thought I was a monster. She was afraid I'd come back and hurt her."
"You care a lot about the girl."
She nods. "She's like a little sister, and friend." She takes a long, indelicate sniff, and feels concern flood her emotions, remembers how upset Maggie was as she was falling asleep. "Is she okay? Is Bree okay?"
The vampire nods. "They're both quite safe, and just one room away." He points at their shared (closed) door, and she notices the sage burning on the chest of drawers beside it. Bree's work, no doubt, before leaving – an act of kindness extended even in the aftermath of what has taken place. "Ms. LaForte is in with her daughter, but she wanted to ensure that you weren't alone when you woke up, in case your glamor slipped. Caroline and Bonnie are growing concerned, as they have been trying the Salvatores and have been unable to reach them for some time now."
She hopes they're okay. She prays that it's a case of bad reception but a small voice in the back of her head tells her she ought to brace herself for the next crisis.
Elena swallows, and squeezes her eyes shut, but opens them quickly when, unbidden, the memory of the bright white flare of fire engulfing the hybrid starts to play. In their chemistry class, Maggie and Elena had witnessed the sheer brightness of some element – magnesium, she thinks – when it was set on fire, and had been warned not to look at it directly while it was alight.
This had been brighter, and she is sure the image is now burned into her memory forever.
The Petrova Fire is a lot of things, and many she doesn't quite know or understand, but she knows this much: it protects those you care for, and it's never been so ferocious.
Maybe she' s been in denial a lot more than she initially thought.
As much as it protects, what has happened has torn off a layer of her own defenses, exposing both her and anyone else knowledgeable to a fact she's tried to push aside.
"How do you feel?" he probes quietly.
She does a mental once over. Honestly, it feels as though she just woke up on the tail end of the flu caught simultaneously with getting hit by a truck. Her limbs and her torso muscles feel weak, and she simply feels drained. Add to that the knowledge that she just fucking set someone on fire, and she's not in the best of shape.
"Not okay," she whispers, with a shaky laugh, because she doesn't feel the need to lie to him. There's a flash of deeper worry in his gaze but she presses onward, because if she lets herself go to that place, there's no chance she'd be able to get a move on with her day. Accepting is one thing, dealing another. "How long was I out?"
"The drive was three hours, and it has been about the same since we arrived back here."
She knows she ought to say something, but her synapses aren't back up to their normal firing speed. Six hours means it's pretty late at night, almost very early in the day. It's one less day until the ritual. One less day to try to come up with a backup plan, another one, just to make sure Maggie would be safe, to make sure Bonnie and Caroline and Bree and Lucy all walk away from this safely, to ensure that Elijah...
As long as she's breathing, he's basically untouchable, she realizes now. They all are, to an extent. If she's alive and keeps herself that way, their chances of staying the same (in each of their varying states of life) increases. For someone who tries to always puts others first, the situation is frustrating.
She exhales loudly and rubs a hand across her forehead.
Her mind jumps to that moment before she fell asleep, and Elijah's face in the mirror.
He knows. Her reaction to that phrase is the same as it was last time. Of course he can hear her heart rate start to race (spend enough time around vampires and you become hyper aware of that beating in your chest), and he can hear her swallow. He's watching her carefully- even with her head turned, she knows this.
Another silent conversation and for the first time, it's not enough. She wants to hear these things that pass between them spoken out loud.
She makes no attempts at concealing it when she turns to look him square in the eye. He regards her with quiet worry, and something soft, and sadly, rue. For her, not towards her.
Whatever this is between them, it's transformed itself since they met. Imagining a life where they never met is disorientingly empty, and she knows it was never meant to be hers – the concept seems to frighten some part of her, actually.
Katherine was a reminder of Tatia, and he cared for her because of that. And as for Tatia, she doesn't really know what the girl was like, but there's something about the way he looks at her that makes her think he's not seeing that girl in her.
He sees her.
He saw her when no one else could, and he always has, once they started to negotiate and gradually came to know one another on better terms. There is no wall he cannot take down with a simple glance, and there's no need for them when it comes to him.
What she gets about this connection between them is something he doesn't understand, but she wants him – desperately wants him – to understand that there is no need for apologies between them. They both put their loved ones first, and while it draws them together, it can pull them apart (although, perhaps now, he is no longer on that opposing side when it comes to those she wants to protect...okay, he definitely isn't). Thinking about the possibility in the upcoming days that he could make a choice that could have them working against one another makes her sick to her stomach.
Time seems precious, tumbling through her hands like sand or water, and she wants him to know she gets this, and she's impatient, and selfish, and she yearns to be more, to be better, but they have a little time now and she's not sure how this is all going to end – he isn't either. She wants to be greedy, truly for the first time, greedy.
Confidence grows as she draws in a breath to speak, as she thinks back on the last few whirlwind days. This feeling of certainty is gaining momentum.
"I regret," she voices, carefully, feeling each word drop like a rock in water, bridging – she hopes – some indeterminable distance between them, "that I killed him; I don't want to hurt other people, that's not...I'm not that kind of person, and I am going to keep making every effort to find ways to keep it from happening again."
There's a sad sort of acceptance in his eyes, but before he can speak, she squeezes his hand, and sits up a little straighter. The last thing she wants to see is this look on his face. Her gut feels like she's on a roller coaster, just about to reach the top of a drop, and she's the one who controls when it happens.
"But I'm not sorry for what..for how I feel, for how I feel about you." It comes out in a whisper, because no matter how much she wants this and oh, how she wants this, it's delicate and precious and no one else, aside from him, should get to see it. It's something dramatically breakable right now, that she puts in his hands, something that doesn't have a full shape yet, but maybe, if they both try to discern it, test it out, they'll find out what it is...
It's extraordinary, watching relief wash over his expression. She casts a quick glance over at the doors and tests the locks with magic. Certain they are secure, she allows her glamor to drop. It's more for her benefit than his, because she's not sure if she could keep it up for the entirety of this conversation.
She moves to the edge of the bed as he moves to the edge of the chair, so they can be closer.
"Elena," he whispers, and she can hear that he means to protest – there's a reluctant tone to it though. She thinks of the word 'regret' in his letter, and wonders if this was one of his meanings even then. She knots their fingers together, stubborn.
"No, no please don't do this," she says, fiercely. "I know you, Elijah. And I know you've...you've been trying to keep your distance, but back there, in that garage?" She stops and swallows and knows she's on the verge of tears. "I'd do it again. I'd do it again for you."
He seems just as surprised as she is when he reaches out and with his thumb, brushes away the tear forming there. "And this fact saddens you," he states, but questions.
"A little," she admits. "Just as much as you didn't enjoy ripping out that guy's heart. This scares me, but..."
"It was necessary," he affirms, "but I do not hold you accountable for my actions, I assure you." Something firm and distant reappears in his voice and eyes, and she knows he takes the blame. "We can't do this, Elena. You shouldn't want this, I have done and will do atrocious things, and-"
"-And I haven't? I won't?" her voice cracks, feeling her eyebrows rise. "No one has clean hands, Elijah, least of all the pair of us, but...but I'm okay with it. I'm not proud of it, but I understand why we do these things, and how we try to avoid them. We can live with those choices, we've both learned how to. Neither of us have made the other what they are."
He whispers her name once more, and leans over, dropping his forehead on their joined hands, and she feels the chuff of his breath against her knee where their hands rest. With her free hand, she runs fingers through his hair, splays them out on his back, and feels firm muscle his ragged breaths.
For what seems like forever, the only sound is their breathing and the crackling of the fire.
"I have killed for you," he murmurs, the sound traveling through her as well, the words already echoed in her thoughts. "You have done the same for me."
What if he denies it all? She knows now, looking back, what she has seen in his actions, his words, and his looks. The chance of her misreading all of this is so slim, and yet, her self-doubt starts to grow with each passing moment. An instant ago she felt like the last person to recognise this and now...
"Say something," she begs. "Please just tell me if I'm crazy or-"
"No," he responds and cuts her off, bringing his head up. "Never, Elena, do not think that for a second. I have tried so very hard to hide this from you; this failure on my part to-"
It's not anger, maybe it's impatience, or frustration – that's a better term for it, but it leaves her cutting him off, a no-nonsense look on her face. "Yes, the timing sucks, but I'm not hiding from you, Elijah. Everything you've asked of me, I've done, or answered. So please don't hide from me. Don't regret this...we have a little time now, and we have a second chance."
He can read the challenge in her eyes, the request that lingers and is too grand a demand to truly voice.
It's incredible, watching the change in him. He sits up, open, honest, and she's scared, God, she is so frightened of this (not him, never him, just her feelings for him because now she's letting herself feel them and it's a tidal wave that drowns her and slakes a thirst she's ignored for so long, but it only seems to awaken another), but she stills and holds her breath when he reaches out and runs his fingers down the side of her face.
(Elena's noticed this in him. With a world that spins out of his control, that changes quicker than he can understand, he tries to anchor himself to it, assure himself of it, by touch. If she can provide that assurance to him she will stay like this for as long as she can.)
There is a look of awe on his face, as his thumb that traces her wet cheek bends and rests at the edge of her lip. Her nerves sing where he touches, and instinctively, she leans into him, giddy for more. She remembers when he looked like this, in the Salvatore's basement, when he realized who she was, and what she had done.
Even then they were taking steps to this.
This is a weakness she can't truly afford, but it's always been there, and she greedily draws strength from his own strength. For every time he seems to regard her as something precious, he's also acknowledged her as an equal, as a person with similar aims, as someone to walk alongside. And so it makes sense that the bed and the chair allow them to find an equal eye level.
It feels like a lifetime passes between his eyes dropping to her lips, and some mutual move to close the distance between them.
His lips are cool and firm, and they move over hers so gently and carefully at first she finds the tears in her eyes start anew. Their joined hands are held so tightly her knuckles are white, and she snakes her free arm around his neck trying to close the space.
His fingers thread through her hair, but drag forward to cup her cheek when her lips part against his. She cannot stop the needy noise that erupts in the back of her throat when his tongue brushes hers.
This is giving up on loves they thought they could save – his, fraternal, hers, youthful.
This is holding onto something they didn't think they could have.
The burning beneath her skin is different now, and she hasn't felt it in a very long time, but ever cognizant, Elijah tapers the kisses until they are the briefest of pressures against her wanting mouth, and her breathing evens out, eyes closed, foreheads pressed together. They have a lot to do and he raggedly whispers 'later' in such a way she wants to do whatever it is that needs doing so they can return to this.
The blush on her cheeks that bloomed as their kisses grew heated is reignited when she looks into his knowing eyes. He presses, once more, his lips to hers, and she can only imagine how full her own must look. She can feel the throb of her own blood in them even now.
She has to check on Maggie, needs to salvage their friendship. Right now, the girl is so frightened she could easily run to Klaus if they're not careful.
They both jump when his phone rings, and she draws back and sits securely on the bed (she was seconds away from falling onto his lap – and she can't decide if that would have been a good or a bad thing) while he gives her a very apologetic look. He walks over to the fireplace, but continues to face her, watching her as he answers it.
"Klaus," he greets. "I was starting to grow concerned; your package has not yet arrived...Ah, I see. My apologies. They have not contacted me with this information and you can assure your friend that this does not need to escalate to violence; I will inform the guards to let them through, and you will tell him to leave my guard's injuries at a broken arm."
He ends the call and stares at the phone in his hands for a moment.
When she comes to stand before him at the mantle, her glamor is back in place, and apprehension is growing in her gut, destroying those lighter, happier butterflies who had previously been occupying the space.
"This isn't going to be good, whatever it is, is it?" she asks, already knowing the answer.
He shakes his head. "My brother's creativity when it comes to these matters knows no bounds; whatever is in that package is going to be something he'll believe you would be unable to resist coming for."
He returns to the chair beside her bed and retrieves his coat, pocketing the phone in it. In seconds he's back to his clean-cut self, his lips no longer swollen, no sign of what had just happened evident on him. He tucks her hair behind her ear and runs his finger over her jaw. "Bring a stake and hope for the best," he says grimly. "I need to go rouse Andrei and fetch some vampire blood for the guard."
She catches his arm just as he reaches for the door, hating the place her mind is going to. "Should I go get some blood bags?"
When he nods she feels her stomach drop because they're thinking the same thing. He asks her, once they're in the hallway, to fetch Caroline and Bonnie, but she comes up with a better solution.
"Elijah asked me to ask you to keep trying your friend's phone again, but to stay here," she says after they answer their door, knowing he'll back up the lie if pressed.
She catches up with Elijah and Mr. Krall in the foyer. The vampire holds a crowbar and Elena brandishes her crossbow in one hand, a sack filled with blood bags in the other. Mr. Krall seems nervous, and his grip tightens on the rifle over his shoulder. Good to know that the man is armed, she notes, and with a firearm he seems comfortable with enough to rely on.
The trio steps outside, and Elena is grateful she remembered to throw on her fleece zipup before leaving; her breath clouds before her, and the chilly night air seems still. Their steps echo across the hard-packed dirt of the plaza within the gates. Someone has turned on several large stadium-style lights at the gate, and the surrounding area is bleached and thrown into high-contrast, the field receding into inky black.
It's a very, very large box that waits for them at the gate-it's a wooden square crate that's taller than she is, and she feels her anxiety notch upwards. Two security guards (one looking a little roughed up), stand with the box.
While they're only just on the other side of the wrought iron fence, they're close enough that they can draw back through and into the safety of the grounds it if need be. Elena drops the sack to the hard-packed dirt and draws the crossbow up, training it on the box.
Elijah speaks quickly to the guards (probably thanking them and apologizing for any injury), hands one guard the ampule of dark liquid, and while he shakes their hands, presses small rolls of money into their hands. Then, he turns with the crowbar and to pry off the lid.
She flicks off the safety on her weapon, hears Mr. Krall do the same. Mystic Falls is rural enough for her to know the sound of a rifle prepared to be shot; she moves to the side slightly, a safe distance away and hopes he has a steady hand.
Instantly, the noise she thought she heard faintly is more than horribly clear as the lid hits the ground.
Stefan's phone rings from within the crate.
"Mr. Krall, I need you to invite these two men inside, please," requests Elijah. There's an urgency to his voice that brooks no argument, and the other man is quick to comply.
"And their names?" he asks even as the guards start to push the crate in through the grate.
"Damon and Stefan Salvatore," Elijah says as he pries the side off of the crate with rapid precision, so they can gain easier access to the brothers that lay on the floor of the crate. "Call your boy out here, we will need help."
Elena chokes back her gasp, drops the crossbow to her side, and finds herself grabbing onto Elijah's arm when she sees them. The hand at her back is heavy but reassuring, and she knows if she tries to dart forward now, he'd probably stop her.
They're unconscious, their skin is a sickening gray and deeply veined, and there's an I.V. pole bolted to the floor between them. Twin lines snake into their forearms from clear-plastic bags, but she sees that there's a yellow tint to them. Vervain. They're being dosed with vervain.
She has a second phone, one that she texts Klaus from, to inform him of when she's sent him his next blood supply. She typically keeps it off but on her person.
She pulls the phone from her pocket, and with freezing fingers, powers it on. As it turns on, Mr. Krall and his son, under Elijah's instruction, quickly disconnect the brothers and quickly set about using the same intravenous lines to start supplying them blood.
The phone beeps to signal that she's received a new message. She huddles against Elijah so that they can both see the screen.
Attached to the text is a photograph of the boys, in similar but slightly better shape than they currently are now, and a brief message:
THEY WON'T LAST FOREVER ELENA.