Okay, so it's been over a week since I've updated this fic. I apologize--mea culpa. There's been a heck of a lot going on with school and work and such lately, but things are more or less sorted out now and hopefully I can get back to writing fanfic on a somewhat regular basis. It's much more fun than all the other things, to be sure.
At any rate, this chapter is something of a re-imagining of the last little bit of "Miss Mystic Falls," after Stefan snaps and starts drinking from Amber, the blond beauty pageant contestant. In the show I believe Elena stabs Stefan with a vervain dart and helps Damon lock him up in the cellar. In this re-telling Damon does it all himself. Although Elena is aware of what he's about to do, she decides to stay with and protect her family and friends instead. I'm taking the story from the point where they meet and discuss what's happened and how to deal with it.
Again...thanks to all of you who have read, reviewed, favorite-ed, or anything else. I appreciate your feedback more than I can say. Please keep going!
And, as always--read, drop me a line or two, and I sincerely hope that you enjoy. :)
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"...I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the light."
--Sarah Williams
He doesn't know how to handle this.
He knew it was coming. He knew from the moment he walked into the house and saw his brother, his long-hated, dearly beloved little brother staring up at him with terror in his eyes and blood forming a splotched ring of infamy around his mouth. He'd stopped dead, his stomach twisting into hard knots of ice, and wondered how the hell they were ever going to get out of this now. He didn't mind that Stefan was drinking human blood, though some small and yet-innocent part of him sighed in bitter resignation that the better half of their twisted duo had finally given in. But it was the fact that his brother had surrendered to and not chosen this path that gave him this terrible sensation of mingled guilt and apprehension. And the child-like fear in Stefan's eyes took him back to a history that he did not in any way care to repeat.
It had been this way before, he remembered. All those years ago, when blood and fire and the stench of fear combined into a miasma that could make you sick at your stomach, that could send the adrenaline pumping like heroin through vulnerable then-human veins. Stefan had always been the golden child, the trusting one, the son who knew without asking that his father would give him anything he asked and more. There was no need to compare the bread and the stone, the scorpion and the egg--not with Stefan. And though neither of them had realized it at the time, in the end it was that very sense of unwavering, unsuspecting trust that had betrayed them all. He'd never had to learn the arts of guile and deceit in order to get what he wanted or conceal what he'd already done. Perhaps if he had, life would be much different for both of them now. But as it had been, as it still was, Stefan was an innocent--"pure of heart," Emily Bennett had said. She'd said too that it was his curse as well as his blessing. And that meant (now as it always had been) that it was up to Damon, and only Damon, to piece together whatever livelihoods his brother had torn apart.
He doesn't know how to do it anymore. It's been so long, really--such a long, long pattern of taunting and teasing and torturing his brother, secure in the knowledge that while Stefan might be tempted, he would never actually succumb. It was a relief, come to think of it, being so sure that while he had to maintain his own strength, he wouldn't have to clean up after his brother. And while he'd worried about Stefan's safety in his vulnerable state, he'd stuck around for one hundred and fifty years in order to ensure that no one dared tangle with either of the Salvatore brothers...and that no one knew their most carefully-guarded secret.
But now...now that they've actually settled down, however briefly, sunk roots into the community and inadvertently fallen in love with the same girl, now Stefan has to succumb to the insatiable desire of the bloodlust, and like it or not, he is lost to the hunger beyond redemption or hope of return. Damon knows his brother well enough to be sure of that. It's possible that Stefan can fight his way back to a tenuous grip on self-control. It's even possible that he could be around Elena, sniff the sweet siren's tune of her blood, and manage to avoid sinking his fangs into her neck and draining her completely dry. But he will never again be able to control himself well enough to go back to the solely vegetarian diet, whether he can deal with that realization or not. And there's really nothing that Damon can do. Those child-like eyes had silently begged him, the older one, the strong one, the one in control, to fix it. To make it better. To clean up the mess and hide the evidence and not punish him as he so richly deserved. And despite the betrayals and the years and the bitterness that stretches like a bone-deep chasm between the two of them, he could not find it in him to refuse.
This is too much, though, he thinks as he strides down the sidewalk with the cool brush of the evening gliding along his skin. Draining bags from a blood bank is one thing. Nibbling on helplessly compelled beauty contestants is another animal entirely. And there's really no way that he can keep his little brother from exposure and certain death if he keeps pulling asinine stunts like this. Fortunately Damon's got connections with the council and a truly incredible talent for believable lies. Otherwise they'd either be staked or burned to a crisp or possible both. (He was more than a little worried when Bonnie pulled her instant migraine trick. He knows full well that a good witch can easily kill with only the power of her eyes.) But he can't keep doing this, can't keep tidying up and stringing together webs of deceit and hoping against hope that somehow no one will find out. He's tied hand and foot in this situation, and if he's going to be honest with himself, he might as well admit that the only people keeping him in the midst of the chaos are Stefan and Elena.
Her name reminds him of the day's events, and the strange and exhilarating sensation of dancing with her in public, before a crowd, feeling every breath, every movement of her body while he ensnared her with only the all-too-human power of his eyes. He can't compel her, he knows, and he wouldn't try it even if he could. But he will seduce her, reminding her with every step and every thud of her beating heart that he is here, that he wants her, and that deep in her bones she knows she should be his. She wants him. If he hadn't realized it before, he knew it for a certainty after that inferno of a dance. The rising flush in her cheeks, the dilation of those dark, dark eyes, the half-caught breaths and flickering lashes were such a dead giveaway he was insanely tempted to call her hand right then and there. But there had been other things to tend to, other obligations that overrode both their desires and their inherent ends, and they'd had to leap on their white steeds to ride to Stefan's unwilling rescue. He hasn't dealt with all those conflicting emotions and their repercussions yet. Quite frankly, he's not sure he really can. But he's walking toward her front porch anyway, possibly in a masochistic self-inducement of yet more conflict into his already tattered existence.
He sits down on the steps, stretches both legs out in front of him and leans back on his elbows, looking up at the glittering night sky. He'd always loved stargazing, ever since he was a small child and his father took he and Stefan out on the front lawn with a book of constellations and a telescope. When the two of them were older they used to point out the constellations to each other, reminding each other of the stories of Greek gods and heroes embodied in the patterns wheeling infinitely high above their heads. He's seen too many night skies to find wonder in them anymore, watched too many bitter sunsets to rejoice at the advent of the stars. But he still finds a comfort in the familiarity of one thing that hasn't altered much in one hundred and forty-five years of constant change.
He's tracing the outline of Orion with cool and practiced eyes when he hears footsteps coming down the sidewalk. He doesn't look down the street--doesn't need to, really. He knows the sound of her stride by now, almost as well as he knows the scent of musk and roses with a kick that trails her wherever she goes. But there's something else mixed in with the perfume and the smell that is just purely Elena--something bitter and reeking of misery. She's been crying, he realizes. And something twists in his gut and twinges in his silent heart as he breathes in the scent of her tears.
She comes around the corner, head down, hair hiding her face as she walks quickly toward the house. Her shoulders are hunched protectively, a turtle pulling back into its battered shell, and she's holding her dress bag in front of her like an unwitting shield against the world. His hands clench automatically on the wood behind him, digging into the splintering surface as he fights the urge to run to her, carry her burdens and pick up all her worries. She is too strong a woman to need a knight in shining armor to fight off her dragons for her. But she is going to need someone before this night is over, and he decides in that split second between sight and recognition that it is going to be him.
"Elena?" he says softly, trying not to frighten her. He should have known better, because she merely looks up through her hair at him and then drops her eyes to the ground again in fatigue-ridden despair.
"What are you doing here, Damon?" she asks dispiritedly, and he can't remember the last time he heard her sound this tired. She walks over to him and sits on the porch, moving like an automaton in the romance of the encroaching dusk. He does know to not touch her yet, to give her a moment until the rawness fades. She did it for him, he remembers faintly, and the memory of that seemingly long-distant pain barely twinges as he looks down at her downbent head.
"Waiting for you," he answers her, even though he's fairly sure that she doesn't really need a reply. She knows why he's here as well as he does.
"How is he?" she asks after a long beat, and he notes dispassionately that there's more duty than compassion in the question. She's too tired to feel anything right now, he thinks. After a moment he laces his fingers together and locks them around one knee, staring up into the sky to avoid seeing the misery in her eyes.
"He's doing all right," he says slowly, each word spaced carefully in the dampness of the quiet air. "He's in the cellar right now, waiting on the vervain to wear off. I've been checking on him every hour or so, and he seems to be doing okay."
She nods perfunctorily and lays her bag down on the steps beside her, one hand smoothing over the material merely to give herself something to do. He stops himself from taking those restless fingers in his, and focuses instead on the listlessness in her aimless gaze.
"He's going to come out of this, Elena," he says, surprising himself with the depth of feeling that's suddenly apparent in his tone. "He's not going to be like this forever. It's just that he hasn't had to practice control in so long that at the first taste of human blood..."
He trails off, unsure of how to say what he's trying to convey. She looks over at him, and one corner of her mouth kicks up in a bitter grimace.
"It's my fault," she says starkly, lips pressing together into a single unforgiving line. "If I hadn't made him drink my blood, none of this would have happened. He wouldn't be lying in a cellar filled with vervain right now. It's my fault."
He shakes his head, all too familiar with the way that guilt can tear you apart and rip through any logical defenses.
"No, it isn't," he tells her with just a hint of iron in his voice. "It has never been your fault, Elena. You didn't choose this life for him. You didn't choose to look like Katherine, either, or torture him with the tomb vampires or try to take his life. And what happened tonight has nothing to do with the fact that you gave Stefan your blood to save both your lives, and everything to do with the fact that he's been denying his true nature for the past one hundred and fifty years. He's been lying to himself and everyone else, and this is the direct result."
Something flares in her eyes at that, but she doesn't straighten and doesn't turn to face him with fire in every vein. He'll have to push a little harder, he thinks resignedly.
"If it's anyone's fault, Elena, it's his," he pushes on, remorselessly. "If he'd bothered to learn a little self-control a hundred years ago, none of us would be in this fix right now. He wouldn't be a menace to this town, or to you, or, for that matter, to me."
She does turn at that, a little flicker of disbelief wavering in her weary face.
"What do you mean, a menace to you?"
He raises a cool eyebrow at her.
"I've spent a good deal of time ensuring my position with the Founders' Council, gaining the trust of the city leaders and protecting my position among the community. I'm not going to let him ruin all of that hard work with a single feeding spree because he can't manage to restrain his basest instincts."
She stares at him as if she's never seen him before.
"He doesn't want to do this, Damon," she says deliberately, as if explaining something to a small and intractable child. "Why would you blame him for something he can't help?"
"Because he can help it," he replies readily, the lies rising with well-oiled ease to his waiting lips. "He's had one hundred and fifty years to learn to help it. That girl wouldn't have been half-dead tonight if he hadn't tried to be such a damn saint back then. He chose this life, and now the rest of us are living with that choice."
She shakes her head, refusing to acknowledge the kernel of truth he's thrusting on her without so much as a by-her-leave. She doesn't want to believe it yet, he knows. But she has to let go, let herself feel the guilt and the pain and the terrible truth of betrayal before she can begin the process of moving on. And like it or not, he's an expert at this particular cycle.
"He was trying to protect people," she protests earnestly. "He didn't want to be a vampire--to be a monster like...like..."
"Like me," he finishes for her, and she's too tired to dissemble. After a moment she shrugs in acceptance, and he forces himself to hold back the triumphant smile.
"Better a monster who can control his hunger than a saint who's on a killing spree," he says pragmatically, and she winces as the memories surge back into her brain. He glances over at her carefully, gauging how close she is to the breaking point, and realizes that she's not quite there yet. Time for a little more pressure, he thinks.
"Face it, Elena. You're not dating a human who can take you out to dinner and give you flowers and chocolates on Valentine's Day," he tells her brutally. "You fell in love with a a vampire...who, by definition, is programmed to feed on your species and regard them as little more than prey. What did you think was going to happen? That he would never turn on you, would never threaten the people you loved? He's a good liar, Elena. He had almost everyone fooled. But down at rock bottom, he's a killer with incredibly bloody hands."
Her head whips around, and she gives him one burning stare before she stands up and stalks away, then wheels to turn on him in vengeful fury.
"And who the hell are you to talk?" she spits, and he's relieved to see the old fiery Elena still shining in the depths of her narrowed eyes. "How many innocent girls have you killed, Damon? How many beauty contestants ended up in bed with you and never woke up alive? At least Stefan tries. At least he's making an effort. You've never cared at all."
He knows she's speaking from the anger and the pain, but he can't help the bruises forming from the solid punch of her words. She's right, and he knows it. But what she doesn't realize is that he's right too, and she has to know both sides of the coin before she'll be able to rest tonight.
"Easy to say that, Elena," he says with freezing certainty in every syllable. "But we're not discussing my many peccadilloes tonight. We talking about the fact that my brother is a danger to you and to the rest of Mystic Falls because he chose to not control his hungers. None of which is your fault."
"But I invited him in," she says slowly, the realization dawning on her exhausted brain. "I invited both of you in. And it's too late now to go back."
"Is that what you want?" he asks her gravely, eyes searching hers. "To go back? Change everything you've done, eradicate the vampires from your life, go back to the way things used to be? Is that what you really want, Elena?"
She stares at him, a terrible grief rising in her face. He can see her begin to tremble, hands shaking with the intensity of her pain.
"No," she whispers, her throat moving as she swallows hard. "I let it all in. I chose to let it all in. And if I could go back...if I could go back right now, I wouldn't change a thing. I chose this for him, for everyone. It's my fault."
He rises, blurs in a single motion until he's standing in front of her and gripping her upper arms with hands that hurt. He shakes her just a little, enough to make her head snap up and her eyes bore into his; he's careful to make his own gaze empty, soulless, limpid as the bottom of a mountain lake on a clear and cloudless day.
"The hell you did," he tells her icily. "We make our own choices, and you have nothing to do with it. Humans are only good for two things in our world--food and entertainment. And you've been good for both, haven't you?"
She breaks at that, as he expected she would. Her eyes widen and she sucks in one ragged breath in a combination of shock and utter disbelief. Then one arm wrenches out of his loosened grasp and she swings blindly with her free hand, her palm connecting sharply with his cheek. The sound of the slap resounds in the quiet neighborhood as she wrestles her other arm free and begins beating at his chest, sobbing wildly as the words are jerked out of her like puppets on a string.
"You...bastard!" she gasps, the tears streaking down her cheeks faster than she can choke them down. "You...lying...bastard. He loved me...he loved me. What would you know about love?"
He almost smiles at that. What doesn't he know about love, he who has been in love with two women who share the same face, who has faced death and deceit and betrayal and somehow been forced to keep loving despite it all. But she has no conception of that kind of emotion. How could she?
"He would never...never use me," she insists desperately, the tears streaking her face as he pins her wrists and holds her away from his body. "He's a good person, Damon. He'd never deliberately hurt anyone. You know that."
He doesn't bother to disillusion her. She'll find out on her own soon enough, he's afraid. But he's almost reached his objective, and he's not about to stop until he does.
"So compliant," he mocks her in a half-whisper next to the curve of her ear. "No wonder he didn't have to compel you to get you to do anything he wanted. Even betray the people you love the most."
"I didn't know!" she snarls at him, her face in his as she spits the words at him. "Do you think I would have endangered them if I had known? Do you think I would have made the choice so easily if I'd had the truth? What the hell kind of person do you think I really am?"
He raises that eyebrow again, staring at her until the import of her words sinks in and her face registers the impact of it like a blow to the windpipe. It's not her fault, and she knows it. It was never her fault, and now she has to deal not only with the fact that she man she loves is a danger to her family and community, but that she in all fairness cannot shoulder his burden of guilt. It's a hard lesson to learn in one night, he knows, but it's his job to teach it to her, and he's going to do it well or not at all. So he doesn't take her in his arms yet, doesn't hold her to soften the blow or decrease the pain until she sways against him and he can hear the first sob rip out of her with the raw force of a tidal wave. Then he pulls her down to the steps with him, rocks her gently as she cries against his chest and he bends his dark head over the agony in her disillusioned eyes.
"Shhh, baby...shhh," he murmurs, knowing that what he says right now doesn't matter as long as she can hear his voice. He strokes her hair and presses his lips to her damp temple, and he can feel her slim body shudder as the crying wears her down. He knows the fault lines are shaking open along his own heart, but he can't let himself feel her pain yet...not now, when she needs him still. And so he lifts her until she's sitting against him, her head lying in the crook of his shoulder, his bent arms protecting her from the truths of the unpleasant world, and she clings to him as if he's the only solid thing left in a life that has fallen apart suddenly beneath her feet. He'll stay here with her until the crying stops, hold her as the headache sets in and she falls asleep out of sheer physical exhaustion. He'll carry her inside, slip up the stairs with her as silently as the footprints of a ghost, lay her on the bed and sit in the chair beside her until the morning light breaks through and reminds him of another morning when their fingers clung in comfort that could not be spoken but was given nonetheless. And although he cannot sleep tonight, he will stay with her through the hours of darkness under the light of the steady, ageless stars.
There is no fear in that which you love the most.