Elena scoured her face with her sleeve until her skin was raw. She half expected to see blood on the fabric from her frantic scrubbing, but there were only salty wet patches. It was impossible; they couldn't be tears. It had to be some kind of aberration. A purely physical reaction, not an emotional one. There must be an explanation for this, an explanation besides the fact that her fucking feelings were leaking everywhere. It wasn't time yet; she wasn't ready. She couldn't let it back in and deal with Jeremy's silent grief and Damon's rejection and blame and her own annihilating guilt and despair. It was too much for any person; it was certainly too much for someone as weak as she was.
It had just been this stupid trip down memory lane. Too much time to think and navel gaze. What they needed to do was to get back to the plan. They had to talk to Rose, they had to find out who had turned her, who had turned them all, and find a way to stay alive. All the bullshit feelings in the world wouldn't matter if she was a pile of fucking ashes.
Though the Rocky Mountains had long since flattened into grain-swollen plains, Jeremy continued to stare out the rear window as if he could see all the way back to his mundane life in Denver. That chapter was done. It had been a nice dream, the idea that any of them could escape Mystic Falls and everything that came with it. But it had been an exercise in futility. Their destiny was in the darkness. The sooner Jeremy accepted that, the better.
"We need you to try to talk to Rose," Elena said, attempting to keep her voice soft. An edge of annoyance glimmered through, but Jeremy didn't seem to notice.
"Can't," Jeremy said.
For the first time in hours, Damon spoke, looking over his shoulder at the sulking boy. "How do you even know? Did you become an expert on ghosts in between batting practice and dog walking?"
Jeremy didn't rise to the bait. Didn't even look away from the window. "I could see Anna and Vicki because I knew them. I never even met Rose. Considering she kidnapped Elena and slept with you, it doesn't sound like I missed much."
"You watch your mouth," Damon said, his voice dangerously low.
"Eyes on the road, Damon-you're not helping," Elena said. Damon's jaw clenched, but he turned back around. "Jeremy, Rose was...not a bad person." She hadn't been a very good one, either, what with the kidnapping and the attempted murder and all, but she had her reasons. "And we need her. If we don't find out where the bloodline originated, we're all dead. Damon, Stefan, Caroline, me."
"What about Tyler? He's not in Katherine's bloodline, right? What happens to him if you kill Klaus?" Jeremy asked.
"If we kill Klaus, Tyler will die," Elena said. There was no point in hiding anything from him; he was a smart boy, he'd figure it out anyway. "At least the way it stands now. We're looking for other options, and we haven't decided what we're doing with Klaus yet. Right now, we just need more information. And you're the only one who can help us get it."
With a heavy sigh, Jeremy tore his gaze away from the western horizon. "Fine. Do you have a picture of her? I need something to concentrate on."
"What, a picture from our trip to Disneyland? Come on, Rose; don't be a bitch," Damon called.
"I have to have something to go on, dick; there are a lot of people on the other side. Tell me something about her," Jeremy ordered.
"Well, she did this thing with her tongue—Elena, you should get her to give you lessons while she's here," Damon said. Elena caught sight of his eyebrows waggling in the rear view mirror. A smile twitched on her lips. The moment she realized what it was, it morphed into a deep scowl. No.
Jeremy looked appropriately horrified. "Haven't I had enough trauma for one day without imagining you with my sister? Tell me what I need to know or forget this crap."
Damon leaned on the horn as a minivan puttered along in the fast lane, riding the soccer mom's bumper. The poor woman got a clue and dove for the comfort of the center lane. The engine roared as Damon opened the Camaro up, screaming along the interstate.
"Rose ran for half a millennium and never found what she was looking for," Damon said, his voice nearly lost in the growl of the engine. "She spent her last day in paradise, soaking in the sun and reminiscing about what it means to be human. And when death came, she didn't fear it."
Elena blinked. "I was with her on her last day, too—she was coughing blood and screaming in agony. It definitely wasn't paradise." Damon wouldn't meet her gaze in the mirror, just pressed the accelerator down a little more and watched the world streak past.
"It was in the dream he gave her," Jeremy said, dark eyes fixed on the passenger seat. "She's here."
The dream he gave her? Elena didn't have any idea what Jeremy was talking about. The last time she'd seen Rose, she'd been half mad with pain, the rot of the werewolf bite devouring her mind and body. But when she'd seen Damon, after it was all over...he'd been upset. Uncharacteristically upset for that time, a time when he was just beginning to feel again, just beginning to understand how emotions worked after a century of blankness. She made a mental note to find out more details later. For now, there were more immediate concerns.
"Rose says she misses you, Damon." Jeremy paused, something unreadable flickering across his face. "She—she misses you too, Elena." It was a lie. That wasn't what she'd said at all. What was he keeping from her? She shook it off. Unless it had to do with the bloodline, it wasn't important.
"So? Who turned her?" Elena asked.
They all watched the empty seat. It was difficult to believe Rose was right there, separated only by the thinnest of veils. Who else was here with them? Jenna? John? Mom and Dad? She shied away from the thought, unsettled at the idea of them seeing her like this. Not just as a vampire, but as an emotionless, empty thing. Elena fervently hoped they had better things to do than watch her.
"It was someone named Mary Porter," Jeremy said.
Damon made a small noise, almost a laugh. "Scary Mary."
"You know her?" Elena asked.
"Biblically," Damon leered. Jeremy and Elena shared identical eye rolls. "Long time ago. Where's the crazy old bat these days?"
"She doesn't know. Says to sit tight, she'll let us know when she finds something." Jeremy blinked, his eyes suddenly focused again, not gazing into that great beyond. Rose was gone.
"Thank you," Damon said. "Thanks for doing that, Jeremy."
"Yeah. Thanks, Jer. It's a start." She rested her hand on his shoulder.
"Whatever," he said. But he didn't shake her hand away. That was a start, too.
Elena stood in the shower at another anonymous motel, letting the scalding water beat down on her skin. They were somewhere in Missouri; she didn't know exactly where. They'd all begun to droop once the sun set, Damon most of all, his body still playing catch-up after Kol's batting practice. There was no word from Rose, but Damon said Mary used to hang out in the Midwest anyway, so they might as well stop and get some rest rather than forging on and backtracking later. They'd wearily agreed.
The boys both fell into the creaky beds the instant they'd reached the room. Even now, Elena could hear Jeremy's snores through the patter of water. When they were kids, she used to get so mad at him for snoring, storming through the bathroom and whacking him awake with a pillow to make the noise stop. He'd just grinned sheepishly and muttered "Sorry, 'Lena." She smiled at the memory.
No. That right there—that was the problem. The memory wasn't supposed to mean anything. It wasn't supposed to warm her cold, dead heart. Nothing was. But there it was, again and again. They kept cropping up throughout the day, little pangs when she least expected them. A rill of barely-suppressed laughter as Jeremy fought for—and won—control of the radio. A flutter of something gentle and familiar in her chest when she caught Damon watching her in the rear view mirror. A gutting wrench of pain when she scrolled through the contacts on her phone and caught sight of Bonnie's smiling face.
None of it should be happening. She'd tried everything. She'd gone back to that well she'd first sensed in the dungeon, mentally reinforcing the walls, covering it with stones, doing everything she could to keep those feelings locked away. She imagined herself in that glittering, insect-like suit of armor, carapace gleaming black in the sunlight, growing ever thicker and protecting her, inside and out. Yet old emotions swirled from the well like ghosts and new ones found chinks in her armor. Elena reached up, turning the water from hot to cold. The frigid droplets bounced off her skin. She scarcely felt their sting.
Dressed in her pajamas, she tiptoed into the darkened motel room. Jeremy lay sprawled in one bed, hopelessly tangled in the covers. Damon lay in the other, head pillowed on his arm, eyes closed. Elena sank into a straight-backed chair, beginning to work the knots out of her hair. She lost herself in the monotonous activity, teasing the tangles free, smoothing the brush from crown to tip over and over again. It was mindless and perfect, until she felt the weight of Damon's gaze upon her, blue eyes blazing like coals in the darkness.
She ignored him. If he wanted to pine over her, imagine she was the woman he loved (since he'd made it perfectly fucking clear that woman wasn't her), let him. She wasn't going to make the same mistake she'd made the night before—especially not with Jeremy in the room.
But he wouldn't look away, the heat of those eyes sending prickles down her spine. She turned to him in annoyance, intending to tell him to leave her alone and go to sleep, but he gave a little jerk of his head. An invitation.
If she were stronger, she'd turn away. If she were the island she pretended to be, she'd sit here until the sun rose, cold and aloof. Instead, she put her brush down and crossed the room. His gaze never wavered. Their shoulders touched when she lay beside him on the bed, the backs of their hands pressed together in the small space. Elena didn't know how long they lay there in silence, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, listening to the sound of Jeremy's heart, the whisper of the interstate in the distance. She breathed in his scent, strangely altered by the trip—always the smell of leather, but this time cut with harsh motel soap instead of sweet bourbon. Familiar and wrong.
His hand slid under her palm, long fingers moving to twine with hers. Her hand seemed to be frozen in a block of ice, unable to move against his, but equally unable to pull away. It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean anything.
Bullshit.
"You saw," she whispered.
"You wanna tell me you had something in your eye?" he said.
"Why is this happening? Why won't it stay away?" Even her voice was pathetic, too close to a whimper, too full of things she could no longer deny she felt, but which didn't yet have names.
Shoulders moved against hers in a shrug. "Maybe there's no such thing as a switch; not really. Maybe it's just something we want to believe in so badly that it works, for a little while. Or maybe because you're ready to come back." He turned his head, looking at her for the first time. "Are you?" The words trembled in the air.
"I don't know." It had been less than a week since she'd killed Bonnie. Whoever said "time heals all wounds" obviously had more time than wounds to their name. She felt it all there, the guilt and the loss and the horror, all boiling beneath the surface. It was all there, real and terrible as ever.
But was that pain worse than this endless emptiness, the repudiation of everything she knew mattered—friendship and brotherhood and love? Was it worth a few tears to be able to comfort her brother when he needed her, to be the sister he deserved? Was it worth a little pain to laugh with Caroline as they tried on ridiculous costumes for the latest school dance? And was it worth a little guilt to hold Damon in her arms and know what it meant to love him again?
The room was too small; Damon was too close. Elena was outside and into the cool night before she'd even made the decision to go. Sickly yellow light stuttered. Elena heard the sound of bodies deep in slumber, bodies lost in one another. She watched the night without seeing, smelled dawn on the horizon.
Stefan had told her not to let the guilt define her. But wasn't that what it was doing now? Avoiding the guilt and pain had become her life, drowning out everything that might have allowed her to start to heal, to accept that she'd made a hard choice, a terrible choice, but a necessary choice. She was so busy running from the hurt that there was no opportunity to remember why she'd made it: for love. And if she was ever going to survive this, she would need that love, just like she would need her brother's love, her friends' love, and her own forgiveness. Her fingers slid beneath the straps of her camisole to wander the hard, raised lines of her scar.
Footsteps behind her, velvety like a cat's. "Elena."
She turned. He'd slung a black shirt over his bare chest, hadn't bothered to do up the buttons. The fitful light cast his face with ominous shadows. "I'm afraid to let it come back. I'm afraid I'll fall apart again."
"If you're afraid, you're already halfway there." He took a step toward her. Then two. Then she was in his arms.
Elena had thought she'd made the most difficult choice of her life when she'd slashed bracelets on her wrists and slid beneath the surface of the warm water. But this was infinitely harder. It didn't come back all at once when she drug the stones away from that well inside her and threw back the lid. The grief was first, the aching, visceral loss of her friend. Then guilt, a need to punish herself, to find a way to atone for what she'd done. Anger at Bonnie for forcing her to make such a choice, dozens of other feelings that left her gasping but so full she was sure she would explode, unable to contain them all. It was too much, she needed to send them away again, push the stones back in and go back to the emptiness, anything to make it stop-
But then the last emotion returned, something which had lurked at the very bottom of the well. Elena remembered playing in the garden with Bonnie, laughing together, crying over boys, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder against Klaus, remembered the way her heart had swelled with pride and amazement when Bonnie made feathers float through the air. Remembered that no matter what had happened between them, no matter what circumstances had torn them apart, she would always, always love Bonnie Bennett.
Damon's arms encircled her and she wept against his cold chest, bent but unbroken.