Organismal Diversity
Tyler sits with his back to hers, their shoulders occasionally bumping into each other while they lean over to peek at the other's project. She's grateful for the time he's given her these past weekends. She's needed him but spending this much time together makes her feel guilty.
Not that she's pulled him away from Caroline. It's that her friend trusts her so implicitly. As far as they know, she is still worthy of that trust. She's a girl you can leave your boyfriend with and know nothing will happen. Trust that he won't cheat because Elena Gilbert doesn't do that. She might have a breakdown and break up with her high school sweetheart, but she'd never cheat.
They are so sure of who she is that it hurts.
It's the fact that she's never told any of them what really happened with her and Stefan that makes her feel ashamed when they all hang out. A shame made worse knowing that he's kept silent too. To protect her when she doesn't deserve it.
She's become adept at pushing those thoughts from her mind. Expelling them like a spirit haunting her home. She needs to focus on more important things. Like her mid-term. Tyler's is further along than hers and his perspective on it so clear. She may have thought of her idea first, but passion propelled his to lengths she couldn't even fathom.
Photos of him through the years spliced together with varying animals in mid-snarl. Beautiful explosions of color and anger. His flared nostrils matching almost perfectly and morphing into a lion or a bear. Anything with imposing canines. Slowly the series morphs into candid shots Caroline has taken of him after they'd started dating. Tranquility unmatched, he chose the same animals and softened their features. Now the bloodthirsty beasts looked back at her with doleful eyes.
He'd explained how he'd wanted to convey his rage issues. How out of control he'd once felt until he learned to channel all that energy. She had nodded and smiled, immediately envious of how clearly Tyler could see himself.
It made her feel more lost, knowing that he couldn't relate to her struggles with self. He and everyone else had such a clear idea of their identity. They were all set so firmly on their paths, and she was only pretending at it. Enough to satisfy her friends and family, but achingly hollow. She wonders when they had all surpassed her. What class had she missed? What lesson had she tuned out?
"What's yours going to be again?" He bumps into her shoulder, an elated grin plastered across his face.
"A collage about Mystic Falls." She catches his questioning eyes and adds, "Well, not just that. Stuff about being part of a founding family and the legends about the tomb vampires. All the mystical crap we learned in high school."
His smile widens, but his eyes don't change. "That's a great idea, Elena!"
"You think?"
"For sure. A lot of who we are is based on where we're from, so it makes sense. And Mystic Falls is unique with all the legends of vampires and witches and ghosts. It's an interesting perspective and you'll have a lot to go on." He turns quickly back to his own work.
She doesn't feel assured by his exuberance but begins her own project by tracing the Gilbert lineage through the town and its rumors.
At the magic shop, she hits her stride. The subtle noises of Bonnie sifting through paperwork and Nora re-stacking the shelves help immensely. Their occasional humming that reminds Elena of the way birds call each other in the park. When Bonnie runs out of breath, Nora anticipates the moment and begins her own humming. The lovers picking up where the other left off.
She's thinking about how much she'd like to stay here forever just like this when Bonnie asks about the project. "It's the Gilbert line through Mystic Falls." Elena holds it up for her like a child hoping for a spot on the fridge.
"That looks awesome." Bonnie's smile is reassuring. Like she's been throughout this semester each time Elena has texted her annoyance after class. Like it's always been throughout their friendship. Nora slips her hands through Bonnie's arms and pulls her closer with her fingers hanging off her belt loops. "Right, Nora?"
"So, it's supposed to be a family tree?" Nora plants her chin on Bonnie's bare shoulder.
"Well, no. It's more than that." Elena shifts from her spot on the ground, wishing that it didn't feel so awkward having the two women look down on her. "It's how the Gilberts had an impact on our hometown."
"Isn't this project supposed to be about you?" The question is innocent, but like most things that come out of her mouth, it sounds condescending.
"Nora!" Bonnie breaks out of her girlfriend's hold; the shock isn't as authentic as the panic in her voice.
"What?" She shrugs, letting her polished curls fall partially over her face. "You asked for my opinion."
"It is about me." Elena tries to defend, but her pride and conviction have left her.
"No, it's about your family." Nora corrects so simply and yet so firmly.
Elena struggles to explain, sounds dying in her throat until she offers a feeble response. "My family is part of me."
"Exactly!" Bonnie throws her hands in the air like it's all been resolved. Elena has given the right answer and she and Nora can get back to their peaceful routine.
"A part of you, but they aren't who you are." Nora had never met a challenge she didn't like and now that she'd homed in on Elena's project, there was nothing stopping her. Not even Bonnie's hand anxiously encircling her wrist. Or Elena's faltering happiness. "That's like saying dirt is the tree. A part of it, sure. Had a hand in growing it, yes. But dirt isn't a tree."
"Are you saying my family is…dirt?" She only asks because she respects Bonnie enough to confirm before letting the anger form into a dagger.
"No, that's now what she's saying at all." Bonnie steps between her childhood friend and her girlfriend.
"That's exactly the point of my metaphor, my love." Nora shoots confused looks to the two women. "You, Elena, are the tree of this project. Who is the tree? That's the question isn't it? Not the dirt. No offense. It's just part of the metaphor, darling."
Bonnie turns her back to Nora, knowing there's no talking her down and shoots a pleading look to Elena. To just leave this be. To know that Nora has meant no harm and that, like Caroline, so much of what she says only comes out wrong even when they mean well. To love her more and let it go. Elena let's her chest deflate. "None taken."
They return to their work, but the magic of the shop has vanished. She waits an hour before making an excuse to leave. Neither woman seems particularly upset about it and that hurts worse.
She keeps to her home when working on the project. The magic shop is too critical, and Tyler's burgeoning work is too intimidating for her to feel comfortable in her own skin. Occasionally Caroline comes over while she's busy putting together the project, but all she wants to talk about is Stefan. Occasionally interspersed with speculations about Klaus.
Eventually, Elena ducks her too and takes her project to the back room of her favorite coffee shop.
At least at the shop, no one bothers her. She can work on the project in peace, gathering historical documents online or from her parents' own files. Photocopies cut out and pasted, weaving proudly like a homemade quilt. She's pleased with her creative efforts. Then his voice cuts her in half with two words.
"Ms. Gilbert."
"Mr. Mikaelson." Her lips purse together in a forced smile. He sits down across from her, careful not to touch the various loose pieces of paper. "No, please, take a seat," she offers sarcastically though he doesn't seem to even notice.
"It warms my stone heart to see you here working on your project. On a weekend no less." He cradles his coffee close to his torso. The words slip out in a funny way she's noticed. Nearly a lisp but more like his tongue presses to his teeth with every word. Somehow he makes it charming.
"Or does it annoy you to see me actually trying?" Unfortunate for him that the thought he could sound charming occurred to her because now she can't help but dig her heels in. Put another brick on the wall she's started building exclusively for him.
"Are you?" He asks, considering her work. Twisting his head around to get a good measure of it. "Trying?"
"What? Yes, of course I am. I really thought about this." She falters at the end. Over her answer and Tyler's hyped-up enthusiasm. Nora's unbiased judgement is mixed in there for good measure.
"It looks like a history report to me. An ill-formed one at that." His finger traces the Sommers name to where it meets her father's line. She resists the urge to hit his hand away.
"This is me. Exactly what you asked." The documents are too spread out to easily shove them back into her bag though she wishes she could. Stuff them down and run far away from this exacting look he's giving her. "The history of my family dating back to our town's inception."
"And where are you?"
"I'm-." It's not a question anyone has ever asked of her. She'd always fit so well. Been the perfect piece to any puzzle that had ever been made for her. She was trying to show him the picture, but he didn't see her in it.
And she was beginning to think neither did she.
"Is this the sum total of who you are? Stories and legends of what other people have done? Where are you on your own stories, Ms. Gilbert?" He doesn't sound harsh anymore. Pity cuts through it and she blushes from the embarrassment.
"I don't have any stories."
"That's a lie if I've ever heard one. All of us have stories. We are legends of our own making." She's too busy avoiding him to notice how pleadingly he tries to catch her sight again. How desperately he's trying to rectify the situation. Shame has its hands around her throat and all she can do is lash out.
"You sound ridiculous."
"Do I?" She can tell he's smiling even without looking up. Like the idea that he's ever been ridiculous is foreign and absurd. "If considering one's legacy and impact on the world is ridiculous, then I suppose I'm the most outrageous man that's ever walked the earth."
She looks up at him again. His lips tilted in a crooked smile and amusement in his eyes, but there's something deeper in them. A mystery. Her fingers flex at the thought and she clasps her hands together to quell the building intrigue.
"I suppose I should be going," he sighs to stand. "I wouldn't want to distract you from your grade."
It's a failure.
Her mid-term project and by transitive powers, herself, are failures. She's breezing by her other courses and for the first time they don't matter. Because now, she was being challenged and finding out she's less than perfect. The red marks fly off the page and burrow under her skin like thorns.
Caroline and Tyler give her comforting glances and hugs. Nora snorts her triumph of being right while Bonnie holds her breathe. Mr. Mikaelson tells her that she'll fail this class unless she can show him a willingness to step outside her comfort zone. A task she'd thought she'd been doing for the last few weeks.
Saturday afternoon and she's still wallowing in her disaster. Jeremy would never have needed goading to leave his comfort zone. She's not even sure he has a comfort zone. She hits send on another novel of a text. Complaining to him about her wasted efforts and frustrations over not even knowing what to do. Wonders how he'll feel about her blowing up his phone while it's under lock and key in someone's desk. Hopes her catalogue of feelings and activities these past few months will make him smile.
The lazy sun stretches across her bed and leaves her without direction. Midterms are over. No distraction in studying. Her friends have plans, and she doesn't feel like replying to any of the texts from her one-night stands.
Restless feet lead through her city and across the water to his side.
At first, she isn't sure what she's doing in Manhattan. Caroline's weekends have been busy throwing events for her sorority. Tyler at her heels as the dutiful boyfriend, providing the muscle to match her headstrong nature. And she's not sure she wants to see either of them. Tyler's project received glowing reviews and Caroline only offered empty epithets extolling the virtues of trying harder.
It's not as though she wasn't trying. Her effort wasn't the problem. She was.
Nora had been right. She hadn't been following the guidelines. An identity crisis that had been shoved into a pad-locked chest was clawing its way out and she was too anxious to dare confront it through this project. She'd tried taking the easy way out and it showed.
This time of day, Damon might be waking up after a long Friday night out. She chews at the edge of her cuticle trying to decide if she wants to call him. He's like a shot of tequila. He'll make her feel good for a while until he doesn't.
She doesn't call. Narrowly avoiding the poison she's been ingesting for months now. Shuts her phone off and runs from the feeling until her calves begin to cramp.
When she finally looks up from the pavement, she's startled to find the end of a long line. Tourists waiting for MoMA. It starts moving and on impulse she falls into step with them. Her identity can wait for her on the busy city streets. If she escapes inside, maybe she can ditch the lurching certainty that she's done irreparable damage to her once perfect life.
Inside, the line moves at a subtle pace that feels almost orchestrated. She pauses thoughtfully to read plaques in front of pieces that she just doesn't understand. The words and history elicit more from her though she knows it should be the other way around. Jeremy would scoff at her if he could hear her thoughts. Accuse her of being willfully dense before rolling his eyes and disappearing into the crowd.
She pretends he's here with her instead. Conjuring a vivid image in her head of a brother who jokes with her while he educates passionately about which artist is his favorite. Helps her with an idea for her final that will pull her through this class with a passing grade. Listens dutifully as she complains about her professor without making over-the-top remarks about his attractiveness.
Her imagination has her smiling. Glancing over her shoulder pretending Jeremy is just behind her walking through the exhibits, lingering in places she's already left. Tired, she sits on a bench in front of a Jackson Pollock. Leaning to the side, pretending that her brother is there to nudge her shoulder back. She sits there long enough to lose her original group and only when the room empties does she notice him staring at her.
Her stupid, arrogant, allegedly famous guest professor leans against the hard edge between rooms. Piercing eyes have her feeling strangely like a deer caught in a meadow by a fairytale wolf. He doesn't make a move to approach the bench to her relief. Just nods his head in her direction.
They stare at each other longer than she's appreciated any of the actual art on exhibit so far today. But she's so caught in the moment that she doesn't even consider looking away until he pushes off the wall and turns so casually into the next room that she wonders if she conjured him up instead of Jeremy.
The wall of sepia toned paint splatter offers her no comfort from the scalding heat now moving down her neck. The feeling spikes any time she eyes the room he's left her for. She should avoid him. Wants to dismiss him. Has no reason to approach him. Can wait until the week to talk to him about her grades.
With every reason to avoid him, she follows him into the next room anyway.
"Mr. Mikaelson?" This room is nearly empty. They are caught between waves of visitors in a room too big for just the two of them.
"Now, Ms. Gilbert, it's the weekend." He speaks before even turning to look at her. She's annoyed with how clearly he had anticipated her approach. "I'm enjoying my free time away from the obligations and burdens of teaching."
"I'm sorry." An insincere apology uttered in haste. Any excuse to retreat as she takes a step back from this decision.
"I hadn't meant that I desired to rid myself of your company. Only a reminder that we aren't in class. And yet, that's precisely what's on your mind. Isn't it?"
"Yes. I just- A failing grade seems extreme, doesn't it? I turned in a project on time with my interpretation of the guidelines and-"
He interrupts her and she wishes she had saved this for office hours. She'd feel less exposed in the academic space. "But that's it, isn't it? Your interpretation. Not mine. I asked to see you and you showed me other people."
"Aren't we all just a whole made up of pieces of the people who have loved us?" He suppresses a smile. So does she once she's caught it, hoping that maybe she's turned the tides on her luck with him.
"Decent justification for a shallow effort." Her shoulders fall and he adds, "I don't mean that to be insulting by the way."
"I'm unsure how I could interpret it as anything but an insult."
They walk through to the next room together and before long, she's following him from room to room having a conversation that would normally frustrate her. But there's something about him that makes her want to challenge him. Frustrate him back. A conversation that more resembles an epic tennis showdown than an enjoyable discussion.
"I say shallow because I know there's more to you than what you're showing. It's up to you, I suppose, to be brave enough to let it all out." He stops at a pop art painting of soup, peaking at her through his peripherals. "It must be exhausting, restraining all that potential."
"You don't know me." Her shoulders set back firmly; her chin held high. Without realizing it, she's already spent an hour with him.
"Because we haven't sat down and spoken at length? I'd argue that's the only reason I've been able to make an accurate assessment of you." His finger hovers over his lips, drawing her in. "I don't have to wade through the bullshit of a forced persona."
"I don't force anything!" Instinctually, she slaps his shoulder with the back of her hand. Almost playfully. The realization hits her and she shoves her hands deep into her pockets out of fear of what they might do next.
He takes the opportunity to lean close, whisper in her ear. "Quiet, love. We are in a museum." She takes a wide sidestep to create more room between them as they keep walking. "What a great lie. I've watched you plaster over the cracks hoping no one's seen your weakness when what you are really doing is suffocating yourself."
"You're just spouting off some pseudo-intelligent bullshit in order to get under my skin." She doesn't know how much of that is to assure herself. Wouldn't want to know.
They've rejoined another group at some point though the only way she registers it is when she nearly bumps into another person before he steers her away with his hand hovering at her waist. She'd try to put distance between them again but he guides her to a painting before she gets the chance.
"And you're the one following me through the exhibits. What do you think of this piece?" He stops in front of a modern piece, the type she has the least patience for.
"What? The lines and colors?"
"Primary colors. Primary values. Primary directions." He ticks off the list on his right hand and she watches closely, more interested in that motion than the painting.
"It's…stupid." She finally settles on the word before launching into a tirade. "This is the reason I can't take all this seriously when it looks like something I might have doodled in the margins of my math notes." She only stops when she notices him smiling at her. Not at all the expression she thought she'd earn from him. "What?"
"Nothing. I suppose it's refreshing to hear such an unfiltered opinion. Even if it's wrong." He adds almost as an afterthought.
"Opinions can't be wrong."
"Oh, some of them most certainly are, Ms. Gilbert." His knowing eyes makes her want to argue more but he continues on sounding more like a teacher than he has the last few months. "This is Mondrian. His commitment to his vision has always struck me as admirable. When there are certainly detractors who would criticize his efforts as nothing more than a doodle. But that is art. It isn't about what you can do. It's about being a pioneer. In some ways, a rebel. To have a specific vision coupled with the utter madness to see it through to the end in spite of any naysayers."
"What was his vision then?" She wishes class had been more like this. If it had, maybe she would have understood more of it. Or at least tried harder to appreciate it. Appreciate his knowledge at least instead of dismissing him. Without the classroom and the pressure of a grade, she enjoys talking to him. Curious about his opinions. A subject she has little interest in made intriguing by his passion for it.
"To illustrate contrasting elements in life. Opposing forces that balance each other out. The tension of life's dynamic forces. It's a comment on humanity." She follows him out of the exhibit and down the hallway.
"They're just boxes." She can't help herself even now. Has to take the opportunity for another barb even if wants to hear more of this thoughts on the topic.
"Everything's just a box when you're in one. On to the next floor?" She nods and he presses the button. As if he were a gentleman, he holds the elevator doors open for her. She's not entirely displeased that it's only them who get on.
Somehow, talking to him is the least she's thought about her mid-term since he posted their grades.
She smells like the ocean at night. It takes him back to the hours spent driving along the coast from his home in New Orleans. When he scans the panel to take them to the next floor, he buys time to allow a lingering stare from her utilitarian ankle boots to the oversized long sleeve shirt that hints at her figure underneath. Soft waves fall at her collarbone and he wishes he were in a position to brush them aside. What he would do if he held that kind of position in her life.
The entire afternoon has transformed him into a trapeze artist. Balancing from one conversation to the next, hoping to keep her engaged. Aware that he has a knack at repelling her even when he's trying to accomplish the opposite.
"What have you thought of our day so far?" He asks as if their meeting was planned. Even in his thoughts, he doesn't allow himself to call it a date. Before she can answer, the elevator does. In a shuddering, mechanical screech. She stumbles into him and he catches her, grateful to physics that it seems to favor him today. "You're okay," he assures with his thumb stroking her back.
When she looks up at him, he thinks for a moment about kissing her. Has thought of it for many moments since the semester began. But she breaks away from him and rolls her shoulders. Gives him that awkwardly pressed smile that hurts worse than any insult she's ever given him.
"I'll call for assistance." She nods, pressing her back to the corner of the elevator. They tell him it will be at least an hour if not longer. A prize for him though seeing her lips pursed together tells him she doesn't quite see it the same.
Winning her over is a fruitless venture. At least that's what he imagines Elijah would say to him.
The mishap has sucked all the fire from their conversation and he's worried throwing coals on it will cause her to extinguish entirely. She slides down the elevator wall, rubbing her hands together anxiously. He stays standing, worried about driving her farther away in his attempt to get closer. Elijah's voice plays in his head as he considers what to do next.
"Do you want gum?" she fumbles through her bag from the position she's taken on the floor, resigned to wait for rescue with her legs crossed on the ground. Perhaps she's only trying to break the tension, but it still has him triumphantly sneering at the Elijah of his imagination.
"That would be lovely."
The mystery of women and all that they keep in their purses. He can't recall the last time he'd had gum that didn't come from a woman. It wasn't something he kept on him, but their purses were like little parcels packed for grand adventures containing a multitude of useful items. A surprise though to see his sister's face in the depths of her bag. Freya smiles up at him from the gleaming cover of her latest book.
"Here," Elena passes the silver-wrapped stick to him and he knows he's not the only one who feels the charge between them by the way her eyes meet his.
"You're interested in the occult? Magic?" he clarifies, unwrapping the gum as he takes a seat next to her on the floor. Intentionally close enough so that their shoulders graze. If she notices, she doesn't say anything. Or move away.
"Oh! Well, sort of?" She pulls out the book and flips it over in her hand to show him the cover. "I work part-time at my friend's magic shop on the other side of town. It's mostly Bonnie and her girlfriend that are interested but, you know, supportive friend. I bought the book from her."
"With your disdain for the arts, I had presumed it would extend to include this as well." Being this close to her feels better than any whiskey he's ever had. She goes straight to his head, flowing in his bloodstream and making him dizzy.
"I don't hate art." He offers only a raised eyebrow in disbelief. When she laughs, so does he. More from relief than actual humor. "I know I made it seem like I did. I just don't get it all the time. And your class kind of got in the way of my other plans."
"Do you often harshly dismiss things that get in your way?"
"Honestly? Probably. Yeah." She struggles to answer but he can feel her walls coming down. A treat even though the subject isn't that deep. "I can be kind of single minded when it comes to my goals."
"A double-edged sword."
"You could call it that."
He struggles to think of what to say next. The elevator is silent now except for the sounds of their chewing. She hasn't pulled out her phone yet but runs her fingers along the spine of the hardback book. Waiting. For him. "What do you think of her book?" Not as smooth as he'd like but it gets her talking again.
"It's fine. I mean, I don't understand a lot of it and believe in even less. I guess I'm a bit of a skeptic. But Bonnie and Nora really love it. They say she's really onto some interesting magical theories." The dreaded silence creeps in again. While he tries to think of another question, she graciously fills it in for him. "Bonnie got bold a few weeks ago and sent an email to her agent asking to add Gram's as a stop on her tour."
"I could call her, if you like." It's out of his mouth before he has time to know if he even meant it.
"Who? The agent?"
"No," he answers, sucking at his teeth and wondering if this will be a mistake. "Freya."
"Wait! How do you know her?" She turns into him, seemingly unbothered by how close their faces are now. "Is she an ex?"
"No, she's my sister. Harper is her adopted parents' name." Her knee brushes against his chest and a part of him worries that the excitement over his sister has overshadowed anything he could hope to earn from Elena. "I hope to have your confidence with that bit of information. It's not exactly known information."
"Of course." There's an assertiveness in her eyes that assures him. That she's good at keeping secrets and would for him if he asked. "You would really call her?
"I would." He lets his tongue slide from his canine across his lips as he considers how audacious he'd like to be now. Very, he answers as he watches her eyes follow the motion. "As long as you'd allow me to escort you to the event."
She can't keep the slow, creeping smile from him. She's pleased and so is he. Her cheeks must hurt trying to keep her flattered smile as neutral as she can.
"Is that appropriate, Mr. Mikaelson?" She doesn't condemn the request as much as she might have a month ago. Very nearly flirts with him.
"A date would be an inappropriate request," he concedes as he draws imaginary numbers in the air, doing fake math for dramatic effect. "For at least another two months. But that's not I'm asking for."
"You're not?"
There's a hint of disappointment in her voice that tastes subtle like sherbet. It spurs him on. Letting his own walls down further to admit a morsel of truth to her. "Not yet."
She's quiet for so long, staring at him, that he begins to think he overplayed his hand. Then her lips part slowly and she looks so earnest that he thinks she's either about to break his heart or make him want to open the elevator doors and carry her straight to his apartment. "I kind of thought you hated me."
It's neither, but it isn't terrible.
"I had gathered that much. But I could never quite figure out why." Absently, he wonders how long they've been in the elevator. In his experience, people only confided this much in each other during the safe blanket of darkness. They aren't flirting or sarcastically dismissing the other. It's deeper than that and not anything he'd prepared for today.
She senses the shift too, leaning back against the wall and staring straight ahead. Their shoulders touch now, no longer just a graze. That, he notes, was her move. "Not letting me in the first day. Not accepting my apology. In general, the way you talk to me."
"Perhaps I merely didn't know how to speak to you," he admits, matching her stare to the elevator door.
"I doubt that."
"How can you doubt me without even knowing me?"
"Caroline filled me in all about you. You're like this playboy artist. All the women you've been tied to in the last year alone. I doubt you have issues talking to women, let alone me." As she talks, he inches his hand across the floor that he might brush against hers.
"Maybe you're different."
"What a line!" The sincerity between them is broken as she laughs, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. "I'm no different than any other girl."
"Then maybe you're different to me." He wishes so desperately he had said anything else. But she looks at him again and he thinks there's a chance he hasn't ruined the moment. "Maybe I'm interested in you in a way I haven't been in a woman in quite a while. And maybe, I wasn't sure at first how to deal with that and made a terrible first impression. With you being my student and all."
"For another two months." She leans in so slightly that he knows with certainty he hasn't ruined anything. That today's decision to visit the museum was an auspicious choice and the universe was rewarding his patient, broken heart.
"Only two months," he agrees, closing what little distance is left between them and letting his nose touch hers.
Her hand falls from her face, hovering at her chest. There's so much he wants to do and had imagined none of it happening in an elevator, but Klaus had never refrained from what he wanted before and he had no intention of starting now. Her deep brown eyes call to him as much as her fiery attitude. As much as the incongruity of her defiance for him but compliance for so much else. A mystery he wants desperately to unwrap.
He leans back to take her hand in his, splaying out her fingers until they run the length of his. Playing with her hand and stealing glances through their intertwined fingers. He's nervous but hopes that she can't tell. Wants to kiss her but worried it'll drive her away. Needs her to not to run.
"Are you guys okay in there?" A voice interrupts from the other side of the doors. The rescue they've been waiting for but have forgotten about.
"We're fine!" she calls back, her hand dropping from his. He gets up first, offers his hand again to help her up, but she pushes off the wall with ease, without accepting his help. It stings a bit, watching their short-lived intimacy die on an elevator floor.
The doors are pried open and with a bittersweet taste, he sees that he was right. The night sky greets them from the floor length windows.
A/N: It's been awhile but I hope this extra long chapter was worth the wait. Life has been a bit busy but I am hoping it will slow down soon because I am ready to start working on Throne of Blood again. Which would mean this fic is going on a bit of a hiatus. I am anxious to get back to Elena's difficult journey in New Orleans and who to trust and who to keep an eye out on. Probably everyone to be honest, but those are hard lessons. Thanks for reading and any comments you feel like leaving!