Notes: There's been a huge uptick lately in follows, favorites and kudos for this story, and let me tell you, it's been the most heartwarming swarm of e-mails I've gotten in years, possibly ever. This story is quite literally my heart and soul, and the fact that anyone still cares about it is the greatest gift you lovely people could've given me. Now, I very much despise writers who guilt readers into reviews - or, god forbid, do the requirement of a certain amount of reviews for a next chapter - but I will make a plea for you guys to please let me know who is still reading this, who is invested in this, no matter the percentage of which you find yourself invested, because it helps so incredibly much to know who is sharing this journey with me and what you guys love, what you are looking for, and what you want in chapters to come. I want to understand who I'm writing for, who I'm writing with, and who I'm sharing my heart with. I hope you guys feel that you'd like to share this with me too.
This chapter is really only about half of the original blueprint of this chapter, but if I didn't post this as is currently, I feel I may not get to the second half for another couple months, and I just can't in good conscience allow that when you've all been so great with your interest lately. Plus, I already know what the second half of this is, so it should take me far, far less time to get it going.
Please do not hesitate to berate me in the reviews/comments/private messages as many times as you want if I'm slacking on delivery. Seriously, tough love is super effective on me. - If I was pokemon, it's pretty much the only attack you'd need to employ. ;)
This chapter is dedicated to siberia21, or Eva, who is an old friend and an absolutely amazing person I was sad to lose some touch with & a very faithful comrade and fan of my writing for many years. Also to JMHUW, who is one of the most faithful reviewers of this story with awesome insights and who probably has no idea what their dedication to this story over its five year duration means to me (hint: a shit-ton). And last but most definitely not least, giraffelove92, my fanfic soulmate, who quite literally seems to love everything I love, and is a fierce and dedicated fan of mine and trust me, the sentiment is ridiculously returned. She's amazing, go and read her Elejah TVD & Dramione HP stuff literally right now. - Or, you know, after you read this. ;)
I love all of you. Happy reading. 3
Stefan was a morning person — he was usually up before sunrise, leaving Elena, Klaus or whoever happened to share his bed groaning in displeasure at the intrusion. During simpler times — had their lives ever truly been simple, though? — he would feign sleep every Saturday and Sunday morning so Elena could sneak downstairs and make him tasty breakfast treats. (They both knew it was nothing but an elaborate charade, but it was a perfectly wonderful slice of domestic normalcy, and they got so good at pretending, it started to feel more authentic than it was.)
Needless to say, after watching his ex-girlfriend die right in front of his eyes only to be revived back to (pseudo) life hours later, he wasn't expecting to find her enacting their long-dead routine in his kitchen not even twenty-four hours later at seven-thirty in the morning.
Jaw hung looser than normal, his eyes bleary and unfocused, he barely trusted his voice to adequately articulate his confusion — "Elena?"
She turned, a skillet in one hand and a small squeeze bottle of honey in the other, her eyes wide and stunned. Taking a visible second to gather herself, a sly smirk appeared on her lips and her eyes sparkled with trademark mischief which didn't remind him of Elena; it reminded him of —
"Tell me, Stef, did Elena ever make you breakfast in Damon's kitchen half-naked?"
Pointedly ignoring her tantalizing bare legs — for fuck's sake, in non-descript clothing with slightly ruffled bed hair and no make-up, there were literally zero physical differences — and trying to give as good as he got, his lips curved sardonically — "Well... yeah."
Katherine visibly hesitated, a distinctly sour expression on her face at the idea of any and all habits she and her doppelgänger could have in common, however subconsciously. Deciding to capitalize on the momentary vulnerability, he added with an awkward chuckle, "Admittedly, it was usually in my old Harvard t-shirt and not one of Damon's button-ups, but..."
Her overly casual demeanor is a wrinkle in Stefan's perception of her – a dissociation of thought that takes him aback, melts the words of disdain and reproach off his tongue like sand – as always, she grabs an advantage when she sees one.
"Breakfast, then?"
Her smile tips ever so unsteadily into genuine, but teeters on the edge of caution, always the observer, somehow both two steps behind and two steps ahead simultaneously, able and ready to attack from all angles.
"Katherine."
His admonishment was soft, a hesitant query in his tone she hadn't heard in more than a century; a whisper of her name, a sincerity not with the manufactured affection of the past, but without the vicious malice of the present. Some half-way world, an alternate present, a tone that could've been — should've been — but never was.
And, inexplicably, without her express consent, she stopped, a force binding her to the floor, to the room, to his voice not unlike the magical seal to a human's home.
Stefan's voice was hoarse, but resolute in a way she'd never heard. "I need an answer. Just one. You have a thousand answers you owe me, but I don't need them all. Just the one."
She looked straight in his eyes, a dead-on challenge, without pretense, without curves or angles or deflections.
"And why do you need it — why now?"
His scoff was hard, cruel, and his movements were smooth, calculated in a mannerism so very uncharacteristic of the man she knew Stefan Salvatore to be. "Because this — your presence here, your safety here, my allowance of it, my allowance of you in his life — in Damon's kitchen, in his heart and in everything that he is depends on it."
Everything within her bristled at Stefan's words — every instinct, every carefully crafted defense, every hard-earned mastery of deception and deflection – "Allowance, mhm?"
"Don't," he dismissed, his jaw locked tight and his stare unwavering – "He's been torn to pieces by you before, but you know that, you've relished in that, a broken, mouldable little toy to spin and crush at your heart's desire."
He took smooth, predatory steps towards her and she found herself backing in retreat – perhaps it was the shock of it, or the vulnerability inflicted by her state of undress, or maybe, just maybe, it was something deeper, something far more innate, far less explainable.
"Did you love him?"
She knew the question before it left his lips – it had left a similar set of lips before, in a different tone, a different context – and she weighed it: The last time she'd been asked, just on the other side of this wall, she'd lied.
'It was always Stefan.'
Such a simple lie, a half-baked thing meant to disarm, discourage and destroy.
Destroy a faith unrestrained, a bond untethered, a love undeserved.
She was dodging an ominous thunder cloud that neither would've escaped unscathed.
She's never once regretted it.
He's alive. She's alive.
(For all intents and purposes.)
In Damon Salvatore's kitchen, five hundred and thirty-five years of success sustaining her aching bones, Katherine Pierce's intrepid survival feels unnervingly like failure.
"That is not an answer owed to you. It'd be a disservice to offer it to you so carelessly."
Stefan's brows arch in displeasure. "It's owed nevertheless."
She's silent for a moment, an analysis of the advantages of truth – "I don't disagree."
"I want to understand each other," he admits, and it's genuine, even bashful – earnest, but the sort of sharpness beget from resolve, not from venom. "For some reason, he genuinely wants you in his life – there's nothing I can do to dissuade it, and I'm not entirely sure if I would if I could, because despite all odds against us, I want him to have what he wants."
His advance this time is purposeful, not quite hesitant but neither aggressive.
"I need to know that you do too."
"I'm not in the business of making promises," she says immediately, an impulsive declaration that spills from her lips unbidden but not dishonest. "But I mean him no harm, I've never meant him harm, not in the way you're accusing of me – anything contrary was necessary."
"Necessary?" Stefan spits, holding back none of his affront.
"Now, Stef," she says, turning his offense into her weapon, a Katherine Pierce specialty – "Don't tell me you're naïve enough to think there's no complexity within the dichotomy of concern and protection."
"You'd do well not to patronize me," Stefan's voice was grit and steel, his back straighter than Katherine had ever seen before. Stefan Salvatore was in finest form when protecting the ones he loved – he withered like a house of cards when attempting to demand respect for himself, but when demanding it for others, he shined unfettered and tenacious.
Katherine didn't falter a step. "I believe you'd do well to heed my cooperation."
He shook his head in something resembling fondness, but it came through as some far darker version, a twisted variant of nostalgic amusement – "I will accept nothing less than it continuing."
Her posture bent to his sincerity, but her own never faltered. "I wouldn't respect you if you accepted less."
He hesitated, perhaps in uncertainty of a way forward, or else in surprise at her admittance of respect. "I'll skip the offer of breakfast, thanks."
"Mhm," she assented, her trademark sly, knowing smirk making a slick, easy return; "Well, off you go," she gestured a little nod towards the window overlooking the grounds behind them, "The early vamp catches the bunny, as they say."
He held off his amused smirk until her back was turned.
Sitting in the rounded, glass office of Oliver Sykes was an honor and a privilege she didn't take lightly – the deeply entrenched nature of the supernatural in her life nowadays didn't erase the sharp memories she had of a young, wide-eyed and deeply mystified Elena Gilbert staring up in awe at Howard Bennings Publishing House.
"Can I get you something, Miss Gilbert? — Coffee, tea..." his bright eyes sparkled with good-humored mischief, an alluring parallel to his whip-blonde charm — "... A Mimosa, perhaps?"
Elena's lips curved, his wry amusement reflected in her own expression — "I've always been more of a Manhattan kinda girl, myself."
"Ah," he smirked, all levity and air and normalcy — "A woman after my own heart."
"Or a starter position," she contested, an eyebrow raised.
He laughed, a loud, boisterous thing — a sincerity, a crinkle of the eyes. Such a human response. It made her chest constrict — out of envy, fear of regret, she didn't know. A mixed cocktail, then. Appropriate.
"Mhm, that too," he conceded with a flash of teeth — of human teeth, of harmless innocent arrogance.
"Your material is good -" he fiddled with the file she'd handed him, "but outdated. And, let me be honest, Elena, that worries me."
He leant in, that wisp blonde charm harsher, sharp in tone rather than in teeth – "Why have you stopped writing? And, furthermore, how can I be assured that talent isn't too dusty to revive? That you can remain consistent?"
I've had a rough go of it – for a few good years.
The most dangerous vampire in the world sacrificed me on an altar of blood; that took some time to sort out.
His sister killed me when the first time didn't stick.
I think his brother, the oldest vampire in the world, might be pursuing something with me.
I am a vampire?
Somehow, none of this felt sufficient.
"I'm an observer – my writing is rooted in commentary, relatable commentary. The world might change, we might change, but the human thirst for humor and misfortune at another's expense never will. I'm good at that, I've always been good at that. They say that the only certainties are death and taxes, but I think there's a third. They call it schadenfreude – it's why people watch reality TV, it's why Lord of Flies was such a terrifying premise. Basic human instinct takes pleasure – takes security – out of watching another fall, because it gives them the illusion that they themselves are on a stable, higher ground."
"As long as the nature of humanity remains relevant, I will too."
He leaned back, eyes glistening with something like intrigue - "Quite confident, are you?"
Her smile wasn't dismissive, but staunchly matter-of-fact. "Not entirely, but no one has ever advocated meek modesty for job interviews, have they?"
He assented with a thoughtful hum and purse of his lips — "No, they most certainly have not. I'm gonna give you a shot — primarily because I like you, because I have a good nose for talent and I invest in people. In passion. I don't — and won't — believe in your writing until you prove to me why I should, but you've proven why I should believe in you. And that matters."
"However," he said softly, not in a compassionate breath, but a slow and steady determination, a promise of work and sweat and freedom – "I'm the sort of guy that demands excellence, Elena – not so much in your content, but in what you give. There is honor in work, and if you don't have any, I don't have any need for you. I'll give you the shot, take you in, mentor you until you give me a reason to cut ties – " a raise of an eyebrow, a sense of candor and warning mixed together – "but you won't, will you?"
Her shoulders straightened, looking him dead in the eye – "You have my word."
He leaned back, clearly startled by the sentiment. "And that should mean what to me?"
There was little resemblance between he and Elijah – really, his blonde charm and pointed eyes resembled Klaus' brand of sharp wit and sharper tongue to an almost uncomfortable degree, albeit in a much less nefarious variant – but she found herself responding to deeply troubled dark eyes and neatly combed elegance all the same.
"No one's word means a thing until they live up to it. I'm asking for a chance to live up to it."
His intrigue shot up just that bit further – "Alright, Elena Gilbert, write me something — " he considers for a moment, assessing her with frightening scrutiny. "About identity, malleability, the nature of personality. Tell me what you see at the core of yourself without telling me anything. Convince me what you see is what I should see too."
He stands, shakes her hand, a spark in his eyes that could both light a match or else burn down a village. "Get it to me by the 17th. Tuesday after next."
He pauses, and a breath catches in her throat.
This a chance, a human chance, born of her own merit, a blank slate wiped clean of Salvatores, doppelgangers, blood and magic.
He finally speaks, her hand clasped in his own, a handshake tight but honest, the turn of his lips now more sincere than anything else he's given her prior – "It's been a pleasure."
Notes: I've always been annoyed by the complete dismissal on the part of the show to re-address Elena's admittance that she had planned to write for a living pre-series and pre-vampire introduction. Plus, pre-series Elena & pre-series all relationships have a lot to do with this story, so here we are.
Thanks for reading, please leave a review if you enjoyed, have comments, suggestions or constructive criticism. 3
Next Time on D&R: Caroline confides in Matt her fears about the distance she feels between her and Tyler, the Boarding House finally lives up to its name, Damon & Elena have a long-overdue talk about the nature of their relationship, Katherine finds time to fill Elena in on what she knows, albeit with her own unique flair, school resumes and the Kids Are Most Definitely Not Alright, and Christmas brings new developments for many relationships, along with some fluff, some angst, some cheer, some alcohol and all topped with a cherry of unexpected horrors. ;)