snapping her soul in half

.

.

.

—

She's curled up on the gurney, waiting for somebody, anybody, to find her. Take her home. Love her. She'd just never expected it to be him.

Elena shivers, though she's not cold. The metal of the gurney makes her heart ache. She has a hand on her chest, and each time her heart does not beat when it should, she lets out a high-pitched, heartbroken keening sound. She's dead. She's dead.

Dead—

Like she'd never wanted to be. She'd wanted to live. She'd wanted to breathe.

Oh, god. She's dead.

"Stefan." she cries, curling further into herself, wet hair crunching. "Stefan, Stefan, Stefan," her mantra of his name turns into a line of broken sobbing, and she slams her fist onto the gurney. She topples over onto the ground, the dent of her fist clear in the metal bed. She scrambles away on her hands and knees, pressing herself into a corner. She can smell the other bodies around her, and she twitches. She doesn't like this.

She's thirsty, for—for—for blood.

She's dead—

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and she hides her face in her knees. I'm dead, she thinks, after everything, I'm dead.

Somewhere, above, a door opens, and a familiar scent wafts down to her. She can't place it, but she knows, deep down, human Elena trusted this person. It's cinnamon, leather, sharp cologne.

The door to the morgue opens, and Elijah Mikaelson steps into the room. He's forgone his suit jacket and tie, and he stands in the center of the room, rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows.

She knows he can clearly see her but she lets her hair hang down in front of her face anyway, like a curtain shrouding the windows to her soul.

Elijah's feet come toward her and she stiffens, retracting as far into the corner as she can. Her mind screams friend trust we know him he is our friend we trust him but her instincts hiss original evil old strong. She cries out as the sharp pain of her fangs slicing through her gums startles her. Is this what Caroline goes through every day? Is this why Damon is so bitter? Is this why Stefan is so desperate to be good?

Oh, god. She's dead—

He crouches down in front of her, pushes the hair out of her face with one hand, and cups the side of her face with the other. "Oh, Elena," he sighs, and he sounds sad, broken for her. She tries to speak, but he smooths his thumb over her lips, whispers, "hush now."

His eyes are rimmed with red, and she remembers, all too well, that his brother is dead.

His brother is dead, but he's here, with her, thumbs lightly stroking her skin. Comforting. Nurturing. She wants him to hold her. She wants to hold him. To comfort him. Her fangs disappear back into her gums and she launches forward, burying her face into his neck. "I'm sorry." she chokes, "I'm so—I'm so sorry."

She shouldn't be doing this. She shouldn't be—

But she can't help it.

He'd come looking for her. For her. When she was mostly responsible for his brother's death. He'd found her.

"You found me." she whispers into his neck. The danger of her proximity to him doesn't bother her anymore. She just wants to be held, to be—

She just wants to be.

"I was looking for you. I looked everywhere." he answers in kind. His hands stroke up and down her back in a comforting gesture. As she cries, she notices that his back is stiff, shoulders are stiff, he's stone. A rock that holds steady as cold waves crash against it.

"Klaus," she begins, stumbling on his name, "oh, Elijah, I'm sorry. This wasn't—this wasn't how things were supposed to happen." she shakes her head furiously. Their plans never work. They never work—

And now she's dead—

And he's lost a brother.

She pulls away, sees the tears threatening to come forth from his eyes, and whispers that she's sorry again.

"My brother..." he swallows, looking more disheveled than he's ever seen, "has had several close calls with death, but he has never—he has never truly been gone." he cool brown eyes meet hers, "I do not know what to do without him. I feel..." he blinks rapidly, pushing the years back, "lost."

Elena squeezes his shoulders, "I found you." she whispers, like a promise.

I'll always find you. I'll always keep you safe.

"I want to go home. I want to take you home." she tells him, eyes clouding over with tears once again.

He nods after an immeasurable moment and pulls her to her feet. Before she can right herself he sweeps her up into his arms, and she's cradled against him. She doesn't question it, knows he needs to touch somebody just as much as she needs to be touched, and presses her face into his shoulder and lets him carry her home.

She's dead—

Oh, god. She's dead.

fin.