[round 3: elena gilbert] red dinosaurs and peanut butter (jeremy/elena)
title: red dinosaurs and peanut butter
fandom: tvd
characters: jeremy + elena
rating: pg
word count: 1500
recipient/prompt: for clockwork_hart1 who wanted jeremy + running/leaving (metaphorically or not), words + pictures, comfort; without elena's lovelife or adults
warnings: angst
setting: canon-compliant, post-Elena's finale (sorry about that but...)
He carries around a photo of her in his wallet. They ask him - lovers, friends, the illusive they that hang about in dark corners with glasses of foamy beer in their hands or a whisper of a secret dream on their lips that he just can’t quite catch - who was she?
She is everything.
She is nothing.
(This isn’t a pretty story.)
One night a girl wakes him, shaking his shoulders in distress, you were crying she says. He buries his face in her hair and she lets him sleep. In the morning she says who is Elena? and she doesn’t believe him when he says my sister, she died.
She was right, he did lie after all. She just got it wrong which part.
There’s a weight in her chest, she carries it around the best she can, it is the shadow of the smile that her brother once wore so easily. When she was seven and he toddled over to her and she pushed him over, did she know to what lengths she would be willing to go to protect him? When he fell off his bike and cried on the sidewalk and she stepped over him carelessly and tossed her hair over her shoulder, did she know that she would commit deep sins to make him smile again? When they held hands on the carousel, laughing as they leaned over and watched the world spin by, did she know that her world would stop spinning when he stopped breathing?
There’s a weight in her chest and it is so much a part of her own being that without it she doesn’t feel light and weightless, she feels adrift and lost. When she was living, did she know that there was only life with him alive at her side? When she was dead, did she know that there was only a soul left inside her with him alive at her side?
I killed her, he’s an Art major and they are expected to use metaphors like weapons, pretending that there is nothing real left to harm. He doesn’t say a thousand times in a thousand dreams I killed her because I was born to kill her and she died in my arms and my blood told me not to be sorry because that’s too many words. No one will stand still long enough to listen to that part.
The dead linger around him like shadows. He can’t see the ghosts, but it doesn’t seem like there’s anyone alive left to talk to, anyway. He carries a photo of her in his wallet and he plays with it when he drinks, spinning it around and around in his fingers as he leans over the bar. my sister, she’s dead, and no one believes him.
Drowning is funny, the way it makes you feel like you’ll never be able to breathe properly again, the way it haunts you. She wakes up every night gasping for air, reaching out and wanting to scream but there’s nothing there and no air in her lungs to force out into sound.
In a fit of sobs and gasps she shakily untangles herself from the blankets twisted around her legs and steps down onto a warm body. He’s lying on her floor, between her and the door. His eyes are wide open, looking up at her.
Maybe they’ve done this before, or maybe this is the first time. He shakes his head, You’re alive. and she either is or isn’t, but he’s guarding her when she sleeps either way.
He bums some pot off a kid on a street corner. He takes a drag and squints up into the sun. There are wrinkles around his eyes and age spots on his hands. The kid laughed at him, or with him. He can’t smoke without thinking of her hitting him in a face with a pillow, calling him an idiot, being his big sister. It makes his heart stutter. Soon his heart will stop and her eyes will open and that’s a comfort of sorts, maybe.
He bums some pot off a kid on a street corner. He takes a drag and gazes up into the stars. There’s an anger lingering between his shoulders. The kid made a pass at him. He can’t smoke without thinking of her eyes flashing in anger, a vision of what she wanted for him locking him in place, what is that, stoner talk? and if he didn’t know better he’d think she hated him, was sick of him, was done with his shit. He takes it for granted that she’ll be mad tomorrow about something else, that he won’t live up to what she thinks he should be but that won’t ever stop her from pushing him. She’ll push him, drag him kicking and scratching, into something she can be proud of. She’ll make him happy even if he’s happier being miserable. She’ll make him happy even if she’s not sure how to plaster a smile on her face every day without her whole face cracking, falling off into disarray. He sketches a portrait of her, a mask of a smile over a crying skeleton. He’ll never show her and he’ll never think of it again, but it exists for a moment of time and for that moment it is true.
He is never wrong about her.
She is always right about him.
There’s a pain to the backwards truth of them.
She is four and stubborn. She is four and stubborn and she packs up her favorite toy - a bright red stuffed dinosaur - and some coloring books and a jar of peanut butter and a blanket. She is four and she is stubborn and she is LEAVING. She is four and she is stubborn and she is ready for the world. She puts her hand on the doorknob and takes a deep breath. She is stubborn and she thinks she has courage and so she does.
He taps her on the shoulder, eyes wide. She looks at him for a moment, he doesn’t have any shoes on and that’s going to be an issue, but she’s stubborn. He smiles wide and holds out her hand and so she takes it in hers.
They circle the block once and then she delivers him home, letting him hold her red dinosaur while she finds crackers to dip into the jar of peanut butter.
She is four and she is stubborn and she left but he wasn’t ready. She tells herself someday he will be and then she’ll leave.
There is a worn picture of a little girl holding a blue teddy bear in one arm and softly curling hair in pigtails, she is looking over her shoulder at something and her eyes are hard and bright and stubborn. On the back it says ELENA’S RUNAWAY ADVENTURE .
He watches a small girl with soft brown hair walk around the block of the house where she lives three times. She’s been told not to cross the street and not to talk to strangers, she keeps ending back at her own front door. He follows far enough away that she never walks into his shadow, but close enough so that he can sweep in if she needs it. He can’t tell if hurts that she doesn’t or not.
She sits on her front porch with her chin in her hands and a frown on her face.
Hey kiddo, where are you going?
She scowls up at him, Nowhere. There’s no place to go.
He doesn’t laugh because he’s learned not to laugh at her when she’s being quite serious, There’s a million places in the world to go. She doesn’t say anything. They watch the group of older kids across the street play with their skateboards and scooters. Did I ever tell you about the time that auntie Elena wanted to run away? She looks up at him, brow furrowed in concentration. She was much younger than you, about four or five maybe. But she wouldn’t leave without me and I wasn’t really ready for an adventure like that. So she walked me around the block once and then brought me home and we ate peanut butter with graham crackers straight out of the jar.
She stood up and dusted herself off, holding out her hand, Come on, daddy. Let’s make peanut butter banana sandwiches. I’m hungry.
She is four. She is sixteen. She is unchanging. She is alive, she is dead, she is asleep, she is drowned. She holds out her hand and he takes it.
She is sitting on the floor of the kitchen, she just slipped while they were doing sock-slides because no one is home and its midnight and they shouldn’t be up so late on a school night. She is looking up at the camera and laughing, her eyes bright and alive. He takes the picture before she can stop him. She wrestles the camera out of his hands using dirty tricks - she knows all his weaknesses. She is all his weaknesses.
She hates the photo, her eyes are too squinty and her smile too wide. He thinks it suits her perfectly and puts it into his wallet.
fandom: tvd
characters: jeremy + elena
rating: pg
word count: 1500
recipient/prompt: for clockwork_hart1 who wanted jeremy + running/leaving (metaphorically or not), words + pictures, comfort; without elena's lovelife or adults
warnings: angst
setting: canon-compliant, post-Elena's finale (sorry about that but...)
He carries around a photo of her in his wallet. They ask him - lovers, friends, the illusive they that hang about in dark corners with glasses of foamy beer in their hands or a whisper of a secret dream on their lips that he just can’t quite catch - who was she?
She is everything.
She is nothing.
(This isn’t a pretty story.)
One night a girl wakes him, shaking his shoulders in distress, you were crying she says. He buries his face in her hair and she lets him sleep. In the morning she says who is Elena? and she doesn’t believe him when he says my sister, she died.
She was right, he did lie after all. She just got it wrong which part.
There’s a weight in her chest, she carries it around the best she can, it is the shadow of the smile that her brother once wore so easily. When she was seven and he toddled over to her and she pushed him over, did she know to what lengths she would be willing to go to protect him? When he fell off his bike and cried on the sidewalk and she stepped over him carelessly and tossed her hair over her shoulder, did she know that she would commit deep sins to make him smile again? When they held hands on the carousel, laughing as they leaned over and watched the world spin by, did she know that her world would stop spinning when he stopped breathing?
There’s a weight in her chest and it is so much a part of her own being that without it she doesn’t feel light and weightless, she feels adrift and lost. When she was living, did she know that there was only life with him alive at her side? When she was dead, did she know that there was only a soul left inside her with him alive at her side?
I killed her, he’s an Art major and they are expected to use metaphors like weapons, pretending that there is nothing real left to harm. He doesn’t say a thousand times in a thousand dreams I killed her because I was born to kill her and she died in my arms and my blood told me not to be sorry because that’s too many words. No one will stand still long enough to listen to that part.
The dead linger around him like shadows. He can’t see the ghosts, but it doesn’t seem like there’s anyone alive left to talk to, anyway. He carries a photo of her in his wallet and he plays with it when he drinks, spinning it around and around in his fingers as he leans over the bar. my sister, she’s dead, and no one believes him.
Drowning is funny, the way it makes you feel like you’ll never be able to breathe properly again, the way it haunts you. She wakes up every night gasping for air, reaching out and wanting to scream but there’s nothing there and no air in her lungs to force out into sound.
In a fit of sobs and gasps she shakily untangles herself from the blankets twisted around her legs and steps down onto a warm body. He’s lying on her floor, between her and the door. His eyes are wide open, looking up at her.
Maybe they’ve done this before, or maybe this is the first time. He shakes his head, You’re alive. and she either is or isn’t, but he’s guarding her when she sleeps either way.
He bums some pot off a kid on a street corner. He takes a drag and squints up into the sun. There are wrinkles around his eyes and age spots on his hands. The kid laughed at him, or with him. He can’t smoke without thinking of her hitting him in a face with a pillow, calling him an idiot, being his big sister. It makes his heart stutter. Soon his heart will stop and her eyes will open and that’s a comfort of sorts, maybe.
He bums some pot off a kid on a street corner. He takes a drag and gazes up into the stars. There’s an anger lingering between his shoulders. The kid made a pass at him. He can’t smoke without thinking of her eyes flashing in anger, a vision of what she wanted for him locking him in place, what is that, stoner talk? and if he didn’t know better he’d think she hated him, was sick of him, was done with his shit. He takes it for granted that she’ll be mad tomorrow about something else, that he won’t live up to what she thinks he should be but that won’t ever stop her from pushing him. She’ll push him, drag him kicking and scratching, into something she can be proud of. She’ll make him happy even if he’s happier being miserable. She’ll make him happy even if she’s not sure how to plaster a smile on her face every day without her whole face cracking, falling off into disarray. He sketches a portrait of her, a mask of a smile over a crying skeleton. He’ll never show her and he’ll never think of it again, but it exists for a moment of time and for that moment it is true.
He is never wrong about her.
She is always right about him.
There’s a pain to the backwards truth of them.
She is four and stubborn. She is four and stubborn and she packs up her favorite toy - a bright red stuffed dinosaur - and some coloring books and a jar of peanut butter and a blanket. She is four and she is stubborn and she is LEAVING. She is four and she is stubborn and she is ready for the world. She puts her hand on the doorknob and takes a deep breath. She is stubborn and she thinks she has courage and so she does.
He taps her on the shoulder, eyes wide. She looks at him for a moment, he doesn’t have any shoes on and that’s going to be an issue, but she’s stubborn. He smiles wide and holds out her hand and so she takes it in hers.
They circle the block once and then she delivers him home, letting him hold her red dinosaur while she finds crackers to dip into the jar of peanut butter.
She is four and she is stubborn and she left but he wasn’t ready. She tells herself someday he will be and then she’ll leave.
There is a worn picture of a little girl holding a blue teddy bear in one arm and softly curling hair in pigtails, she is looking over her shoulder at something and her eyes are hard and bright and stubborn. On the back it says ELENA’S RUNAWAY ADVENTURE .
He watches a small girl with soft brown hair walk around the block of the house where she lives three times. She’s been told not to cross the street and not to talk to strangers, she keeps ending back at her own front door. He follows far enough away that she never walks into his shadow, but close enough so that he can sweep in if she needs it. He can’t tell if hurts that she doesn’t or not.
She sits on her front porch with her chin in her hands and a frown on her face.
Hey kiddo, where are you going?
She scowls up at him, Nowhere. There’s no place to go.
He doesn’t laugh because he’s learned not to laugh at her when she’s being quite serious, There’s a million places in the world to go. She doesn’t say anything. They watch the group of older kids across the street play with their skateboards and scooters. Did I ever tell you about the time that auntie Elena wanted to run away? She looks up at him, brow furrowed in concentration. She was much younger than you, about four or five maybe. But she wouldn’t leave without me and I wasn’t really ready for an adventure like that. So she walked me around the block once and then brought me home and we ate peanut butter with graham crackers straight out of the jar.
She stood up and dusted herself off, holding out her hand, Come on, daddy. Let’s make peanut butter banana sandwiches. I’m hungry.
She is four. She is sixteen. She is unchanging. She is alive, she is dead, she is asleep, she is drowned. She holds out her hand and he takes it.
She is sitting on the floor of the kitchen, she just slipped while they were doing sock-slides because no one is home and its midnight and they shouldn’t be up so late on a school night. She is looking up at the camera and laughing, her eyes bright and alive. He takes the picture before she can stop him. She wrestles the camera out of his hands using dirty tricks - she knows all his weaknesses. She is all his weaknesses.
She hates the photo, her eyes are too squinty and her smile too wide. He thinks it suits her perfectly and puts it into his wallet.