the low road // 08 hero (part one)
Title: the low road // 08 hero
Author: that_treason
Rating: M overall (M-ish this chapter, language)
Length: around 7700 words (this chapter)
Characters: Damon/Elena
Spoilers
through 4x18
very AU after that
Warnings
references to sex while switched off
vampires eat people & vampires kill people
Disclaimers
Everything belongs to the people who own them.
I am just borrowing.
continuation of this prompt from upupa_epops:
“Damon/Elena, AU from 4x17. When Elena reaches to steal Katherine's addresses, Damon impulsively decides to screw the high road and team up with Elena instead.”
A/N: I hit the LJ character limit (again!) and had to split this chapter over two entries. Keep going when you get to the end.
// 08 HERO
Elena dreams of blood.
She lies prone, unable to move, while it washes over her - slowly, methodically, in no hurry to be finished. The blood covers her - starting with hands and feet and spreading out and over - never drying, never truly wet, always this shade of thick and moveable. She can feel it in her hair now too, the sticky sweet substance plastering chocolate curls down onto skin. Her clothes cling, stuck as fast as her hair. She can feel it in the cracks where her toenails meet her toes, and in the tiny spaces between hair follicles.
Even when it seems to cover every part of her, it isn't finished. She watches it seep across her eyes, fading the world to shades of red and rust and crusted brown.
She lies there encased in blood. Through all the time that passes - maybe seconds or hours, maybe days or years - she feels nothing. No fear, no anger, no panic, no grief, no joy. She is a shell, hollowed out, the emptiness of her chest expanded to all limbs.
And she knows this then: this is what she is and what she will be, bloody and still.
There's a man here now, looking down at her. She doesn't know where he came from, or even when he arrived. Maybe he's always been there, watching the blood.
She knows who he is, even seeing him through red eyes. She turned him. He was her first. She took him from that to this, made him what he is. There are dark stains on his suit shirt, the trails she left when she tore at his throat. The wound she made is still there too, gaping. She can see where blood still throbs from it, in time with the beating of his heart. But when she listens, really listens with all the power blood provides, she hears nothing from his chest.
Is this what I am?
She hears the man's voice all around her, more part of the scenery than anything spoken aloud. In fact, his mouth never moves to let out a sound, but in the logic of dreams she knows that this is him speaking.
Is this what you are?
There's no response that she could give, even if she had the strength to move her mouth or tongue or teeth. There is no answer to his questions. Even if there was one, she knows it's for the best that she remain silent. She is so empty now, so much a hollow shell, that she is brittle. Any movement would crack her to pieces.
"What do you want me to do about it?"
The voice booms loud and angry and rushing, coming from one side rather than everywhere. The man's face is still passive, disconnected from the irritated tone. Dark veins cross his skin as he looks down at her, and darkness fills his eyes.
Suddenly she knows it's not the man's voice, it's someone else's, someone far away.
It's Damon. Not the man she turned.
Damon.
With a start she wakes.
It's dark in the car, in stark contrast to how Elena remembers the sky, from the hours before she fell asleep. She picks her head up from the window where it lay while she slept. There's a smudge on the glass from her cheek. Outside the world vibrates with white light from the so-nearly-full moon, leaving everything silvered and pale. She stretches and turns, the kinks in her neck and back evaporating into nothing as she moves.
They are parked somewhere, along some road. She can see mountains in the distance through the dark, but they are different than those they left behind this morning in Colorado, dry and somehow crumbly looking. There are no street lights and no road signs, just the asphalt marked with a dashed yellow line and the vast distances that stretch away around them.
"Not good enough, Stefan."
Damon's shout interrupts the silence in the car. She sees him now, resting his back against the driver side door, facing out into the desert. She can hear every word if she wants to, but mostly doesn't bother. It's yet another call in the now day-long series of conversations between the Salvatore brothers. Something is happening back home, a big enough crisis to pull Damon in, even a thousand miles away.
The dream has thrown her out of sorts and for a moment she's too muddled to remember why they are where they are and how they got there. But as the sleep falls from her eyes and the dream subsides to an unpleasant memory, the present and the past sync back up and the events of the day return to her.
###
It was Irritated Damon who woke Elena up this morning - leaned down over her and shook her shoulder, gruffly told her to get packed. Now that too-patient, too-kind Damon has gone back into hiding, all the other Damons cycle through: Cocky Damon, Sad-Sack Damon, Snarky Damon, Too Drunk Damon, Angry Damon. This version that confronted Elena this morning was already one of the less pleasant ones and the day had barely started.
He was already dressed, with the car loaded and ready to go, perfectly put-together even though he's been living out of a bag for weeks, same as her. Her own clothes were in the same state that they always end up - in various states of rolled and crumpled in her bag and on the floor.
(She added it to her on-going list of Damon Irritations that have built up in her head - always perfectly scrubbed and elegant looking, control freak over the radio, way too sensitive about how she drives his car...)
She couldn't tell at the time the source of his early morning frustrations, so she guessed that he'd flip flopped his opinion of what happened last night. How he challenged her with some puzzles and she'd beaten him, fair and square, through unorthodox methods. And yes, changed an innocent cul-de-sac into a nest of rabid and largely insatiable killers overnight. Maybe sleeping on it had turned him from the tender man she fell into bed with into this morning's whirling dervish of efficient packing and expedient getaway.
So of course she dressed to further his irritation, in short shorts that barely covered her ass and a tight red tank, pre-distressed with strategic rips. Clothes she already knew drove him crazy, on a day that he insisted they needed to drive for hours without end. Let him deal with that in the car all day, she thinks, pleased with what she considers subtle payback. When he came back in the room to get her bag, he blinked once or twice at the sight of her and looked to heaven, and she flashed him a wicked smile.
She'd effectively ramped Irritated Damon up another notch - taking him from Irritated-Over-External-Events Damon to Irritated-Over-External-Events-and-Sexually-Frustr ated Damon.
He'd pointed at her bag, still hemorrhaging clothing all over the floor, huffed back out of the room, obviously anxious to be gone. She took her time with her hair and a careful application of makeup, smashed the remainder of her clothes back into her bag, and made her way down the stairs and out to the car.
He leaned against the side of the car, taut and tense, looking out into the distance and talking to himself. But then she saw it - he wasn't talking to himself, for the first time in over a month he was talking on his phone.
That was when she knew that whatever had him all riled up had little to do with her.
When he noticed her staring, he gave a hurried goodbye to the person on the other end and disconnected the call. "You ready?" was all he'd said. She'd nodded and gotten in the car.
After that it was all driving, endless driving. Damon rushed them down back roads out of Colorado. Stopped only for gas as it was absolutely necessary. Told Elena to stay in the car every time, while he hung around the pump yelling into his phone. They never stopped for even the tiniest of snacks - Damon didn't want to risk the hint of a memory of the direction they'd gone. He was anxious to leave the cul-de-sac vampires without clues to follow.
He drove them hard all day, down out of the mountains and into the desert. She was fascinated by the landscape - as different from Virginia as the surface of the moon and like nothing else she'd seen in this life. Any other day, Damon would have delighted in playing tour guide, showing off the depth of his experience, but today he's sullen and silent, opting for either the radio or no sound at all. So Elena contented herself with the alien world outside her window.
Sometime in the late afternoon, saddled with her own growing irritation from hunger and boredom, Elena fell asleep.
And Elena dreamed of blood.
###
She rolls her head around on the stem of her neck and straightens her spine, banishing the last of sleep (and the dream) from her mind. She pulls open the door and steps out into the night. It's cold here in the desert, but she pays it no mind. The cold is like a color now or a flavor in a complex dish - it adds more detail to a scene, rather than discomfort or pain.
Damon turns around to watch her stretch, arms wide up in the air, hands balled into fists. She sees a quirked smile on his face when she turns. It amuses her that she can have such an effect on him with so little effort. He says a curt goodbye and hangs up the phone without waiting for any response.
"I figured out what I want for my prize," Elena says.
"Prize?" he asks
"For winning the game. You promised me a prize for scoring well."
"I was figuring we'd call that one a draw, since your solution meant we had to get the hell out a Dodge." The little quirk of a smile fades from his face as he speaks and his brows squeeze down over his eyes.
"I thought low body count equals high score?"
"Just because they're still walking around doesn't mean they aren't corpses." And just like that, Irritated Damon walks the earth anew.
"You haven't even heard what I want yet," Elena says, making a shoddy attempt at soothing him with a flirty voice and distracting fake coy wiggle of her hips.
"Fine. What." It's not a question, just a prompt to keep talking. His phone is already buzzing again in his hand.
"You were right that we need to move on from the kids' stuff. So...I want to learn more about compulsion."
"Sounds great," he says, rushing out the words, eyes down on his phone, "next time we have a chance to stop somewhere-"
"And not just compulsion, I want you to teach me that weird mind...power...thing...you do."
"Mind power thing?" He looks from his phone to her face, perplexed.
"You get into people's heads, make them see what you want them to see." She doesn't know what to call that thing he does, with visions and waking dreams. He never talks about it and rarely uses it in front of her. The whole thing makes her curious, both the power and the secrecy.
"Ah." He's silent for a moment, looking down at the dirt. "That one's...tricky."
"How tricky?"
"Tricky enough that not everyone can do it."
"You and Katherine manage."
"For starters, Katherine and I are a lot older than you."
"We've got the time, don't we? Maybe it won't work right away but there's nothing to stop us from trying."
"You hungry?" he asks, an obvious dodge. Elena doesn't reply - she's annoyed with his evasiveness, so her eyes are wandering from Damon to focus on a light off in the distance, visible past his shoulder. It's super bright, but far enough outside of town that she doesn't know what to make of it. When she listens close she can make out a dull roar from the same direction.
"What is that?" she asks.
Damon turns around, boots scratching on the gravel scattered asphalt. He looks for a moment, then shrugs and turns back to her. "Looks like some kinda carnival. Bring the kiddies, it's all for charity, how much money can we pull from the marks sortof thing. Why?"
Elena grins, lopsided and toothy. "I could eat."
###
The carnival looms over them when they pull off the road and into the adjacent gravel lot that's being used to park cars. Night here in the desert is dark like nothing Elena's ever seen - darker by far than any forest in Virginia and several shades inkier than she remembers from the Kansas countryside. By comparison the total mass of the carnival is a white hot star.
They make their way together towards the closest entrance, under a gate that looks like twisting wrought iron. There are no words across the arch of the gate - instead there are curling vines wrapped around a huge crescent moon. Elena looks closely at the supports, curious how something that looks so massive could be part of a traveling show. The answer turns out to be a pattern that they see repeated everywhere throughout the faire: cheap and light materials gussied up with extra care to look expensive and heavy and beautiful.
In fact, the entire place is gorgeous - all done up in a Victorian motif, heavily influenced by Steampunk aesthetics. There's a wide central midway that runs the length of the faire, brightly lit by rows of graceful gas lamp lights. Closer inspection shows that these are nothing more than glorified tiki torches, each running on oil rather than gas, but from a distance a modern American would be hard pressed to tell the difference. Off the midway there are a multitude of tiny little alleyways, each leading through an overgrown jungle of games and rides and shows.
In the center of it all, towering over at least the tents and booths (if not the larger rides) stands a huge "iron" clock tower, with a face for every direction.
The place is packed. Elena realizes it's a Saturday night - she's lost track of the days while they've been on the road.
Elena gawks at everything, curious about all the little details that went into the carnival's creation. Damon isn't impressed. "This is supposed to be Victorian?" he asks her.
"Shut up, it's not a history lesson. It's for fun."
"Ah, fun, something you're an expert at," he snarks. He watches Elena for a minute, watches her stare at anything and everything, so long as it pretends to be iron or is brightly lit, and slowly the tension falls from his face, replaced with a creeping smile.
But then his phone rings again. Elena taps her foot in annoyance, sighs a long-suffering sigh and the moment is gone.
He pokes at her shoulder gently with the phone. "Go on, pick out a snack. I'll catch up."
She starts to protest, but the phone is already back at his ear. When she crosses her arms and glares at him, Damon tries to shoo her away. Elena doesn't budge. He gives an irritated shrug and flashes his eyes at her, before wandering a bit down the midway and stopping to lean against a light pole near the ferris wheel.
She follows his progress with her eyes and then sweeps away in a huff. Elena doesn't like being herded. The need for blood gnaws at her, but she ignores it. She is in control, not the emptiness in her chest and stomach crying out to be filled. Food will happen on her own terms.
(She doesn't want to think about blood. Doesn't want the sudden reminder of her dream.)
Right now, she convinces herself, all she really wants is to shake Damon up - more than enough impetus to overcome her hunger. For weeks he's largely ignored the crises going on back home. She knows that he's still in contact with his brother, but that's to be expected - each of them can't get away from the other, not over days or centuries. But the rest of them... she had hoped he'd left them all behind, that he was joining her in the blessed floating present, far away from the stifling heroics of the past.
She catches sight of the clock tower at the center of the carnival and a thought sparks in her mind. Turns to look back at Damon once again, still leaning up against the pole and smiles a little to herself.
Suddenly the night is full of potential.
The crowd flows around her in a steady stream, formed up into even flows of current - some going in this direction, some going in the other. Patterns emerge.
Couples out on dates, arm in arm or leaning, coy and flirty.
Parents scrambling to catch running children, screaming children.
Teenagers out in packs, swirling without end, groups forming up and dispersing with equal mystery. Bouncing off each other, often alone for minutes. With eyes for only those their own age.
Teenagers. Perfect.
First comes a young woman, caught up watching the lights of the swing ride, left behind by her wandering friends in less than a minute. Elena approaches from the side and taps her on the arm. When she glances up to look at the dark-haired woman before her, she's caught up in a face is full of sunshine and dark warm eyes. She can't look away.
"Hey. Listen to me. I want to tell you something. See that man over there behind me, leaning up against the light pole? Black leather jacket, skin-tight pants?"
The girl's eyes flick briefly away from Elena's to take in Damon. They widen more than a little before returning to the warmth of Elena's gaze. She nods her head a fraction, expression gone totally dazed.
"He's a national hero. Or maybe a TV star. You really want to talk to him. No, wait," she says, changing her mind, "you want his autograph. You simply can't take no for an answer."
The girl's leg shoots out, stiff and mechanical, eager to fulfill the command without question. Elena catches her by the shoulders and uses her strength to hold her fast.
"Ah, ah, one sec. He's busy right now - see how he's on the phone? Look at that clock up there, do you see it?" The girl might as well have been replaced by a robot; her face swings up where Elena points to take in the central clock that dominates the midway. "When that clock hits nine he'll have all the time in the world for you. Fifteen minutes from now. Repeat it back to me, what are you going to do when you see nine on that clock?"
A voice like rust emerges from the girl. "I really want to talk to the hero. It's such an honor. I want him to give me his autograph. I want it more than anything else in the world."
"Fantastic." Elena says. It comes out with a giggle, as Elena rides high on the stew of chemical raw amusement let loose by her brain. She uses her grip on the girl's shoulders to drag her around and push her out into the pulsing crowd. "Now go have some fun."
It takes Elena less than ten minutes to trap and compel fifteen or so more. To her delight, once she lets them go she sees them convincing their uncompelled friends that the story is true. See that man over there? He's a hero, a TV star. I've seen him before I know I have. At the same time they do their level best to keep everyone back, and soon enough a weird little open space starts to form around Damon, who pays it no mind. He's still arguing with his phone, back to gesticulating wildly.
Elena can see it in her mind. At nine the kids will rush him, desperately wanting to talk to their hero. They're already inventing stories about him, making him into the man they want him to be, arguing over the details.
The adults, couples and families alike, will be confused, but there isn't really time to compel a group of them too. She makes a little tch noise to herself. She wants this to be big, wants to turn this faire upside down - shower Damon with all the love and respect a proper hero deserves.
She looks around for an easier way. Something less time consuming. She needs to create authority figures in the crowd, to spread information even to those who haven't been softened up. At the edge of the midway, almost around a corner, she spots a carnival worker in denim coveralls. She's pulling down the "gas" lamps one-by-one, checking the oil inside and refilling as needed from a plastic jug.
Elena doesn't give it a second thought, just dives back into the crowd towards where the woman is working. Manages to come to a stop behind her, just on the edge where the lights of the faire dissolve out into the desert dark.
"Hi, excuse me, ma'am?" Elena says, waving her hand through the air to catch the worker's eye. She's a big woman, tall and muscular, with close cropped and fuzzy orange-red hair. Her clothes are faux-period-functional - denim festooned with unnecessary gears and hooks and bits of metal, all of it flashing in the gas lamp light.
The woman twists around to look at her over her shoulder, giving Elena the chance to see the ornate name tag pinned to the right side of her coveralls. Her face is smudged with both grease paint affectation and machine grease mixed with desert dust.
"Sarah, right?" Elena says, pulling on her warmest pretend smile. "Do you think you could help me out with something?"
Sarah lets the lid of the lamp she's checking fall back into place. She turns full around to face Elena, pulling off thick brown gloves in the process and then wiping the back of her hand along her brow.
"Might be able to. What's the trouble?" she asks, eyes traveling up and down, taking in Elena's short-shorts and expensive pre-ripped tank - all of it completely inappropriate to the temperature of the desert night and the wealth of the town.
Elena edges closer to the woman, spinning slightly so that she can direct the woman's eyes into the crowd with a finger. "See that man over there?" she asks.
Sarah nods her agreement, lips tightening with irritation. "What about 'im?"
Elena whirls back, arms reaching up, hands clasping at the woman's shoulders. Sarah's blue eyes go wide at the sudden touch. When Elena raises her face to stare at the woman, Sarah makes eye contact out of some confused instinct. Brown eyes hold blue ones, unblinking, hypnotic. Pupils dilate, will flowing through the air.
"He's a hero. National treasure." Elena's voice is soothing and hushed. The woman stiffens for a moment, gives a confused sniff when she begins to speak, but soon relaxes into it. Face gone soft. "When the carnival clock hits nine pm everyone is going to notice. Mob of kids, crowd of confused adults. You'll want to let everyone know how much you love this guy, how much you care. Tell everyone you can, all about him. The best details you know. Can you tell me what's happening at nine?"
"We've got a national treasure visiting," Sarah repeats in a gruff voice. "And I want everyone to know about it."
"Perfect." Elena says with a smile. "Absolutely perfect. Just stay away from him till after nine, ok? We don't want to interrupt his important phone call until it's just the right time."
"Sure." The woman flashes Elena a grin full of teeth. "I can wait."
