"the far field"
“the far field”
Prompt: (by ever_neutral) Elena Gilbert -- I turn myself inside out, in hope someone will see (Damon/Elena)
A/N: Title from the poem of the same name by Theodore Roethke. Set post- 2.22.
She’s flying, except she’s sprawled out on the ground, enjoying the taste of grass and dirt. No one ever said you had to succeed at something to derive pleasure from it.
She lays there for a long time. An eternity or several. She can’t see her watch from this angle, but it’s okay. Time is a meaningless measurement of time.
Elena drifts. This boat’s only had room for one for a long time, never mind the three she’s been trying to cram in. They were sinking, all of them together, and she had had to stop it. If you couldn’t swim, you could try to fly. The logic’s not all there, but she doesn’t really care.
Finally, there are footsteps, fast and then faster.
“Damon,” she says, spitting some blood onto the ground. “You came.”
~~~~~
Elenababywhatdidyoudo
“Damon.”
Fuckelenatellme
“I knew…”
Whatisitthisisntlikeyou
“… it’d be you.”
~~~~~
“I’m alone,” she says in the car, her head in Damon’s lap as he ignores all traffic rules and signs.
“You’re not alone,” he snaps. “You’re with me.”
She sighs, her breath hot on his thigh. “Different equation, same answer.”
Damon gives her some of his blood right there in the car, when he’s parked in front of the Salvatore house. For a girl who always seemed like such a poster child for wholesomeness, she sure did a good impression of a crazed addict.
She falls asleep in his lap after she’s done drinking, and Damon slumps back in the seat. He strokes her hair, trying not to think about his hand coming back sticky, much less licking his fingers.
He carries her into the house, lays her on the couch. Stefan’s not there anymore to worry about stains.
He waits with her. He waits for her. After what seems like a long time, she wakes up.
~~~~~
“I drank it,” she tells him, triumphant.
“What, Jäegermeister? Is that what put this infernal idea in your head?”
“No.” She’s being coy on purpose, and Damon’s annoyed expression blooms into full anger when he realizes what she did.
“You didn’t.”
“Huh,” she says, wincing when she jostles her ribs. “Pretty sure I did.”
~~~~~
He should’ve seen it coming, but obviously he shouldn’t give up his day or night jobs, because his career as a telephone psychic was not going to take off anytime soon.
It was her birthday.
Are you gonna make a wish, he’d teased, knowing that it was a mistake the second he let the words fall out of his mouth and shatter on the floor, like a vase no one was going to sweep up. Instead they were going to walk over it until their feet were filled with glass.
“Yeah, I guess.” She’d tucked her hair behind her ears. “Hmm. How about dying and staying dead. That’d be a good one to start with.”
“You don’t play with wishes, Elena. They could come true.” Elena had looked at him over the top of the cake, her face thrown into harsh relief by the flickering candlelight.
“I’m not Molly Ringwald,” she’d told him. “And my life is not a John Hughes movie. So butt out.”
Her hair had fluttered across her cheek as she blew out the candles. Tears dripped onto the cake. Damon had held her. She’d shivered.
T.S. Eliot had said he could show you fear in a handful of dust- well, Damon could show you mortality in a scared girl with a martyr complex to rival Joan of Arc.
~~~~~
“Well, it didn’t work,” he tells her later, as if that solved everything.
“What, Damon. What didn’t work.” She’s daring him to say it, her eyes flinty.
He comes closer to her, leans in so that their noses are almost touching.
“Vampire blood. You drank vampire blood, Elena, and you wanted to die.”
“Are those two things mutually exclusive?”
Damon breaks character, whirls around and snatches a decanter from the side table. It smashes against the wall on the other side of the room. Elena remains unperturbed under her blanket, a little pale, but her expression unchanged.
Damon gets so close that he could floss with her hair. “I never thought you were like Katherine,” he whispers. “But now I’m really seeing the resemblance.”
~~~~~
Elena’s never been cut out for a career in medicine; Damon’s sure of it. Yeah, she could hold her own with the blood and gore like the last survivor of a D-list horror movie. Sure, she didn’t flinch or look away. But when it comes to Vicodin, Elena’s far from whipping out snarky one-liners while simultaneously diagnosing rare diseases.
…
…
…
Dontgostaywithme
“I’ve stayed with you plenty.”
Ididntmeanit
“You did.”
Yeahsowhatifidid
“So what.” He weighs the statement. He knows why Lady Justice is blindfolded, because if she weren’t, she’d see just how tipped his scale has always been.
Thankyoudamoni-
“You what.”
Ilo-
“Yeah.”
~~~~~
Elena has dark circles under her eyes in the morning. She sips coffee gingerly in Damon’s bed, traces designs on the back of his hand without looking him in the eyes.
“I’m sorry, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Don’t be like that, Damon.” Her fingers trail along his arm, his chest.
“Fine. It’s water under the bridge.” He concedes, knowing that when it comes to her, he always will.
“It’s not water, Damon. It’s blood.”
“Different equation, same answer.” He swirls his whiskey in his glass, downs it.
“No. Water evaporates, Damon. Blood doesn’t.”
“Ah.” Damon considers her. “Can you tell me why you did it, at least?”
She’s silent. Both of them are so light they could float away, if not for the weight of the molecules that make up their bodies-that and the anvils of all the broken promises and lies that had gotten them here.
~~~~~
It was the grass, she said.
The grass?
Yeah.
Go on.
We read this poem in English. ‘The Far Field.’ Damon, I-
It’s okay. Keep going.
-I couldn’t stop thinking about it. ‘The far field’… it sounded like heaven.
Heaven doesn’t exist, Elena. But for argument’s sake, I guess.
I know that now.
Elena-
Damon.
I-
I-
Prompt: (by ever_neutral) Elena Gilbert -- I turn myself inside out, in hope someone will see (Damon/Elena)
A/N: Title from the poem of the same name by Theodore Roethke. Set post- 2.22.
She’s flying, except she’s sprawled out on the ground, enjoying the taste of grass and dirt. No one ever said you had to succeed at something to derive pleasure from it.
She lays there for a long time. An eternity or several. She can’t see her watch from this angle, but it’s okay. Time is a meaningless measurement of time.
Elena drifts. This boat’s only had room for one for a long time, never mind the three she’s been trying to cram in. They were sinking, all of them together, and she had had to stop it. If you couldn’t swim, you could try to fly. The logic’s not all there, but she doesn’t really care.
Finally, there are footsteps, fast and then faster.
“Damon,” she says, spitting some blood onto the ground. “You came.”
~~~~~
Elenababywhatdidyoudo
“Damon.”
Fuckelenatellme
“I knew…”
Whatisitthisisntlikeyou
“… it’d be you.”
~~~~~
“I’m alone,” she says in the car, her head in Damon’s lap as he ignores all traffic rules and signs.
“You’re not alone,” he snaps. “You’re with me.”
She sighs, her breath hot on his thigh. “Different equation, same answer.”
Damon gives her some of his blood right there in the car, when he’s parked in front of the Salvatore house. For a girl who always seemed like such a poster child for wholesomeness, she sure did a good impression of a crazed addict.
She falls asleep in his lap after she’s done drinking, and Damon slumps back in the seat. He strokes her hair, trying not to think about his hand coming back sticky, much less licking his fingers.
He carries her into the house, lays her on the couch. Stefan’s not there anymore to worry about stains.
He waits with her. He waits for her. After what seems like a long time, she wakes up.
~~~~~
“I drank it,” she tells him, triumphant.
“What, Jäegermeister? Is that what put this infernal idea in your head?”
“No.” She’s being coy on purpose, and Damon’s annoyed expression blooms into full anger when he realizes what she did.
“You didn’t.”
“Huh,” she says, wincing when she jostles her ribs. “Pretty sure I did.”
~~~~~
He should’ve seen it coming, but obviously he shouldn’t give up his day or night jobs, because his career as a telephone psychic was not going to take off anytime soon.
It was her birthday.
Are you gonna make a wish, he’d teased, knowing that it was a mistake the second he let the words fall out of his mouth and shatter on the floor, like a vase no one was going to sweep up. Instead they were going to walk over it until their feet were filled with glass.
“Yeah, I guess.” She’d tucked her hair behind her ears. “Hmm. How about dying and staying dead. That’d be a good one to start with.”
“You don’t play with wishes, Elena. They could come true.” Elena had looked at him over the top of the cake, her face thrown into harsh relief by the flickering candlelight.
“I’m not Molly Ringwald,” she’d told him. “And my life is not a John Hughes movie. So butt out.”
Her hair had fluttered across her cheek as she blew out the candles. Tears dripped onto the cake. Damon had held her. She’d shivered.
T.S. Eliot had said he could show you fear in a handful of dust- well, Damon could show you mortality in a scared girl with a martyr complex to rival Joan of Arc.
~~~~~
“Well, it didn’t work,” he tells her later, as if that solved everything.
“What, Damon. What didn’t work.” She’s daring him to say it, her eyes flinty.
He comes closer to her, leans in so that their noses are almost touching.
“Vampire blood. You drank vampire blood, Elena, and you wanted to die.”
“Are those two things mutually exclusive?”
Damon breaks character, whirls around and snatches a decanter from the side table. It smashes against the wall on the other side of the room. Elena remains unperturbed under her blanket, a little pale, but her expression unchanged.
Damon gets so close that he could floss with her hair. “I never thought you were like Katherine,” he whispers. “But now I’m really seeing the resemblance.”
~~~~~
Elena’s never been cut out for a career in medicine; Damon’s sure of it. Yeah, she could hold her own with the blood and gore like the last survivor of a D-list horror movie. Sure, she didn’t flinch or look away. But when it comes to Vicodin, Elena’s far from whipping out snarky one-liners while simultaneously diagnosing rare diseases.
…
…
…
Dontgostaywithme
“I’ve stayed with you plenty.”
Ididntmeanit
“You did.”
Yeahsowhatifidid
“So what.” He weighs the statement. He knows why Lady Justice is blindfolded, because if she weren’t, she’d see just how tipped his scale has always been.
Thankyoudamoni-
“You what.”
Ilo-
“Yeah.”
~~~~~
Elena has dark circles under her eyes in the morning. She sips coffee gingerly in Damon’s bed, traces designs on the back of his hand without looking him in the eyes.
“I’m sorry, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Don’t be like that, Damon.” Her fingers trail along his arm, his chest.
“Fine. It’s water under the bridge.” He concedes, knowing that when it comes to her, he always will.
“It’s not water, Damon. It’s blood.”
“Different equation, same answer.” He swirls his whiskey in his glass, downs it.
“No. Water evaporates, Damon. Blood doesn’t.”
“Ah.” Damon considers her. “Can you tell me why you did it, at least?”
She’s silent. Both of them are so light they could float away, if not for the weight of the molecules that make up their bodies-that and the anvils of all the broken promises and lies that had gotten them here.
~~~~~
It was the grass, she said.
The grass?
Yeah.
Go on.
We read this poem in English. ‘The Far Field.’ Damon, I-
It’s okay. Keep going.
-I couldn’t stop thinking about it. ‘The far field’… it sounded like heaven.
Heaven doesn’t exist, Elena. But for argument’s sake, I guess.
I know that now.
Elena-
Damon.
I-
I-