Spoilers: Up to an alternate Departure in which Michael stayed, but they didn't arrive in time to stop the others from leaving. For Vampire Diaries, it starts to go AU in the beginning of season two.
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing, all characters and original Roswell and Vampire Diaries settings belong to other very lucky people.
Pairings/Couples/Category: XO/UC, some CC.
Warnings: There will be references to death, sex, violence, and the (frequent) use of adult language, but nothing too explicit. If needed, more specific warnings will be posted.
Summary: Two people who ruined their lives for love start something new with each other. It's not healthy, and they're not quite sane, but Liz and Damon can't stay away, and their relationship will alter both of their fates.
A/N: So this was originally a part of my Czechoslovakian Guide to the Multiverse, but now that I've written three parts for it (and have a few more planned) I decided to make it a separate fic.
It was always Stefan. It’s always going to be Stefan.
Nine words, fifteen syllables, simple and straightforward. Not that the word choices matter, the meaning is clear. You are not enough. That is what those words really mean, whether they are being spoken with casual indifference by the bitch who owned him, destroyed him, and reformed him in her image, or her descendant, whose core of innocence, of good, draws him in like a suicidal moth to a bitter flame. The words burn, sinking into his blood and rushing towards his brain, more painful than vervain or some faux scientific vampire killing device.
Pain makes him crazy, makes him more crazy, and he lashes out, knowing it is what the bitch expects, but unable to help himself, unable to stop himself from making her hate him again, from unleashing the chaos he originally turned to in the bitch’s name, and now revels in for its own sake. Watching Jeremy crumple to the floor, pain and hate blooming in Elena’s eyes, it is soothing balm and stinging salt.
Kiss or Kill; he should have picked kill. Then he wouldn’t have heard those words from either set of poisonous lips; then he wouldn’t have spread the pain that is his disease, his cure. He knows he’s a sociopath, or near enough, and sometimes he even manages to care enough to wish that he wasn’t. Especially at times like this, when he fails so miserably at not caring, at flipping that damn switch.
He leaves, unable to face her, but not knowing where to go where he won’t be reminded of her, or her, or him. He steals his brother’s little red sex machine and drives, recklessly, until he reaches another stupid tiny town, finds another bar empty of familiar faces. When he walks in, he sees a flash of dark hair and almost walks back out, but the girl, woman, turns, and though she also has dark eyes, she looks nothing like either of the women who he burns for, and so he smirks, channeling his pain into that reckless charm that all women love, teeth aching for a bite.
Maybe blood will wash away his sins.
I wish this all could have been different. Not like I love you.
His final words keep playing over and over again in her head until she wants to scream because there’s no room left for anything else. He wishes, he loves, he fucks up, and once again she is left to deal with the consequences, to try and pick up the shattered pieces of her life. Her cell phone vibrates and she chucks it under the seat, Maria’s unceasing calls more than she can deal with right now. Maria got to keep her man; Maria has someone to comfort her over the loss of Alex, and someone she should be comforting over the loss of his family. And Kyle, he already left for the summer, without looking back once, not that she blames him.
So now it’s just her, and her father’s truck, a large bundle of bills, still withdrawn from her aborted trip to Sweden, and the open road. She’s been driving for almost thirty hours and finally decides to stop, because if she keeps going, she’ll soon be driving into the Atlantic Ocean. She finds a small town with a seedy bar and slips some of her stash of bills into her pocket along with her fake ID from Vegas.
The bored and tired bartender doesn’t even ask for her ID and she quickly orders, and just as quickly downs, a rum and coke. Spinning the empty glass with her finger, she debates between ordering another or sticking with beer from then on out. Something prickles the back of her neck and she turns to see someone walking into the bar, oozing sex and pain and danger and looking just as out of place in this worn down flea trap as she does, although for a completely different reason. He catches her eye, smirking with confident charm, and instead of blushing like Perfect Miss Parker would (because really, what the hell has Perfect Miss Parker done for her lately?), the reckless part of her that just doesn’t give a shit anymore grins invitingly, signaling the bartender for two shots of tequila like a pro, and sliding one down to him when he claims the stool next to hers.
They don’t speak, not in words, just knowing glances, rough chuckles, and perfectly casual brushes of fingers and hips, downing shot after shot until she’s feeling warm and electric and forgetful. He pulls her to her feet, fingers locking around her wrist, and half walks, half carries her towards the door. Once outside, the shock of freezing cold air jolts her enough that she can stand on her own, and when he pushes her against the wall, one hand sliding around her waist under her shirt and the other grabbing her hair and tipping her head back, she pulls him closer, desperate to feel.
Their lips meet and their tongues clash, tasting of salt and lime, and she moans as they feed off each other’s rage and pain, her nails digging into his chest as he rocks into the cradle of her hips. He suddenly rips away from her mouth and goes for her neck and she gasps as instead of the expected kiss there’s a shock of pain and teeth and the copper smell of blood, followed by a staccato flash of images across the back of her eyelids – him in the uniform of a confederate soldier, a beautiful and vicious woman, a brother he loved and hated, and actions driven by love and madness.
A sudden fierce swell of electricity rises within her and her back bows with pain and pleasure.
When the aftershocks of bliss fade he’s pulled away from her, her blood staining his mouth, and is staring down at her in shock as the wound on her neck heals with a crackle of green lightning. He cocks his head to the side, idly licking his lips, and scans her from head to toe before smirking. “I don’t know what you are, but that was the best drink of my life.”
Her breath is coming in sharp, short pants as faint shudders send tingles through her body and after a moment she starts to laugh, the absurdity of the situation overwhelming any chance of fear. She doesn’t stop laughing until her whole body is shaking and tears are trickling down her cheeks. When she’s done, he’s still holding her, lips still curled up faintly and face dark with the reflections of demons she doesn’t want to see. She reaches up, pulls his head down to her level, and whispers. “I don’t care what you are, but I want you to make this the best night of my life.”
He takes a step back and suddenly she thinks he’s going to leave, but then he holds out his hand, dark eyes glinting with challenge, and she takes it because she thinks she’s finally met someone who’s done even stupider things than her in the name of love, and she can’t wait to taste him again.