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kricketstitle; rating: we'll leave our scar; r
fandom, pairing; wordcount: the vampire diaries, caroline/stefan; 1253
notes: written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
staringiscaring for help japan, prompt - 300 years later and they're still best friends
"Just because you're older than dirt doesn't mean you have to act like it, Stefan." Caroline says this far more often than Stefan thinks she probably realizes. Either that, or the years have bled together so completely that he has no frame of reference for how frequently these words slip from her lips.
He yawns and stretches, throwing the pillow over his head in the same motion.
She scrambles across the bed and takes it from him, swatting him lightly with it as he hides a grin.
They've been here two months already and Caroline still isn't bored of exploring, still hasn't settled in to a routine. They're in Paris, and the early morning sunlight is filtering in through the open window, and somehow deep down, Stefan knows Caroline is still seventeen years old, with all the energy and excitement that comes from being that young and new, despite the three-hundred years behind them.
"Paris is my favorite!" She squeals with delight every time he suggests it. And the truth is, if Stefan had a favorite, it might be this town, though he would never admit that to Caroline.
There are some things he has to keep to himself.
She lifts the pillow again and leans in, propping one elbow up on his chest, giving him her best pout. As familiar as this is, it never gets old. He takes her chin in his hands and kisses her. "So what do you want to do today, Caroline?"
--
Some places are big enough, or meandering enough, that you don't have to leave for a while. These are the places that are ripe with neighborhoods and nooks and crannies and bakeries and gardens they can get lost in. If they're lucky, they can stay a decade.
They have plenty of time.
There's no rush.
--
Stefan remembers a day in the woods.
They're in Canada and the game is good, almost as good as the real thing. They must spend days, maybe even weeks, underneath the sun and the stars, hunting and running and swimming and sleeping and then doing it all over again.
Caroline is lying in the grass beside him with her hands behind her head, waking up from a nap. The animals in them are not always so well-hidden, and Stefan remembers thinking that maybe they should just live like this forever, out in the wild.
"I'm lonely, Stefan," she says with a kind of half sigh which causes him to look over at her, her eyes still fixed on the sky above. "Aren't you lonely?" she asks, turning to face him.
The question hangs in the air for a long time, and the answer catches Stefan off-guard. For the longest time all he can remember feeling is loneliness, even with Caroline by his side. For longer than he can remember, it was always Elena's face he saw around every corner, in every brown-haired girl they came across, in every one of his dreams. It is only now, being asked the question, that he realizes he hasn't been haunted by that image in maybe a decade, that he hasn't felt lonely in at least the same amount of time. No, he's not lonely, he thinks. He has Caroline. But these words catch in his thoughts and hang suspended in his open mouth.
Caroline turns her face back to the clouds. "Well, I'm lonely."
--
They avoid the ruins of his lost decade.
Caroline doesn't ever wonder out loud why they never go to Prague, or New York, or Bulgaria, or Moscow, or many other places she's always wanted to go. Just the same as she never asks him about Mystic Falls. Some places are just too dangerous. Just by their very being, they pose a silent kind of threat. And Caroline, somehow, with her bright eyes and her quiet understanding, doesn't have to ask.
Some nights he can sense her wandering his dreams, an observer, nothing more. He can't stop the memories, the faceless and the nameless, the blood on his hands, spilling down his chin and onto his chest.
Only once does Caroline intervene, take him into her arms, pull him away from the dark. And though it's only a dream, Caroline cries out when he sinks his teeth into her neck. But still she lets him tear at her clothes, stripping her down, the blood smearing now across her skin.
"Kiss me," she says once he's had his fill. But the words come out more like, Kill me.
He drives into her then, blood and decay around them, the scent of funeral flowers on the air. He crushes his mouth to hers and grips her so hard he's sure that it must hurt, and Caroline, she just grabs his face, forcing him to make eye contact.
"It's okay," she whispers. "I'm right here."
When he wakes, she's still asleep at his side, legs curled into him and shivering. He holds her, brushes her hair back from her face, kisses her forehead.
"Thank you, Caroline," he whispers.
--
Caroline learns the art of graffiti. Any place they spend any significant amount of time gets a tag. It's an abstract deep red crest, with as many swoops and curls as one might expect from someone like Caroline. She makes it small, most of the time, not some massive ugly thing. She leaves it behind like a signature, a bite mark, a tiny scar on the cities they love and leave. Within its borders, if you look closely enough, you can see the eye of the wolf, the feather of an angel, two letters [a C and an S] intertwined, and, last but not least, a distant waterfall.
Stefan jokes that this mark will baffle historians and archeologists. It follows them across dozens of of cities and hundreds of years. The first thing Caroline does when they arrive in a new place is go looking for it. How Caroline remembers exactly where she put it, Stefan never knows. There are times when it gets washed away, and sometimes, depending on how clever the spot, it remains until the next time they arrive, a lifetime behind them.
Caroline reaches out, places her hand on the crest, and with tears in her eyes and that sad smile across her lips, announces, "We're home."
Stefan takes her to bed those nights, kisses her for as many cities they've lived in, for as many times that they've slipped, for every kill, for every person they've lost, for all of the memories that must be washed away.
Caroline whispers his name and digs her nails into his shoulders.
"Don't let go," she rasps. "Don't let go."
--
It's winter in Munich when Caroline gets word of another Petrova doppelganger not far from where they are: an heir of Elena Gilbert, a scion of Katherine Pierce, and no doubt, created for some sinister purpose that she, an innocent, has no way of knowing to expect.
It's Damon on the other end of the line, and he tells Caroline that he just wanted them to know, asks about his brother before hanging up.
Stefan watches the sky, the early evening snow coming down heavy now.
Caroline laces her fingers through his.
"Her name is Gretchen," she tells him, already knowing he heard every word and that no further explanation is needed. "And she's gonna be fine," she tells him. "She has Damon. So, she'll be fine. And you'll be fine."
Stefan squeezes her hand tight and doesn't let go.
"Let's go home," he says.
-fin
fandom, pairing; wordcount: the vampire diaries, caroline/stefan; 1253
notes: written for
staringiscaring for help japan, prompt - 300 years later and they're still best friends"Just because you're older than dirt doesn't mean you have to act like it, Stefan." Caroline says this far more often than Stefan thinks she probably realizes. Either that, or the years have bled together so completely that he has no frame of reference for how frequently these words slip from her lips.
He yawns and stretches, throwing the pillow over his head in the same motion.
She scrambles across the bed and takes it from him, swatting him lightly with it as he hides a grin.
They've been here two months already and Caroline still isn't bored of exploring, still hasn't settled in to a routine. They're in Paris, and the early morning sunlight is filtering in through the open window, and somehow deep down, Stefan knows Caroline is still seventeen years old, with all the energy and excitement that comes from being that young and new, despite the three-hundred years behind them.
"Paris is my favorite!" She squeals with delight every time he suggests it. And the truth is, if Stefan had a favorite, it might be this town, though he would never admit that to Caroline.
There are some things he has to keep to himself.
She lifts the pillow again and leans in, propping one elbow up on his chest, giving him her best pout. As familiar as this is, it never gets old. He takes her chin in his hands and kisses her. "So what do you want to do today, Caroline?"
--
Some places are big enough, or meandering enough, that you don't have to leave for a while. These are the places that are ripe with neighborhoods and nooks and crannies and bakeries and gardens they can get lost in. If they're lucky, they can stay a decade.
They have plenty of time.
There's no rush.
--
Stefan remembers a day in the woods.
They're in Canada and the game is good, almost as good as the real thing. They must spend days, maybe even weeks, underneath the sun and the stars, hunting and running and swimming and sleeping and then doing it all over again.
Caroline is lying in the grass beside him with her hands behind her head, waking up from a nap. The animals in them are not always so well-hidden, and Stefan remembers thinking that maybe they should just live like this forever, out in the wild.
"I'm lonely, Stefan," she says with a kind of half sigh which causes him to look over at her, her eyes still fixed on the sky above. "Aren't you lonely?" she asks, turning to face him.
The question hangs in the air for a long time, and the answer catches Stefan off-guard. For the longest time all he can remember feeling is loneliness, even with Caroline by his side. For longer than he can remember, it was always Elena's face he saw around every corner, in every brown-haired girl they came across, in every one of his dreams. It is only now, being asked the question, that he realizes he hasn't been haunted by that image in maybe a decade, that he hasn't felt lonely in at least the same amount of time. No, he's not lonely, he thinks. He has Caroline. But these words catch in his thoughts and hang suspended in his open mouth.
Caroline turns her face back to the clouds. "Well, I'm lonely."
--
They avoid the ruins of his lost decade.
Caroline doesn't ever wonder out loud why they never go to Prague, or New York, or Bulgaria, or Moscow, or many other places she's always wanted to go. Just the same as she never asks him about Mystic Falls. Some places are just too dangerous. Just by their very being, they pose a silent kind of threat. And Caroline, somehow, with her bright eyes and her quiet understanding, doesn't have to ask.
Some nights he can sense her wandering his dreams, an observer, nothing more. He can't stop the memories, the faceless and the nameless, the blood on his hands, spilling down his chin and onto his chest.
Only once does Caroline intervene, take him into her arms, pull him away from the dark. And though it's only a dream, Caroline cries out when he sinks his teeth into her neck. But still she lets him tear at her clothes, stripping her down, the blood smearing now across her skin.
"Kiss me," she says once he's had his fill. But the words come out more like, Kill me.
He drives into her then, blood and decay around them, the scent of funeral flowers on the air. He crushes his mouth to hers and grips her so hard he's sure that it must hurt, and Caroline, she just grabs his face, forcing him to make eye contact.
"It's okay," she whispers. "I'm right here."
When he wakes, she's still asleep at his side, legs curled into him and shivering. He holds her, brushes her hair back from her face, kisses her forehead.
"Thank you, Caroline," he whispers.
--
Caroline learns the art of graffiti. Any place they spend any significant amount of time gets a tag. It's an abstract deep red crest, with as many swoops and curls as one might expect from someone like Caroline. She makes it small, most of the time, not some massive ugly thing. She leaves it behind like a signature, a bite mark, a tiny scar on the cities they love and leave. Within its borders, if you look closely enough, you can see the eye of the wolf, the feather of an angel, two letters [a C and an S] intertwined, and, last but not least, a distant waterfall.
Stefan jokes that this mark will baffle historians and archeologists. It follows them across dozens of of cities and hundreds of years. The first thing Caroline does when they arrive in a new place is go looking for it. How Caroline remembers exactly where she put it, Stefan never knows. There are times when it gets washed away, and sometimes, depending on how clever the spot, it remains until the next time they arrive, a lifetime behind them.
Caroline reaches out, places her hand on the crest, and with tears in her eyes and that sad smile across her lips, announces, "We're home."
Stefan takes her to bed those nights, kisses her for as many cities they've lived in, for as many times that they've slipped, for every kill, for every person they've lost, for all of the memories that must be washed away.
Caroline whispers his name and digs her nails into his shoulders.
"Don't let go," she rasps. "Don't let go."
--
It's winter in Munich when Caroline gets word of another Petrova doppelganger not far from where they are: an heir of Elena Gilbert, a scion of Katherine Pierce, and no doubt, created for some sinister purpose that she, an innocent, has no way of knowing to expect.
It's Damon on the other end of the line, and he tells Caroline that he just wanted them to know, asks about his brother before hanging up.
Stefan watches the sky, the early evening snow coming down heavy now.
Caroline laces her fingers through his.
"Her name is Gretchen," she tells him, already knowing he heard every word and that no further explanation is needed. "And she's gonna be fine," she tells him. "She has Damon. So, she'll be fine. And you'll be fine."
Stefan squeezes her hand tight and doesn't let go.
"Let's go home," he says.
-fin