The Spaces Between by LindaMarie When Stefan wakes, it's not yet dawn; he can feel the sun far below the horizon, waiting. He thinks, Maybe the night will go on forever. It seems like it already has. He keeps his eyes closed for a long time, as images from preceding hours swim through his mind. He feels a flood of shame wash over him, but recalls tenderness and victimless pleasure, and the feeling eases. He is flat on his back in the center of the bed, and the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Elena's hair shining in the moonlight. He reaches out to touch it, but jumps back at the feel of a hand on his hip. "Brother." Damon's voice is languid, possessive. "Damon," he answers, because he doesn't know what else to say. His instinct is to pull away, retreat--but he won't do that, not now. Stefan turns to face him, and supresses a shiver as that hand slides over his skin. Damon's expression is sober as they meet each other's eyes. Stefan has the overwhelming temptation to cup his brother's pale cheek in his hand--he can picture how their skin would match, how Damon woud lean into the touch. There is a separation in his mind, between thoughts and actions and feelings, a conflict of signals like he has never known before. When he doesn't know which path to pursue, he finds himself shutting down. Right now, not knowing whether to caress or choke or flee, he simply lays still, passive. "Don't do that to me," Damon says. "You did it earlier tonight, doubting us. You frightened Elena. Do you know how it feels to humans? To enjoy something, knowing the ones they love most may think less of them for it?" Stefan has to give his head a little shake, clearing it of ghosts and conflict all at once. "Yes," he replies after a moment, not adding that it feels no different to vampires--or, at least, him. In a burst of inspiration he presses a hand against Damon's chest, where the blade entered so long ago. "We gave up our lives over something along those lines, as I recall," and somehow he is smiling a little as he says it. Damon returns the gesture, mirroring him. Even though there are no scars on their bodies to guide, they both remember the exact places: Damon had thrust his sword right on-target, through the heart, while Stefan's sword, carried on a last wave of life, had entered upwards, more to the right--probably through the lungs. Stefan imagines his brother had taken much longer to die. Dipping his head in closer, close enough that his nose brushes Stefan's collarbone, Damon breathes warm and damp on Stefan's neck. "As much as I'd like to stay like this all night, I'm afraid it's time to get up. We have hunting to do." Stefan stiffens. "What?" "Hun-ting. Or do you expect for me to play wet-nurse to you another night?" Damon pulls away entirely, out of bed and already dressing while he speaks. "Damon...Where--where were you planning on going?" "The streets, of course. If we listen, I'm sure we'll find someone quickly enough." Despite himself, Stefan sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He watches the muscles in Damon's stomach move as he pulls on a shirt, and tries to look more outraged than he feels. "Damon, you know I don't drink from humans." "Don't give me that shit, little brother," he answers succinctly, now fully-dressed and standing before him, "You know just as well as I that that's just your way of playing the martyr. Oh, St. Stephen would be proud, wouldn't he?" He has that damnable smirk on his face. "Would it be better for me to be like you? Using people like they were catered meals?" Stefan's nails are digging into the bed. He wonders how this creature he held so closely moments ago could now feel so very far away. Damon's eyes are hard and flinty. "It would be better if you would stop viewing everything I do as some kind of deliberate evil." "Isn't that what it is?" Suddenly Stefan finds his shoulders locked in his brother's grip as that so-familiar face looms close to his. "You think," Damon says, "that because I don't starve myself, because I eat the best available, that I'm greedy and uncaring. Well"--he releases his hold and steps back--"if that is the case, then you are equally to blame. If you'll remember, we used to eat dozen-course meals at our father's home. We covered ourselves in gold and jewels ad never gave it a second thought. Meanwhile there were beggars in the piazza outside, starving to death." "That was different, Damon. We didn't kill them." "We might as well have. If you ever bothered to pull your head from your firmly-clenched ass you'd find that there are a lot of things in this world to feel more guilty of than drinking a little blood." "But...Elena..." "What? You think she'd be jealous of your as-yet-unknown partner? She certainly never has been with me. And it's not as if you would ever use her for food, as you'd say, to begin with." Stefan sighs and closes his eyes, but stands. This is not an argument he's going to win, here and now. Even through their harsh words, Elena is still asleep, and he wants her to stay that way. He could always refuse Damon later, after all... "Well, come on then," and Damon's tossing clothing at him, snapping him out of his line of thought. "Or do you wish me to dress you as well? Not," he adds, looking at Stefan through lowered lids, "that I'd mind." "No, no." An automatic answer. Stefan is ready soon enough. He pulls on his boots and follows Damon out the bedroom door. "Wait." "What?" "What if Elena wakes up while we're--" Damon taps his forehead. "She won't." ********* Down on the streets, walkways, never empty, no, not here. Stefan wonders what people see when the Salvatores pass by. Does their dark hair and white skin in the lamplight make death's-heads of their faces? Or are they just two men walking? Or victims themselves? He's tempted to ask Damon. He probably knows. Damon hasn't said anything since they left the house. They walk in silence. After a while, Stefan ventures, "What is it exactly that we're looking for?" "I'll know when we find them?" "Them?" "We need a couple." "I'm sorry I asked." Stefan hands several bills to every beggar they pass, just to show that what Damon said was wrong--but there's a nagging part of him that can't deny it. When Stefan has fed from humans, it's always been the homeless, the unfortunate. It doesn't seem to bother him as much. He's rationalized that they're weak to begin with, that they don't have anything to look forward to anyway. It all comes down to survival of the fittest, even though that's a credo Stefan thought he'd been rejecting from the start. Maybe he is no better than Damon. After all, he couldn't even comfort Elena--by word or touch--when she first returned to them. "Damon," he begins haltingly, "Elena...why do you think it happened like this?" His brother halts, brows drawn down. "I don't believe in fate. Things just happen. And if there were a reason, I doubt we'll ever learn it." then his face transforms, mouth amused, eyes sparkling. "If nothing else, it's brought us here, hasn't it? And I do believe I'm doing you some good, little brother." Stefan remembers Damon's tongue following the path of his sternum, dipping into his navel. "Perhaps." They walk again, careful footsteps through shadowed alleys and brilliant sidewalks. Finally Damon brings them both to a halt with a hand firm on Stefan's shoulder. There, he says, mind-to-mind, and the soft velvet of his mental voice nearly drives Stefan to distraction. Stefan follows the directive muzzily, wishing his brother would speak to him again and suddenly aching for his touch. And he thinks it must be the surge of lust in him that keeps him from protesting, or really feeling anything but hunger, when he sees the victims Damon has so carefully chosen--a young male and female, barely more than children. Wrapped in each other's arms, the girl backed up to a dirty wall, her hands clenched in the boy's hair, they don't even notice as the brothers approach. It's like, Damon tells him, taking candy from a baby. And when Stefan thinks on that he can't help but offer a wry grin in return--even though he knows he shouldn't find humor in any of this. I don't think I can do this, he thinks so Damon can hear. Is it just posturing, this hesitation, expectation of regret? He can smell their blood and hear the quickened beating of their hearts, and he outright burns through and through in response, but he can't...he can't just throw away all 500-odd years of morals and vows in a matter of days--can he? Before his eyes the humans' bodies drop to the ground, limp. "Does that make it easier?" Damon speaks aloud this time. "The won't feel or remember anything." Then he stand still, hands in his pockets, waiting for an answer. Patient. It occurs to Stefan that his brother is being more than kind. Is it sympathy? Pity? Or is Damon just humoring him? Whatever it is, it's something Stefan has been seeing more and more of these past few days, and he finds himself not wanting to do anything that would make it stop. "Yes," he says. But he can't make himself move. Damon watches him, seeming to weigh him carefully on some inner scale. Then, a nod. "Yes." He turns and moves to the young man on top, lifts him, and bites. He makes it look so easy. Stefan can feel Damon reaching out to him with his mind, and he can't bring himself not to accept--not when he's observing Damon, drinking tenderly, flushed with the heat of fresh blood with his eyes closed in pleasure. Stefan opens his mind and he's instantly drawn in a ripple of power, surprised, into Damon's body so he can feel it all. It's overwhelming. Damon gives himself fully to his meal, savoring it. Stefan can barely tell which actions, sensations are Damon's and which are his own. There is the rich hot blood flowing down his throat, the warm living body a weight in his arms. There is the reflecting, refracting lust between the two vampires, the pulsing hunger of the one, the conflict, resolution, satiation... And then it stops. Damons stands straight and licks his lips fastidiously, lowering the boy to the ground. Stefan can't even find his own thoughts for a few moments and without thinking, because he can't, he's stepping closer, closer, until he is inches away from Damon. And Damon is tugging him down by the collar, their mouths meeting, locking, tongue-deep. Stefan reels, grips Damon's shoulder to steady himself. The human's blood lingers in Damon's mouth and Stefan seeks it out, wanting every trace of it. He swallows, and seals his fate. Stefan pulls back from the kiss, embrace. "Yes," he says again, affirming the short pact made between them just minutes ago. Damon leans down, lifts the girl under her arms like an infant-- --And then Stefan has her. He licks, sucks the skin of her throat, reveling in the salt-taste of her. The bite is so swift and soft and natural he barely notices it happening until his mouth is flooded with copper, with life. It's over too fast. He's sated and he stops in time, breaking free, gasping, setting her gently back down on the pavement. He feels giddy, euphoric. More alive than he can remember feeling, ever. Then he's back in his brother's arms, being kissed once again, returning it. He presses close and sighs as he begins to come down. "It all happened so quickly," he says to Damon, who laughs--and then they're both laughing, loud, uncontrolled, free. They turn and begin the walk back the way they came. Stefan remembers something he once said, about the quick, and the dead. He wonders if lines are really drawn so clearly, if there are maybe blurred shadow-places between. Maybe that's what we are, he thinks, picturing two gunfighters, weapons drawn, a bullet frozen midway, destination unknown. Maybe we are the spaces between. END