Rewrite!

Post-Precognitive OC, reactive OC, canon divergences, references to drug use, cursing, violence, lime-y sexual content, Stefan/OC pairing, and NO Salvatore love triangle.

I'm ignoring some later seasons canon. Katherine is Stefan's first love. Big nope for Valerie, heretics, the discount slayer, some of the Gemini coven mythos/personalities, vampires having babies, a literal hell.

i. mayday, mayday.

She can only insert herself (directly, indirectly, adjacently) after the car hits the lake.

Even the thought of flashing her lights from the other side of the bridge, where they likely wouldn't even see them, causes a sharp, familiar pain to stab her temples.

Why her head, she's always wondered. You would think with vows, there'd be a sympathetic connection with hands. Hands are bound in promises, offered in deals. There's no poetry in perpetual migraines, and she's really-fucking-sick of them.

It lingers, nauseatingly, the way it did when this scheme popped into her head. Will it disappear when this is - not over, but - when the guardrail splinters (when Miranda Gilbert's neck snaps on impact)?

It's nerves mostly that causes her hands to clench tight to keep from shaking, that exacerbates the pulsing pain in her head. Nerves is a better answer than the alternative. (You're dangerously close to breaking a promise, and the backlash is going to inspire more than a migraine.) Maybe it's self-preservation or hardwired Pavlovian response that makes her want to hightail it as the clock runs down.

If she can intervene, as in physically can, then she'll know. If something more than anxiety freezes her limbs before she has a chance to dive off the bridge (and swim 20 feet) then, well, she'll give up here... and leave Mystic Falls behind.

Save my daughter. Please – my daughter.

The doppelgänger is always in less danger than those around them, but she goes where directed. He'll refuse to be saved if no one is tending to Elena.

She can barely make out the sporadic panic of Grayson in her peripheral, the motionless form of Elena, shadowed in the backseat as the water swells. There are no headlights, no back lights, to guide. Some moonlight must reach the lake bed, as Miranda's white, floating shirt gives off a faint glow.

The pressure makes her lingering headache throb, her lungs constrict.

She's scenario-ed this for the past four hours. She thought about buying a tool to shatter the glass but decided it would look suspicious to have at hand. She only has herself, and when she pulls on the door handle, and fails to budge it even a little, she realizes herself isn't enough.

The water is above their heads. Elena reaches for her father and closes her eyes. If the door is locked, Elena isn't going to unlock it. She's not sure if she's holding her breath, breathing in water, or not breathing at all.

If she heads to the surface for air, will she make it back in time? Not likely.

The air is poisoning inside her lungs, compressing. Her heart thuds dully in her sternum, a beat she can feel but not hear.

Her body stills, eyes squeezed shut as she wills herself to stay, to survive without air a little longer, to wait...

She lets go of the carriage, starts to drift. How long can she hold her breath? How much longer does she have to?

A hand encircles her upper arm. She sags, air bubbles slipping past her lips in sheer relief. She reaches around to squeeze his arm tightly as he yanks the back door open.

Her fingers tangle in his hoodie, body drifting into his side. She motions towards the backseat, towards the seat belt. She's not sure if Elena tried to set herself free, but if it's stuck, she doesn't have the energy to pull it loose.

Elena's lax face is slightly upturned, clearly visible, and Stefan freezes.

She digs her knuckles into his side and pushes. Her vision is spotting.

He tears at the seat belt with only his arm inside the cab, and he guides her hand to the vicinity of Elena's wrist. Her eyes slit, heavy and blurred. He seems more shadow than form, but she nods jerkily in acknowledgement, or gratefulness, or just direction to see to Grayson now.

She swims up.

Elena's weight drags her on every pull of gasping breath.

She gurgles an expletive in frustration, determined not to drown with her forehead above water, her neck straining upward.

Her diaphragm spasms as she's taken over by hacking coughs and greedy breaths. She tries to pull Elena's weight higher in her arms, to get them both on their backs, to take the ache out of her kicking, leaden legs. Elena is dead weight, and too heavy to maneuver, and it's all she can do to keep the water out of her own lungs.

Stefan and Grayson break the surface. Stefan and Grayson.

She wasn't sure if Grayson would prioritize his life over his wife's body. If he even knew she was dead and wouldn't insist Stefan take her instead. But he's here. He's alive.

Stefan has a hold of his shoulders, but Grayson moves away the second his eyes find her and Elena. He's forcefully getting his breathing under control, open-mouthed, and shaking. "Is she breathing?" He pushes Elena's head back, fingertips shaking as they push the strands of hair off her face, skate under her nose and to the pulse of her neck.

She's not sure she'd be able to focus on Elena's pulse when hers is drumming in her ears.

Stefan stays outside the loose perimeter as Grayson crowds her vision, starts to slide his arms around Elena, and they fumble to trade her weight.

She flexes her cramped fingers, remembering how desperately she yanked on the metal. Her head tilts back to take the strain off her neck, and the lapping waves deafen her each time they crest upward. She breaths, open-mouthed, almost hypnotically, as her thoughts whirl.

Grayson maneuvers Elena to align her back against his chest. One hand encircles her throat as he performs something like the Heimlich maneuver. Her body jolts, spewing water. She watches it without sound, waiting for Elena to suddenly revive. Nothing quick or miraculous happens. She remains unconsciousness.

Grayson starts swimming backwards, Elena tightly enclosed to his chest, and his other arm on a backstroke. Elena will be fine, she's sure, but perhaps she skated closer to death than she assumed. Did Stefan perform CPR...originally?

"Are you alright?" Stefan questions her. He hasn't drifted from where they surfaced, and he drags his attention away from Grayson and Elena, and looks at her with such obvious question that she -

Why is he looking at her like that?

"I can manage." She eyes the side of the bridge, but there's no way she'll be able to climb up. Reluctantly, she is made to follow Grayson's lead.

The embankment is slippery, muddy from washed out soil. Grayson has pulled Elena and himself up on the easiest slope, and made it impossible to follow his path, or maneuver around him. She slips in the mud, falls to a knee, and only keeps upright by gripping a spindly tree root.

"Here," Stefan offers, climbing up first and extending his hand, his other balanced against the wide tree. She looks for another way to get up, realizes she'll end up tearing up her hands crawling up the embankment, before she agrees. Both lean forward to connect. She grips his hand tightly, her other pushing off the top of the tree root as she gets one leg out of the water and stretched until her toes graze the wet soil in front of his boots. It's a long stretch for a foothold. She trusts he can hold her weight and that she can pull his arm without dislodging him, so she releases the tree root and leaps forward to grasp his wrist. With both hands around his she pulls herself up (and that makes the muscles in her arms shake) as he pulls his forearm closer. The hand around his wrist transfers to his shoulder quickly as she lands in front of him, dizzy and legs warmed and quaking.

"Thank you," she exhales heavily, gripping his shoulder for a moment for balance before brushing past to collapse onto the saturated grass behind him. The sticky, humid air fills her lungs, each breath a punch to her throat. Little bugs (nats? mosquitos?) start to hover around her head. She shakes her head to keep them away, chin atop her bent knee, her legs flush tight against her chest.

Grayson is on his haunches, back curved over Elena, hand flat over her heart. His back is turned completely away from the lake, and he keeps Stefan in his peripheral.

"Is she okay?" Stefan asks, staying back, shoulders hunched slightly as he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

Grayson's shoulders tighten, a shiver or a flinch controlled by the question. "I...don't want to move her," he doesn't look up. "I need you to direct an ambulance here."

Stefan pushes off the tree, easily receptive to the order-disguised-request. Maybe he wants to leave.

"We can take my car." Grayson didn't look at either of them when he said 'you'. Why not both of them? She ignores the ache in her palms as she pushes off her weight, wobbly and lightheaded as she stands.

Stefan looks over at her before nodding his agreement. She can see Grayson watching the interlude, evaluating their relationship to each other.

"Thank you," Grayson murmurs, gruffly. He clears his throat raggedly before adding, "for your help."

Stefan doesn't say you're welcome, and she doesn't either. They skate a glance at each other as she gestures towards the side of the bridge that holds her car.

What do you say in this situation?

They both walk around him as if there's a visible perimeter encircling him and Elena. Grayson offers his hand before she steps past him.

"You should stop by the hospital as well, to make sure you're okay," he instructs, with the Gilbert ring turned to press an indent into her palm.

She nods slightly, eyes shifting away from the ring as he drops her lax hand.

She pushes the map of Virginia in between the seat and the console so it doesn't fall victim to her muddied jeans. It's caked from ankles to the top of her knees, itchy on her forearms, packed under her fingernails. The climb was steep and exhausting. She's filthy with dead leaves, dirt, and needles, and the humidity has only made the experience more miserable. She strips off the socks and plops them onto the floorboard, wiggles bare, chilled feet under her thighs in the seat, muscles protesting the position. She shivers, hair dripping down her back, clothes plastered and itchy against her skin.

She contemplates climbing over the console into the driver's seat she didn't want to walk to, before looking at Stefan through the open door, where he's still standing in the brush, looking unsure.

"You could drive," she side-eyes him as she fumbles with the glove department for aspirin. Stefan told her on the climb up that the hospital is farther than the boarding house. Better for him to drive to his house then for her to pretend she doesn't know the way. Better to jump on any excuse so she can just slump into her seat and not apply any effort for the next...half and hour at least? (Then what?)

She fumbles with her water bottle, decides to chug half of it to sooth her throat as she swallows two aspirin. Stefan catches her off guard by shutting her door for her. Her grip slackens on the water bottle before she corrects it, jarred by that sudden, final sound. She watches as he walks around the front and open the door she left ajar.

When his door closes, the air is heavy, stuffy with mud and dirty water. She sneezes.

"God bless you," he murmurs politely, looking out at the washed-out bridge, though only the sentry posts are visible from their position. From here you can't see the hole carved out of the side, or the White Oak splintered in all directions. His fingers clink the charms on her obnoxiously full key chain together, the movement causing them to swing from the ignition. When he cranks the engine, his hand pauses on the turn signals, and he adjusts the automatic headlights to turn on.

She watches the water slide down his skin, from his dark, flattened hair, to his temple, to the fabric of his hoodie. Droplets cling to the hair of his bared forearms. More slide down the bridge of his straight, Roman nose to his pressed lips, to his angular jaw. She tightens her arms around her waist, shivers, and tilts her head back to the headrest.

The beam now reaches the start of the bridge. Which, she supposes, begs the question of why they were turned off in the middle of the night.

She catalogs a defense (temporarily parked, consulting the map, didn't want to blind anyone coming around the bend) but doesn't provide an explanation, not unless he explicitly asks...which he doesn't.

His Salvatore ring taps against the gear shift as he makes a u-turn away from Wickery Bridge, the steering wheel turning smoothly under his palm. "My house is two miles behind us," he explains, breaking the silence.

She clicks in her seat belt.

His eyes briefly slid over to her. "Were you headed into Mystic Falls?"

She goes with a Gallic shrug, eyes downcast to scratch at the mud drying on her hands. Whatever story she chooses depends on her next moves, which are...what...exactly?

Mystic Falls isn't really a destination for travelers, it's insular, it doesn't promote tourism, and the highways leading in and out are long, empty stretches of two-lane roads. The only reason to come here really, is because you've already been, like a secret that needs to be shared. It used to be somewhat of a congregation, or pilgrimage, but that association has faded from most of the supernatural community's mythos. It's not a place of spiritual or physical healing anymore. The werewolves were slaughtered. The voyages stopped. Witches burned or were hung. Vampires were destroyed or defeated. The land became cursed. Cultures died. Survivors scattered.

Still...

It would be an interesting place to explore. Imagine proving a Viking settlement made it to Virginia, traveled this far down the James River. Disproving the founding family's fiction. Discovering remnants of the society the Salem witches tried to form. Renewing the falls and springs magic.

"My uncle owns a boarding house." Stefan gestures forward. "It's a little outside of town, but it's still in Mystic Falls, if you need a place to stay."

He briefly glances in the rear-view mirror at her two duffel bags, drawing the conclusion that she's traveling.

"I didn't see advertising for one. Just B&B's and a bad looking motel off the highway." Not that she did any of that, but she knows the Boarding House was closed a decade ago, so there wouldn't be a listing. She also knows, in a few short weeks, Anna and her friend will be eating off the motel guests and employees, while Mrs. Flowers will eventually host Katherine. Maybe she shouldn't have implied she was looking at accommodations.

"It's a bit off the main road," he explains. "It doesn't get a lot of traffic."

"I imagine not," she says to the dark, empty road they're traveling on. Her toes have warmed up enough that she decides to stretch her legs out in front of her. She knows how Stefan works, how he patiently gets people to open up. She switches gears to forestall any pertinent questions about what she's doing here or doing next. "Have you ever read The Boarding House by William Trevor?"

His eyes turn to her curiously, the heavy brows lifting. "I... have actually," his hand stops tapping at the gearshift, his other hand slides down the steering wheel to hold it loosely. She can tell he's thinking seriously about why she would mention that particular novel. Collective loneliness, and outcasts, and people living an unsatisfying life far from what they envisioned. Trapped in a sort-of purgatory. "I thought it would make a better play than a novel."

"I don't know," she shrugs minutely, in answer to why she brought it up "you mentioned Boarding House...those seem old-fashioned."

"Seems so," he agrees companionably, pursing his lips before he releases a slow breath. "It's just Zach and me, actually. It hasn't been used as a boarding house since the mid-90's."

"A century ago."

He tilts his head. "A short century."

You would know. Maybe it's best not to tease. She'll say something she'll regret. She'll be too familiar.

She focuses on the road in front of her. Is she projecting or does he consider her suspicious?

"So I guess you're uncle isn't a Mr. Bird type," at his inquiring look she continues, almost nervously chattering "uh, collecting odd creatures, people," she corrects.

"No," he answers slowly, "Zach is pretty solitary."

Isolated would be a better term for it. Self-isolated, but still.

"Not a great cast of characters anyway."

"Couldn't relate to any of them?" He taps his hand against the bottom curve of the steering wheel, his ring slightly clinking.

"No..." she draws out. There is one character that springs to mind, given what Grayson said before they left. "Actually..." she clears her throat "the guy who has a violent coughing fit, who would rather die on his feet, than go to a hospital..." She tilts her head back, stares up at the roof of the car. "You?"

The car slows as they turn down the road to the boarding house.

"I don't know, I haven't read it in a long time."

Probably when it came out, in the 60's. It could also be a deflection. From what she remembered, Mr. Bird liked to write down his observations obsessively, Mr. Studdy was a con man, Nurse Clock was a sadist...

"All of literature then," she rephrases, genuinely curious on his answer. She runs through tortured characters, those battling morality and darker natures, addicts, stories of straining brotherly bonds. She doesn't expect him to choose any of them.

He squints slightly, eyes cast down the long road as he thinks it over. "Nick Carraway from the Great Gatsby?" he shrugs, shifting almost self-consciously as he changes positions on the steering wheel.

A lot of thoughts run through her mind. F. Scott Fitzgerald, right, that's his favorite author.

Interesting that Great Gatsby is a novel of the 20's.

Compulsion doesn't erase memories, it hides them. Is there a part of him that remembers that time, yearns for it? How close were he and Klaus? And him and Rebekah.

"What about you?" He returns, eyes slightly searching as he glances at her.

She blinks. The question feels weighted. "Uh, well...as a kid I always liked Anne of Green Gable," she motions towards her hair, pulls the dripping strands off her neck. "But lately it's been more of a Mr. Rochester's first wife sort of life, so..."

His head tilts back, eyes seeking with, 'Mr. Rochester's wife? Why?'

Who picks a character of madness, after all.

The gravel turns into a paved road driveway as they approach a sprawling and dark Tudorbethan boarding house, as she knew it would, and her baffling answer is neatly spared further explanation.

"Guess this is it, Mr. Carraway."

"Stefan," he murmurs, eyes forward, brows furrowed.

"Surprised you didn't pick a martyred prince or king then." She fiddles with her seat belt, wondering what comes next, when the car stops. "Casey."

"And Casey means?"

"Vigilant," she answers easily. "Watchful."

Good a name as any.

She'll never get used to seeing images from her visions in real life. She knows this home as if it's a set from a black in white movie (black and white to explain the overwhelming details now, in person, in color).

It's very dark, on the outside. The timber of the overhanging car port is stained a deep, flattering black. The red and rust fired bricks were expertly laid. 90 years later and the mortar is strong, the pathway is smooth.

She takes her time gathering her bag, stretching exerted muscles while Stefan quickly gets out of the car and makes the phone call. He's left the door open for her.

Inside, the boarding house is warmer. Dark wood paneling and floors, warm gold and reds from the rugs to the couches beyond the foyer. Warm yellow, from the scones and chandelier. The curtains are open to the tall, wide windows, moonlight reflected onto the living room floor.

Stefan is leaning against the hardwood trim in the foyer, bare feet on the outside edge of a large, decorative rug. His boots are cast off beside him, the laces loose like he's taken the time pulling them off. His jeans are muddied below the knee, but he's less splattered than her. There's a blue towel thrown over his shoulder that looks like it's been rung through his surprisingly short, static-y hair. It's also surprisingly dark, even in this light. Too short to show his natural highlights, the brown giving way to blond.

He gestures towards the other, folded towel on the hallway table. She shuts the door behind her carefully, hearing the slight click, the hinges well oiled and silent.

She edges around the dark wooden floor to take the towel, listening to the one-sided conversation he's having with the police. Her duffel bag drops and she starts wringing out her hair.

"Of course. Thank you," Stefan tells the other person as he hangs up.

"They didn't ask for either of us to come in, yet," he informs her, watching her whisk the damp towel around her shoulders, under her hair.

"Is that normal?" She twists the front of the towel in her fist to keep herself cocooned.

"I'm sure they'll call here tomorrow and ask for a statement," he rubs at the back of his neck, head ducking a little as he watches her.

"So, nothing about, 'don't leave town'?"

"No," he squints slightly at her pointed tone. "Do you want a shower?"

Her towel cape loosens. An offer of hot, steaming, muscle relaxing water... "Maybe," she weighs the pros and cons. Not just for wanting a shower, but staying to give a statement tomorrow, to finding a place tonight when it's already so late. "Yes," she decides, not sure if she's chosen correctly.

He wipes his palms against his upper thighs, his fingers curling and flexing as he shakes them out at his side. Bad circulation, she suddenly realizes. Because of the bunny diet.

"Good, I could use one too," he smiles ruefully, gesturing his head towards the left hallway. "You can use the first guest room. I'm pretty sure it's stocked."

"All I need is hot water," she lifts her duffel bag as evidence, knowing she has shampoo and conditioner. She'd hate to reuse the towel she's wearing but if he (or Zach) is one of those people who don't store their towels in the bathroom, needs must.

He nods, his hand reaching for the back of his neck. "When you get out I can make some tea, for your throat...?"

"Oh," she runs her tongue along her teeth, realizes her voice is a tad smokier, dropped at least a register. She clears her throat, but it does nothing for her voice. "Sure?"

He leads her down the hallway, past the large, walnut wood staircase, and instead of going up and gesturing towards the guest room, he takes her to the door.

She holds back from turning the knob, fidgets slightly with her duffel bag. "Thank you."

He licks at the corner of his bottom lip, straight back but hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. "You're welcome." Again, there's a hint of questioning at the end.

The person in the mirror has dirt caked on her cheeks, red rimming her eyes and nose, bitten lips, and as expected, tangled red hair.

She sighs, blows a strand out of her face, and works on unwrapping the lemon soap placed in the soap dish. The bathroom, and bedroom for that matter, is clean, but long unused which really tells her how often Zach gets visitors. Or not, maybe he has people stay on the second floor? There are seven bedrooms, not counting Stefan's loft. One is Damon's, one is Zach's. That leaves five to choose from.

She digs through her bag, pulling out her comb, toiletries, and clean sweatpants, underwear, bra, and a long, loose t-shirt that's worn thin, all absent-minded, barely acknowledging that she's gathering sleepwear.

There's a trail of soft lights, scones and table lamps, leading to the kitchen. None of which were on before. She follows it, finishing the braid over her right shoulder. Her hair is as dry as it can be, without having a blow dryer.

"Hey," she shuffles in, breathing in the coffee aroma.

"Hey," he returns, looking up from a deep contemplation, leaning over the kitchen island with a white coffee cup cradled in his hands.

She doesn't spend much time taking in the kitchen. She's seen it plenty of times before, in a way. The green subway tile, and the overhead chandeliers are the same as they were when they were installed in the 1920's. The appliances are new, but modernity is the least interesting thing to focus on here, even if it looks like an expensive, professional-envied, industrial sized stove. The long, black walnut table might be from the original Salvatore mansion.

She runs her fingers across one of the groves, expertly sealed and varnished, and finds herself sliding into one of the chairs instead of taking a stool at the counter near Stefan.

She looks up to apologize, to unfortunately get up and move closer, but Stefan is bringing over two cups, and shaking his head a little to forestall her apology. He's in sweatpants as well. A soft grey that sits low on his hips with the strings pulled tight, and a white undershirt loose on his chest, and tight at the biceps.

He makes two trips, one for the cups, which she notices hers contains tea, and again for honey, a milk carton, and a spoon. She thanks him and doesn't say she prefers lemon. She doctors her tea with the honey, smelling the chamomile. She wonders if his coffee is decaf, or if after their ordeal, the human gets sleepy time tea, and the vampire gets a caffeine boost.

"I was thinking about the novel, the Boarding House," he looks up at her from between his lashes, green eyes going over her features. They're not any closer than they were swimming to the bank, or in the car, but it's different, looking at him head on, in the light. He smells clean, his hair is faintly tousled, skin pink from the shower. "How it's a place for liars because no one speaks the unvarnished truth." He looks indecisive for a moment, brows expressive. "I rather we try for...honesty."

She leans back slightly. "Whole truth?" She lifts her brow, certain he rather take the next caveat "or are we promising not to lie?"

Some of the tension in his shoulders, his arms, relaxes as the admission or acknowledgement that there are things she could lie about. "A promise not to lie," he decides.

She clears her throat, follows her instinct. "You want to know why I was there."

"I...do," he frowns, watching her clear her throat again "You should drink the tea."

She pushes the cup with her fingertips, feeling the warmth transfer. "Is there truth serum in it?"

"No," his brows quirk "just tea."

She takes a sip. It tastes like tea, and honey. She was kidding about the truth serum, because she didn't think he knew how to make it or get his hands on it. "I've found the truth to be...hard to hear," she warns him seriously. Is the truth something he actually wants? How much truth?

He acknowledges the warning with a slow nod. She takes a longer sip.

"I didn't cause the accident. I know you weren't there for the beginning, but the car spun out when he braked hard, and it slammed into the rail. The bridge is...old, it's not reinforced. A fast driver, a slick road, and a lousy guardrail..."

He shifts forward, elbows still tucked into his sides, but forearms balanced on the table. "And the part that's hard to hear?" He asks delicately, voice low to match hers.

"Well, let's say you knew a bolt of lightening was going to strike tomorrow, you know where it's going to happen, and you know who it's going to hit."

She raises her brows at him.

"How would someone know that?" He plays along, but his brows are lifted as well, his thumb reaches up to rub his bottom lip.

She tongues her cheek. "You saw it," she answers, eyes cast on the table.

"And that's possible..." he hesitates "for a witch?"

She clenches her eyes shut, stomach churning with indecision. "Truth, right?"

She can fake it with knowledge, not with skill. She can't protect herself with a flick of her fingers. She doesn't want to put herself in the position where that's the expectation.

"I'm - I was something else," she corrects. She carefully sets down her tea, moves her hand to her right sleeve and after a moment starts sliding it upward. She turns her wrist so he can see the raised scar tissue surrounded by pale, new skin. Little scars spread out around the circle, like sparks of lightning, having burned into the tracks of her veins.

He looks at it, and at her, eyes crinkled under furrowed brows. It's a brand, needled with color of an ash gray. At her wrist there's a thick line of discoloration. Magic tends to leave a mark.

He lays his hand flat on the table, near her wrist, his palm open. She lets him circle her wrist, rotating it to look over the eye branded into her skin. The pad of his thumb feels warmer than the center of his palm. The coffee's effects, maybe. It whispers against the raised edges and waxy skin along her pulse point.

"I don't know what this means," he admits quietly.

She considers the best way to frame it. Literature, like they've been doing? Given he's well-read and well educated. Does he know myths? "Are you familiar with the name Pythia?"

He licks at the corner of his lips before nodding. "Prophetess?" he translates, which implies he knows nothing about the cult, about the rituals. His fingers draw back, and he slides his palm out from under her wrist gently, brushing against her own palm.

"Oracle. Seer. Clairvoyant." She shrugs listlessly, for a moment leaving the eye visible between them before she rolls her sleeve back down.

"Casey derives from Cassandra," he puts together. He doesn't ask if that's her real name, which she gives him credit for.

"It wasn't God-given, and not being believed wasn't one of my curses, but..." she pulls her sleeve to her palm, stretching the fabric with a too-tight grip of sweaty fingers.

"I've heard of witches having premonitions, but," he frowns. She moves her arm closer to her torso as she shifts in her seat.

"Why do I sound so bitter if it was a few premonitions?" She guesses. "It's a...long story. I – "she swallows. Her throat really is starting to ache. "I'm not one anymore."

"I didn't know that was something you could...stop," he phrases delicately, obviously lost but trying to understand, to take her seriously.

"With a little help from...not my friends," she paraphrases the song. "Things were exchanged." That really downplayed the situation.

His eyes drift to his coffee cup, his thumbs circling part of the rim. "And you still remember your visions?"

For what he's asking, yes, so she nods.

"You...tried to change this one," he guesses, changing the way he looks at her.

"What could be changed," she mumbles, tapping her knuckles lightly against the wood. "It's sort of a jumping off point to a lot of stuff."

His eyebrows raise, and he obviously wants to ask what that means, so he surprises her when he doesn't.

"And..." he phrases carefully, like he's not sure on the question "what did change?"

Grayson lived, which could, possibly, change a lot. Or only a little. Or nothing sustainable, substantial at all.

"Elena was the only one to survive, originally, because Grayson told you to rescue her, to leave him."

"Elena?" he repeats, distracted and questioning. His hand reaches out to rub the back of his neck. "That's her name?"

She smirks without any real feeling, "falling for the doppelgänger allure already?"

His hand drops, and his brow quirks. "Doppelgänger?"

She has the unique experience of hearing him say it for the first time, the word wholly unfamiliar.

"It's weird, that you get Pythia, but not doppelganger."

He squints. "Evil twin, I think. I read William Wilson. It just sounds..."

"Vampires are real too," she confides in a gossip-y pretension, rolling her eyes.

His lips quirk into an almost self-deprecating smile, and he edges away. "I was wondering, if you knew."

"Oh," the levity drops. She exhales softly, carefully cataloging his expression. He doesn't looked pained, so she continues gingerly. "Sorry, I know that's... I get that's not something you're used to being casual about. It's just," I'm known as long as I've known you? I've known you longer than I've met you?

"Unvarnished truth," he shrugs, a caution still creasing his eyes.

"Yeah," she agrees, letting the moment linger. She's not one for platitudes, and the awkwardness might make them sound insincere. "Another term is shadow-walker. For doppelgänger, not for, you know, vampire. Cooler than evil twin at any rate."

"Much cooler," he nods agreeably, sardonically.

She laughs. It turns into a short coughing fit. She grabs her tea again, determined to finish it.

"Is shadow-walker the same thing as reincarnation?" He waits for her to cradle her tea again.

"Same soul stuff? No. Well, it...depends...on where you fall on the genetic predisposition, nature vs. nurture debate. They're more alike than different. Same brain structure, same core personality. Environmental doesn't mean much when the same stressors seem to produce the same results." She hasn't given it this much thought before, just focused on the insidious magical effects. "They're kind of like golems I guess."

"Golems," he repeats blandly, green eyes drifting to the ceiling.

She frowns, "Not...realllly, I meant in the 'created in an image' way, not the 'empty shell' thing. They're definitely similar concepts, but doppelgängers are their own brand of magical creature."

Creature, he mouths. He shakes it off. "And the previous doppelgängers..." he hesitates, eyes indecisive as he stares at her.

Ah, Katherine. "Amara, Tatia, Katrina, or Katherine as you knew her, Elena."

His shoulders curl as he drops further into his seat, palm pressed and pressing between his eyes. "You know about Katherine," he sighs.

"Yeah..." she draws out, cringing at the idea of what he'll ask.

He notices her reaction, a dozen questions in his eyes. If this was Damon, his hand would likely be wrapped around her throat right now. Stefan shakes his head.

"Is she a descendant of Katherine's?"

She shifts, balances her elbows against the table and places her chin on her crossed hands. "I don't know if she's a direct descendant. Likely she's from Katherine's daughter, but I haven't done the genealogy. I don't know if the doppelgänger thing only follows mitochondrial, and what the limitations are in that. Maybe she's the daughter's, daughter's, daughter times however long 500 years is, or maybe they're cousins, technically, branching out 2,000 years ago."

He leans forward too, his forearm against the table as he scoots closer. "500 years, 2,000 years. I'll assume those aren't random denominations."

"I'm never more truthful then when it sounds like I'm lying," she blinks innocently. "I guess that's my version of the Cassandra curse."

His lips quirk into an almost smile, which he suppresses. "Why? What's the purpose of a doppelgänger?"

"What's the purpose of a vampire?" She retaliates.

His eyes narrow. The bottom half of his iris is brighter than the top half, a gradual, earthy green.

"You know," he muses "I get the feeling you might know the answer."

"Stefan." She startles, instinctively drawing upright against the backrest as her heart jumps. Zach is standing in the doorway, awkwardly, in a white undershirt and flannel sleep pants, and tennis shoes. He scratches at his curly, sleep ruffled hair. "Can we talk?" He asks Stefan meaningfully, head tilted towards the hallway. He spares her a short, discomforted glance.

Stefan looks at her, hands balanced on the table to rise, but still sitting in his seat.

"I'm fine," she dismisses easily, still watching his "uncle". Their relationship seems... more strained than she was expecting.

"I'll be back," he murmurs, tucking his chair in when he gets up.

Zach backs away from him, or maybe he's just moving out of the doorway.

She hears him ask, "is she?" in an undertone, right outside the kitchen. She doesn't hear Stefan's response.

Her eyes un-focus, nails tapping against the ceramic mug.

She knows he's mostly a hermit in Mystic Falls, but she has vision/memories of him being more assertive, and friendly, and less afraid to turn his back on the great-uncle he likes.

What was he asking anyway, if she was Stefan's next blood donor? Not a vampire. How could he forget not inviting her inside?

Grayson Gilbert was in the Salvatore living room, standing over Stefan's body.

She can make out grey socked feet, with black soles, and grey sweatpants. She can't see his face. Can't see his skin. She doesn't know if the rest of his body has turned grey to match.

Zach looks at her, frozen in the doorway, while Grayson doesn't move at all.

"I hope you didn't kill him." She walks forward calmly, slowly, arms open at her sides. "You know, it would be pretty bad karma to kill the man who saved your life."

Grayson looks up slowly, dark shadows under his eyes, and a sickly pale cast to his skin. His face is sweating.

"Did he?" Grayson asks lightly, eyes blown and unfocused, like he's unable to make out where exactly she's standing.

She falters. Danger Will Robinson! has been flashing since she stood in the doorway, has been whispering since Zach looked at her in the kitchen.

She forces herself to stride closer, just enough to make out Stefan's pale skin.

She inhales. Vervain. She doesn't know which of them dosed him. She doesn't know why, but it's vervain, not a stake to the chest.

"If you were here for his blood, giving him vervain seems...counterproductive," it's the only conclusion she can draw without mentioning Augustine, and his torture basements.

"You're remarkably well informed," he murmurs absently, turning his head down to observe Stefan.

"That's my curse. Being well informed," she smiles caustically.

Zach Salvatore, the second Salvatore to betray his vampire relatives with the Augustine, looks out of his depth. Mentioning Stefan saving his life caused his shoulders to stiffen. He's watching Grayson like he he's been lied to. He should have known better.

As clinical as Grayson's expression remains, he's cradling his hands against his chest, his left hand clenched around his right. When she sees the wedding ring, knows that's not what he's clutching, she thinks she understands.

"You're waiting. You, you're waiting to die, to see if you'll resurrect. That's -"

"The only way I'll know," he interrupts. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she was right? Why does she have to be right?

She plants herself, lips pressed tightly. "Idiotic. You're risking your actual life. You're committing suicide."

He doesn't respond. Not even visually.

She advocates to Zach. "He's not thinking clearly. He needs to go to the hospital."

Zach's mouth opens slightly, but he steps back. His green eyes, his slightly curling brown hair - he looks like Stefan.

"He just lost his wife. This isn't – this isn't justified, or strategy, or whatever he convinced you. It's grief."

He's still at sea, unable to chart a course. Grayson then. Grayson who looks like he's about to keel over.

She gets closer and it gets worse. His collar is damp with sweat. His lips are slightly blue. The color has drained from his skin, and his eyes are sunken. This must have distracted Stefan.

"Maybe you're not dying," it feels like a lie "maybe you're just sick."

"I'm a doctor," he closes his eyes. "I'm capable of diagnosing a cerebral hemorrhage."

Her mouth falls open. Like Elena. Just like Elena.

"Then you need surgery," she advises, the words strangled.

"Mystic Falls doesn't have neurosurgeons," he's twisting the Gilbert ring with his thumb, like he's polishing dirt off the black stone.

She didn't see this. She saw him watch Stefan grab Elena, close his eyes, and accept death. She didn't see him drown twice.

She licks dry lips. "This is fear. You're worried you won't survive the surgery, so you have to believe it's supernatural. You –"

If that's true, there's nothing she could say to convince him. He's going to let himself die, and because the accident isn't supernatural, he really will.

Does she know that, 100%? Is there a chance she's wrong?

"Why didn't you ask Stefan for blood?" She looks down at his body, at his shallow breathing. Stefan saved his life. He saved his daughter's life. How quickly he can overlook it. "You obviously have no qualms about using it," she grits out.

Grayson looks up at her with something more than apathy now. "I've been expe'ing someing, some-on make a move," he slurs, blinking slowly and wobbling on his feet.

She brings her arms out to bracket him but hesitates to touch him. Stefan's body is close enough she might fall on him trying to catch Grayson. She swallows. "That doesn't mean..." her voice is whispery soft. "There's a reason the doppelgänger is cursed."

His eyes close. "Not Elena," his belief is strong enough to almost make it so.

"You vervained him to remove the temptation. You need this answer. You need to be right."

Otherwise, who's at fault?

She should have faced him at the lake. She should have followed to the hospital.

His legs start shaking and his knees bend. She lunges forward to wrap her arms around his chest, to soften the landing as she drops with him.

He slumps sideways, his temple pressing into the soft rug, tension draining out of him.

"You know more about me than I'm comfortable with," he remarks with closed eyes, slightly more lucid.

"Another curse," she whispers, reaching out to gently clasp his hands. She avoids touching either of his rings. He taps his pointer finger on top of her hands and doesn't pull away.

"I have to live," he mumbles, drifting out "Elena needs me."

She doesn't know what to do now. She just, stares.

"He made it seem as if Stefan had..."

She jolts. "How much vervain?" Her hands are still gripping Grayson's, so she wipes her cheeks on her shoulders.

Zach looks at the ground. She follows his eyes to a empty syringe.

She nods tightly. It means nothing to her. A little or a lot she could understand. We only wanted him out for a few minutes, that's the answer she needed. If there's an equation to this, she doesn't even know the correct variables. Does weight matter? Age? Diet? Linage? Is it all about the vervain, how it's cultivated?

She pulls in a shaky breath, hands fluttering up and down her thighs. "I don't know when he last had vervain, and he's not drinking human blood. You basically gave a weaponized cold to someone with a shot immune system. He could be out for hours."

Zach gets down on his knees. It looks like prayer.

"If we did use Stefan's blood, like you said, it wouldn't work?"

"My blood would be better," she grimaces. His head draws back. She hisses her annoyance. "I'm O positive, the universal donor, and mine isn't poisoned."

He presses his lips until they're white. "You said resurrect."

They both look at Grayson. He's still breathing, shallowly. She reaches out again, finding the weak and thread-y pulse in his wrist.

"Mystic Falls and their family secrets," she doesn't have the energy she needs for this. "It's his ring," she elaborates.

Is the ring really his only chance? If he goes to the hospital will they take it off?

"I'm not waiting," she decides, drawing her hands away and stumbling to her feet.

"What are you going to do?" Zach doesn't look away from the two bodies, doesn't shift from his upright position on his knees. His voice strains.

"I'm going to try to expedite the process. If Sheila Bennett is awake, I think I know how to neutralize the vervain."

"Who are you?" Sheila grouses, her dark, liquored eyes squinting heavily under the yellow porch light. She's thrown the door wide open and looks angry enough at the wake-up call to toss her bodily to the curb.

"Casey Shannon." She remembers how Stefan earned her trust by offering his hand. She's not sure what Sheila could read from her. She doesn't want to find out. "Do you have hibiscus and mugwort?"

Sheila's stare hardens. "I assume this is a time sensitive endeavor?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Hmm," she purses her lips, contemplating Casey's disheveled appearance and raising a penciled eyebrow at her bare feet.

"I'll owe you one," she propositions. She knows the weight of promises and doesn't offer it lightly. I knew then too, I just didn't care. Sheila wouldn't ask for the same things, wouldn't know to ask. It still grates. It probably always will.

"By agreeing to help will I see myself roped into whatever trouble you're gotten yourself into?"

Correct answer: no ma'am.

"Probably. Eventually. But through your granddaughter's relationship with Elena Gilbert, not by me," she answers. And you're killing yourself, anyway, so why would you care about trouble?

Sheila Bennett gave up a long time ago, except when she's facing a threat. Then, she's as unyielding as stone. She may be copiously poisoning her liver, and living her hours drunk, but there's steel, buried beneath.

Maybe her warning will make Sheila focus on teaching Bonnie fundamentals she never got around to, on learning how to navigate people coming to you with their hands out.

"In the future, I'm not an apothecary. Do not come to my doorstep at one o'clock in the morning ever again."

When she gets back to the boarding house, Stefan is lying where she left him. Grayson isn't.

She doesn't know when Zach left. She doesn't know if Grayson worsened. If he died.

She took too long, or Grayson's clock ran short, or Zach was too agitated to wait for someone he didn't know while a man he did was dying in his living room.

She drags Stefan's dead weight to the nearest wall. If he's not upright enough she'll drown him instead of reviving him, and he does breathe, and he is capable of drowning, as she knows. She places her hands under his armpits, pulls up the rug in her journey dragging him, and props him against the wall with her arms wrapped around his waist and her hands bloodlessly clenched together.

She angles his head up and unscrews the traveler's mug one-handed. She uses her thumb to pull his jaw open and starts tilting the liquid down his throat. It immediately spills down his chin.

"Fuck," right, because swallowing is, you know, mostly voluntary.

She lightly kicks his legs apart to kneel between them. She tips the mug into his mouth while using her ring and middle finger to rub his throat, under his chin, over his Adam's apple, almost to his collarbone. Isn't that what they do on TV?

Less spills over, but it still leaks out of the corner of his mouth, down his neck, and wetting his shirt.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up," she repeats under her breath.

Stefan starts to choke, his chest convulsing. She starts to pull back, but he reaches out to weakly grab her wrist, skin cold. She stays perfectly still, not wanting his grip to tighten, as his eyes open hazily.

"You were injected with vervain," she tells him, still close enough to count his full, fluttering eyelashes "I gave you hibiscus and mugwort to counteract it." He loosens his grip, lets her pull her hand back. She shifts so her knees aren't pressed into his inner thighs. His hand rises to touch the hair fallen over her shoulder, already pulling out of her braid.

"How?" he asks hoarsely, a strand of her hair between his fingers, curled over his daylight ring.

"I...got it from Sheila Bennett," she blinks at him.

He licks his dry, cracked lips, slumping back against the wall. His hand drops to his lap. "Where –"

She clears her throat. "Zach? Grayson?" she guesses. He nods tiredly. "Hospital, I think. I've been gone...more than a half an hour. You were out a few minutes longer than that."

She leans back on her heels, holding the traveler's mug to his eye line before depositing it outside his sprawled legs. "In case you need more, I don't know if you being conscious means you're in the clear or not. Were you able to hunt, before? Having fresh blood in your system might help."

He curls in on himself at the question, head ducked as his hand reaches for the mug, grasping it on his second attempt. He quickly drains the rest of it, and keeps it tilted until the last drop touches his lips.

Even counteracted, vervain would still weaken him. (How much?)

She bites her lip hard, and consciously stops before she can draw blood.

Notes: The mugwort hibiscus is from The Originals. The water pressure keeping the door from being open is something I vaguely remember from Mythbusters.

Updated: 10-29-19