Fandom: The Vampire Diaries

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Caroline Forbes/Stefan Salvatore

Summary: "Is that a yes?" she asks, breathless when she finally pulls away. "Yes, Caroline," he grins, "That's a yes."

Author's Note: Like what? What is this? Me coming out of Steroline hibernation after nine months all because of a glimpse of a #JuneWeddingInParis? Yeah, apparently that's all it took. I haven't written in ages. Clearly. But here, have a fic full of fluff to make up for it. Enjoy! (Title from Zella Day's Compass)

He's half asleep when she says it.

With the morning sun slipping through the gap in the curtains, casting a soft, hazy glow about the room, warming the parts of his skin not entwined with hers, he can't be blamed for wanting to linger in the moment a little longer.

But Caroline. Oh Caroline.

She never could rest idly, let a perfectly good day waste away.

"You know I've been thinking . . ." she starts off.

His lips curve into a smile, inching into his pillow, "Mmm, about?"

"Paris."

"Okaaay," he drawls out, voice still heavy with sleep and eyes shut. The randomness of her thought not particularly surprising. These quiet moments between them have always been filled with whispers and hushed words of nothing and everything and all that lies between.

"I want to go," she says.

He curls the arm already draped around her waist and pulls her in a little tighter, "Okay, we'll go."

"I hear it's lovely around this time of the year."

"Mmmhmm," he murmurs, fingers running up and down her spine.

He feels her shift in the bed, the mattress dipping with her weight, "I've always wanted a June wedding."

That's enough to snap his eyes open, the thud in his chest with the words enough to chase away what's left of his sleep. She's turned on her side, elbow jammed into her pillow as she hovers there over him, blonde curls spilling over and tickling his bare skin.

He turns, faces her a little more as he stares up at her. There's a smile on his lips and he tries to pass it off as teasing, though his hammering pulse says it's anything but. "Caroline?" he asks, slowly, carefully, "Is that a proposal?"

Something flickers across her face then as she releases her lower lip from the bite of her teeth and a slow hesitant smile spreads in its place. She drops her weight, leans on top of him as she finds his hand in hers and clasps them together, palm to palm, pressing them into his pillow.

"Stefan Salvatore," she says, a hairbreadth away from his lips, her blue eyes wide, and he can barely focus, barely breathe, "Will you marry me?"

There's no hesitancy in his answer as he closes the distance to meets her lips and rolls her under him.

They're a tangle of limbs and clutching hands and pressed foreheads.

"Is that a yes?" she asks, breathless when she finally pulls away.

"Yes, Caroline," he grins, "That's a yes."

"A wedding?"

"Yes."

"As in marriage?"

"What other kind of wedding is there?" Stefan doesn't even look up from the magazine he has balanced across his bent knee, just flips another page with a practiced hand as he takes a sip of his bourbon.

He can imagine Damon's expression of confusion and dawning horror just fine.

"Why?" he bursts out.

"Why not?"

"Uh because it's an archaic human construct designed to trap people into a lifelong commitment of nothing but monotony, monogamy and misery-"

"Wow," Stefan mouths interrupting Damon's spiel, and still not offering up even a flicker of a glance, "A lot of big words there big brother, do you even know what they mean?"

Damon remains undeterred, speaks over him to finish his speech, "Aaand it's fine if you're human, I mean what's five years in the grand scheme of things-"

Stefan scoffs, "That's generous."

"Because they all end in divorce anyway. But that's not even the point. We're not human. An eternity, brother. Eternity. And then there's the whole 'til death do us part – hate to break it to you, but you're already dead . . ."

"Really? I had no idea."

"I just think you're insane. That and," Damon snatches the magazine out of his lap, raises his eyebrows when he gets a good look at it and realizes it's a wedding magazine for grooms and there are tabs sticking out every so often, clearly Caroline's work, "So completely and utterly whipped!"

"Are you finished?" he asks, finally looking up at him.

"Yep," he waves his hands in mock surrender, "I'm sure you know exactly what you're doing."

"I do."

"Fine," he relents, throws the magazine back at him and snatches the glass from Stefan's fingertips before walking away.

He waits until he reaches the door before calling out, "Damon?"

He stops.

"Will you be my best man?"

There's a long second before he answers, and he can hear the smile in his reply, "Well, who else will?"

"Ooh what about this one? No, actually, I think I prefer this one. Too much tulle. Oooh but ivory or champagne?"

She turns expectantly towards her maid of honour for a wise bit of counsel, but all she gets is Bonnie Bennett looking back at her, grinning like a fool.

"What?" she laughs out, a little bemused.

Bonnie shakes her head, the grin dimming to a smile, "It's just . . ."

"What?" Caroline asks again, letting her hand slide down the silk of the dress hanging there.

"Who knew you had a little clairvoyant in you?"

It takes a moment for it to register, confusion giving way to a smile, a surprisingly watery smile seemingly from nowhere.

She shrugs her shoulder, and tosses out a casual "I know, right?". But the words are somewhat tempered by the sheen of tears as various memories surge forward.

But it's one, in particular, that stands out.

A young girl, head in hands, veins swimming with alcohol from an awful school party, wallowing in her insecurities, of never being good enough. Never being enough.

And I'm never the one, she says.

"Hey," Bonnie says, stepping forward, grabbing hold of her face in her gentle hands as she forces her to meet her gaze, "Those are happy tears, right?"

She nods, "Yeah. Happy. So happy."

Her best friend pulls her into a hug, "I love you."

"I love you too."

"Oh you should have seen their little faces! They are so excited!"

Caroline sits cross-legged on their bed, hugging one of the cushions to her chest as she fills him in on the day's progress.

The door to his bathroom is open as he stands there in front of the mirror, one towel slung around his hips, the other around his neck as he shaves.

"So Alaric's happy for the girls to come?"

"Yep."

And he knows it's stupid, they've long since been over and Caroline's reassurances that their relationship has always been platonic, at least from her end, doesn't mean he's completely at ease around Alaric. Not yet, anyway. He sees the way the man looks at his fiancée and he imagines it's not too far from his own reflection. He sort of feels sorry for the guy, and yet he can't completely let go of the animosity.

"And Alaric?" he asks, because he can't help it, "He's coming too?"

"Yes," Caroline says, and it's the way she says it. Like she can read his mind from merely staring at the back of his head.

He doesn't respond, shakes the excess shaving cream off his razor, swirling it in the water before raising it back to his chin.

He hears the rustle of fabric as she stands up, followed by socked feet padding softly along the bedroom floor. He glances at the mirror and she's standing there, hovering by the open door, the tiniest little smile on her face. Ordinarily he would have expected a teasing remark, but the tinge of sadness that curls her lips stops him short.

"I just want everyone, everyone who's been an important part of our lives to be there."

And by everyone he thinks he knows just who she means.

"I know," he answers her, "She will be."

Stefan doesn't know why he's left it until now.

Which is a complete lie he tells himself. He's just been working up the courage to get himself here, and let the words spill out from his mouth.

He kind of hates that it took Caroline's sad eyes a few days before to give him that final push.

It is literally the night before they fly out, and of course it has to be raining and he has no choice but to stand in it. The ground beneath his boots has turned to mud, and the wind knocks the branches of the trees this way and that and so all he can hear is the battering of rain hitting the leaves and his heart roaring away in his ears.

"I know this isn't exactly how you're supposed to do it. Ask permission after you're already engaged, but then technically I didn't do the proposing. Your daughter did."

He can almost hear Liz's wry answer, of course she did.

His lips twitch with a smile, "But still . . ."

He takes a breath in, looks down at the headstone.

Elizabeth Forbes

Beloved Mother &

Protector of

Mystic Falls

"I made a promise to you," he says, "I can't say that I've done a great job of keeping it this far . . ."

The ghost of those three, long and painful, years still haunt him. The regret still a visceral ache that isn't relieved no matter how many times he rubs over it.

"But I promise I'll spend the rest of forever trying to make her smile every day, keep her tears at bay, fill her heart with happiness and keep her safe. I promise to try and be worthy of her. Always."

She answers him in the wind, and smiles down with the rain.

"Have you got them?"

"Relax Bon-Bon, I've got it all under control."

"I didn't ask if you've got it under control, I asked if you've got them?"

Her sunglasses are perched on the brim of her sunhat, arms leaning over the handles of the luggage trolley, big green eyes fixed on him. Make that glaring at him.

Damon makes a show of patting down the pockets of his leather jacket, "Look, they're right . . . here." His smug smile falters into a nervous one as he finishes with, "Or not."

"Damon," she grinds out between clenched teeth, eyes spitting fire that burns under his skin. He enjoys that feeling a little too much, some would say. Loves needling her to get that exact reaction and she never disappoints. Time and time again.

Some might call it an addiction.

His drug of choice being one Bonnie Bennett.

Not that he'd admit such a thing. But then when has a crackhead ever admitted to having a problem when they're too busy enjoying themselves.

He snorts, she'd love that comparison.

"What?" she snaps, "What the hell is so funny? I can't believe you've gone and lost them!"

"Cool it Bonfire," he interrupts, "You mean these, right?"

He pulls out a little velvet drawstring bag from his back pocket, and tips the content into his palm, waving the two rings gleefully under her nose.

She shakes her head from side to side, biting down on her lower lip, which draws his attention like a moth to a flame. "You. Are. Such. An. Idiot." She punctuates each point with a slap to his chest and it's with her last shove that she jostles his outstretched hand and it all happens in slow motion, playing out like a horror movie.

The rings fall from his hand, clatter to the ground, and roll away disappearing into the bustle of feet and luggage and wheels and shit.

"Oh my god," Bonnie whispers, eyes wide, panic building.

"Whoops," he shrugs.

She shoots him an evil glare and drops down onto her hands and knees, "Help me, you jerk."

"Since you asked so nicely."

It's an hour and half later, after they've missed their flight and need to wait for the next one, that they finally find the rings and Bonnie sits there in the departure lounge, with them safely inside their bag, clutched tight in her hands, when he says;

"You know I could have just compelled the entire airport to just look for them for us?"

And the we could have been well on our way to Paris by now is left unspoken, but she hears it all the same.

She turns to look at him then, and though her lips move to say "I hate you" the shake of her head and the burgeoning smile say something else altogether.

He stretches his arm along the back of her seat and curls it around her shoulder, pulling her into his side, "Love you too Bon-Bon. Love you too."

"They're not here yet? Why are they not here yet?" She's burning a hole into the carpet floor of her hotel room with her pacing, the cell phone in her hand held in a death grip so tight, she may just shatter the screen any second now.

"Caroline," he breathes out on the other end of the line, "Relax. They will be here."

She tries to breathe out with him, calming her racing heart.

It doesn't help though when he tacks on, "And if they're not here in time for tomorrow, we can always reschedule."

She goes silent. Deathly silent, before, "You did not just say that."

"Kidding," he laughs, "I'm kidding. But you know worst case scenario, it's not like we have a church booking or anything."

True that may be, but Caroline Forbes didn't make plans just for the sake of them. To deviate would be sacrilege, a heinous crime.

"Yeah, and if that's the case, that's one wasted night we've spent apart."

A night they've spent apart, in different hotels across the city, because, well, tradition.

"On second thoughts," Stefan says, "If they're not here by tomorrow, we'll get married without them. This is more torture than I can handle."

She can't help the little giggle that leaves her lips, she feels like an excited little girl, all her dreams finally coming true.

Phone still at her ear, she opens the glass doors leading out onto the balcony of her hotel room. A beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, lit up in the night sky, and the sound of the constant movement of Paris on the go underneath, greets her.

"What are you doing right now?" he asks, voice low. It curls deep in her belly, settling there, warm and pleasant with a hint of longing.

"Staring at the Eiffel Tower, wishing you were here with me."

"Same," he says, and she can just imagine him, head tilted into his phone, serene smile on his lips as he stares up and out at their same shared sky.

"I can't wait to marry you," he says.

"Tomorrow," she promises.

The wolf whistle isn't as startling as it should be. Annoying? Yes. Shocking? No.

Bonnie doesn't have to turn around to know who it is that's snuck into the room. She simply chooses to ignore him and carry on pinning Caroline's hair in place.

"Looking good Blondie, think you may actually render my dear brother speechless when he claps eyes on you."

Caroline rolls her eyes. "What are you doing here Damon? You're supposed to be the best man. Go do your best man duties," she says, waving her hands as if shooing away a pigeon.

"Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news on this auspicious June day, but um, if you don't get a wriggle on ladies, you're in for a very wet wedding. I think the heavens are planning to open up very soon."

"Oh a little rain never harmed anyone," Caroline dismisses, which is surprising to say the least.

Bonnie raises her brow, turns to share her look of disbelief with Damon but finds he's already staring right at her. And with an expression that heats up her skin and steals the breath from her chest.

"Well don't say I didn't warn you," he says before disappearing out the door, leaving her to wonder just who he was actually warning, and of what.

She turns back around to find Caroline smiling back at her in the mirror with a rather suspicious grin on her face.

"What?" she asks.

"Nothing," she smiles back, all false innocence.

She doesn't know what it means when she knows just exactly what it is she's insinuating, but she nudges her shoulder anyway, "Shut up."

Caroline only laughs as Bonnie breathes out.

"He is right about one thing though; you do make a beautiful bride Miss Forbes."

"Why thank you, Miss Bennett."

Turns out Damon was right about the other thing too.

The other thing being the rain.

Not just any rain though. Not a light, summer drizzle.

No. A freakin' torrential downpour.

So much for her outdoor, sunny June wedding.

And yet, somehow, she just doesn't care.

Not when she sees him for the first time, standing there beside a beautiful water fountain in the Jardin du Luxembourg, hero hair plastered to his head, tux well and truly soaked, shirt sticking to his skin. Because all she sees really is the sparkle of his eyes, and the way the smile freezes on his face and the breath gets stuck in his throat, chest held in inspiration.

She literally takes his breath away.

"Hey," she says, taking his outstretched hand

"Hey," he says back, brushing his thumb over her knuckles, before looking up at the sky and smiling.

"Hi Liz," he whispers then, and something in her chest finally comes together, heals over and tears prick at her eyes. She doesn't quite understand it, but somehow she does.

She looks up too, the rain still coming down, but the sun is starting to peek through the clouds and she smiles back, "Hi Mom."

Stefan squeezes her hand and asks, "Ready?"

She nods, "Ready."

They marry that day.

A wet Parisian day in June.

And it's everything she dreamed it would be.

"Well wasn't that just the most beautiful wedding," he says as he sidles up to her.

Bonnie dutifully rolls her eyes at his sarcasm, but the effect doesn't quite hit the mark, not when she has to cover her smile by taking a sip of her champagne.

Thankfully the reception has been moved from outdoors to indoors because the rain never really let up for the rest of the day.

The bride and groom are happily ensconced in each other's arms, their first dance turning into their second and third, oblivious to their surroundings.

"Who are all these people?" Bonnie asks.

"Oh you know," he answers, "Just some friendly folk who wanted to wish the newest Mr and Mrs Salvatore a long and fruitful marriage."

"Fruitful," she scoffs, "You just totally compelled a bunch of strangers to come crash the reception didn't you?"

"Well," he shrugs, "We were kind of a pitiful party before they got here, wouldn't you say?"

She shakes her head, before looking up at him, "You, Damon Salvatore, are something else."

And it's the way she says it, has something like hope bursting in his chest. That maybe he's worth something and always has been.

He offers her his hand, "Care to dance, Miss Bennett?"

She drops her flute on the table and slips her hand into his in answer.

"Oh my god, I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"Look over there . . . no, don't be so obvious about it!"

"You just told me to look."

"How long before he just kisses her?"

"I really do not care about who Damon is kissing. Me on the other hand . . ." his words trail away in her hair, as he holds her a little closer, swaying on the dance floor.

"You on the other hand . . . ?"

"Would really like to kiss my wife."

"Oh your wife," she smiles, pulling back just a fraction so his lips can brush against hers. Their hands remain entwined and she can't help the giddiness that builds in her as she feels the cool metal of his wedding band against her fingers. "I like the sound of that."

"Mmm, how about Mrs Salvatore?"

"Like that even better."

"Well what do you say, Mrs Salvatore? Wanna get out of here?"

"Oh, absolutely."

It's much later in the night.

When the cool breeze of early dawn starts to turn just that little touch warmer with the waking sun, and it filters in through their open window, gently skimming their bare skin. It's just as she snuggles more comfortably into her husband's side as he holds her hand and marvels at the new ring on her finger.

It's then that he asks;

"Who knew? You and me?"

Me she thinks.

She knew.

She had always been the one.

End.