[This ended up as focused on Rebekah->Tatia as Rebekah/Elena? I hope that's okay.]
It's intolerable, Elena invited into her home, sauntering in like she has any right to drag that face down with jewelry, like that's her smile she curves around their glasses, like those are her hands she refuses to strip bare.
(Rebekah remembers being thirteen and hovering at the door of the small home behind theirs.
Tatia hadn't waived her away, hadn't even sighed under the tiresome burden of Rebekah's presence. Tatia had smiled, unguarded and sweet.
"Do you want to say hello to the baby?"
Rebekah had nodded, her renegade tongue suddenly tied. She hadn't known what hello would mean to a baby, even, but it seemed alright to sit down next to Tatia and lean her head over it to smile.
"You must not have been around babies much." Tatia laughs a little, but it isn't unkind. "You're the youngest of your family, aren't you?"
Tatia had noticed. Tatia had noticed lots of things.)
Damon and Stefan both snarl when she walks over to greet the three of them.
"Stefan, guys, it's okay," Elena says.
"It really is. If I felt like killing you tonight, there would already be Salvatore all over my brother's new floor."
They walk off together arm in arm, just like the school chums they are.
(Her brothers had started to notice her absence in the long afternoons - not soon enough for Rebekah's liking, but still, it was always too soon when they clamored in to fight over Tatia's attentions.
But Tatia's laugh belonged to Rebekah, the native language of the small sunny world they shared, and Tatia always sent the boys away a little sooner than they wanted. "We don't need them, Rebekah," she would say, loudly enough for them both to hear. "We have the best time on our own."
Which had only enticed them to come back more, more foolish and more impressive every time. Rebekah had understood, of course, but would never quite be able to hate them for it, because even if they'd come for Tatia, they'd still come to her, too. And because Tatia had always let her stay.)
Rebekah steers them off into a hidden nook on the side of the study (as if she doesn't know her brother, his endless indulgence in stage-whispered secrets).
Elena watches her, back against the wall, and Rebekah wants to rattle her composure to dust.
She reaches out her left hand to pulls Elena's hair, baring Elena's neck.
(Tatia taught Rebekah how to braid her hair, had let Rebekah test out her clumsy fingers on those thick dark curls and worn the loose, ragged ropes around her face for as many days as they lasted.)
Elena kisses her back so readily it's almost (almost) unsatisfying. She leans in, forehead almost against the wall, runs a hand up Elena's dress, and doesn't whisper anything over Elena's choked sigh.
("But I won't hurt you, Tatia. Not you."
"I don't know that anymore, Rebekah. You don't know that anymore." And Tatia had cried, as if she wasn't the one leaving Rebekah to burn on the street. Rebekah had gone home and ripped a tree limb from limb in furious hurt, but she hadn't been lying; she could never hurt Tatia.)
Elena pretends to be composed a second too soon, her voice high and rushed. "What does your mother want with me?"
"Some doppelganger business, I imagine," Rebekah says as though she couldn't care less (because she couldn't, because Elena is nothing like Tatia, nothing at all). "I haven't the faintest idea."
TVD - Rebekah/Tatia, Rebekah/Elena - to echo out of tune
It's intolerable, Elena invited into her home, sauntering in like she has any right to drag that face down with jewelry, like that's her smile she curves around their glasses, like those are her hands she refuses to strip bare.
(Rebekah remembers being thirteen and hovering at the door of the small home behind theirs.
Tatia hadn't waived her away, hadn't even sighed under the tiresome burden of Rebekah's presence. Tatia had smiled, unguarded and sweet.
"Do you want to say hello to the baby?"
Rebekah had nodded, her renegade tongue suddenly tied. She hadn't known what hello would mean to a baby, even, but it seemed alright to sit down next to Tatia and lean her head over it to smile.
"You must not have been around babies much." Tatia laughs a little, but it isn't unkind. "You're the youngest of your family, aren't you?"
Tatia had noticed. Tatia had noticed lots of things.)
Damon and Stefan both snarl when she walks over to greet the three of them.
"Stefan, guys, it's okay," Elena says.
"It really is. If I felt like killing you tonight, there would already be Salvatore all over my brother's new floor."
They walk off together arm in arm, just like the school chums they are.
(Her brothers had started to notice her absence in the long afternoons - not soon enough for Rebekah's liking, but still, it was always too soon when they clamored in to fight over Tatia's attentions.
But Tatia's laugh belonged to Rebekah, the native language of the small sunny world they shared, and Tatia always sent the boys away a little sooner than they wanted. "We don't need them, Rebekah," she would say, loudly enough for them both to hear. "We have the best time on our own."
Which had only enticed them to come back more, more foolish and more impressive every time. Rebekah had understood, of course, but would never quite be able to hate them for it, because even if they'd come for Tatia, they'd still come to her, too. And because Tatia had always let her stay.)
Rebekah steers them off into a hidden nook on the side of the study (as if she doesn't know her brother, his endless indulgence in stage-whispered secrets).
Elena watches her, back against the wall, and Rebekah wants to rattle her composure to dust.
She reaches out her left hand to pulls Elena's hair, baring Elena's neck.
(Tatia taught Rebekah how to braid her hair, had let Rebekah test out her clumsy fingers on those thick dark curls and worn the loose, ragged ropes around her face for as many days as they lasted.)
Elena kisses her back so readily it's almost (almost) unsatisfying. She leans in, forehead almost against the wall, runs a hand up Elena's dress, and doesn't whisper anything over Elena's choked sigh.
("But I won't hurt you, Tatia. Not you."
"I don't know that anymore, Rebekah. You don't know that anymore." And Tatia had cried, as if she wasn't the one leaving Rebekah to burn on the street. Rebekah had gone home and ripped a tree limb from limb in furious hurt, but she hadn't been lying; she could never hurt Tatia.)
Elena pretends to be composed a second too soon, her voice high and rushed. "What does your mother want with me?"
"Some doppelganger business, I imagine," Rebekah says as though she couldn't care less (because she couldn't, because Elena is nothing like Tatia, nothing at all). "I haven't the faintest idea."