My 1985 Klaroline time travel fic... An excerpt
“Is this Sheila Bennet?” Caroline's voice is throaty. She’s holding back tears. Her eyes are starting to sting. Her nose grows hot. She adjusts the phone in her hand, the cord draws a shadow over her dress.
“This is she? Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Caroline For–est. Um, and I was wondering if you could help me with a problem?”
There is a long pause. For a moment she’s worried the line went dead. “Caroline Forest? No, no that’s not it. What sort of help do you need, child?”
Caroline squeezes her eyes tight, feeling the build up of tears. She wipes her eyes and holds back a sniffle she knows that won’t help her. “I’m not sure. But I’m… I think I was sent—” she stops. A bad feeling washes over her. Sheila doesn’t know her. Not yet. And Caroline is a vampire, and chances are that spilling her secrets may hurt her more than help her. She has done nothing to prove she’s worth helping, not to a witch who spent her entire life staying out of the business of vampires— a feat impressive for a Bennet. Caroline clenches her jaw, and resigns herself to the terrible idea that she settles on. “I’m looking for someone. Stefan Salvatore. I heard you might know how to find him.”
“That’s not a name I like to utter, and I’d stay far, far away from someone like that if I were you.” Sheila’s punches out icy words, and Caroline feels the grief clamp over her heart once more, pained by how bitter and cruel Sheila’s voice becomes. It hurts. It hurts because when Mom was at work, and Dad was away, and the Gilberts were enjoying their perfect little family nights, she enjoyed Sheila’s home-made meals, her gooey cookies, and even her drunken tales. Caroline holds that warmth so close to her chest, and she loathes to feel it punctured by the icicles in Sheila’s voice. She swallows hard, fighting the sob, the whimper, the vulnerability that threatens to pour out of her. She nods knowing Shelia can’t see her.
“But… I need his help. And I–” She holds her breath. Caroline lowers her shoulders, which have climbed to her ears, and she relaxes her jaw. She belies every ounce of weakness she can under her mask of Miss Mystic Falls and head cheerleader with a smooth voice aided by a mild edge of haughtiness, with that she attempts to throw a boon. “I can convince him to never come back to Mystic Falls. I can do that. I know something. About Katherine. I know she isn’t in the tomb.” She rushes all her words out at once. “Help me, and no vampires come to town.” She’s such a liar. There is no avoiding the birth of Elena Gilbert, who will draw them in like a moth to a flame. There is no avoiding it at all. But Sheila’s breath hitches, and Caroline may have tricked her.
“That’s not something you can promise, Child.” There’s silence, or as much as the phone allows, with the static cracking between them. It lingers, for a moment, then two, before Sheila adds, “besides you are not talking about the brother that worries me.” Caroline flinches at that, thinking of flinty blue eyes, black hair, and breath that smelled of metallic and liquor all hours of the day. Once she got to know Damon, she quickly lost all ability to see anything attractive about him. He’s an ugly, ugly man, no chisel jaws and carved abs will change that, and the very image of him riddles her with nausea. She rather avoid him if she can. The idea of running into him, in this time, makes her feel green and gross. All her allergies went away after death, but the way imaginary hives crawl up at her skin merely thinking of Damon— Caroline is tempted to say she is allergic to him.
“No. But I can at least stall him,” she quickly lies, as she scratches her collarbone. “Both of them,” she adds. “Think of your daughter, and you’re grand—” she stops, wincing. “Think of Abbie.”
There’s static. And then, “Last I heard, Stefan Salvatore is in Chicago. You might be able to find him there.” And without warning, the line goes dead.
And because Caroline needs to, into the static, she whispers, “I’m sorry.” She slams the phone back into place. She steps away, walking towards the door, nodding the woman behind her, the only person behind her in line, that she’s done with the phone.
