A/N: I've been MIA lately, mostly because of some annoying boy drama that stripped me of any desire to write. I'm back now, though, and I want to thank everyone who reached out to me in the past month; your support and kindness has truly meant the world to me.

But now, onward! This is an extension of the infamous 2x18 scene. Sorry it's a little late.

Title from "Winter Song" by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson. Thanks as always to Mountain Woman for her invaluable help. Thanks for reading, enjoy, and please don't favorite without reviewing!

Then and there, I confess
I'll blame all this on my selfishness
Yeah, you love me
And that consumes me
And I'll stand up again, and do so willingly
- "When I Go Down" by Relient K

The words echo in her head, the words she always knew were real for him, the words that, somehow, she never quite wanted to have to hear (and maybe that was selfish):

I will always choose you.

They're such simple words, words that belong in a romance novel or a cliché teenage movie. And yet…the words mean everything coming from a man – a vampire – who spent 145 years living only for himself and a conniving woman he thought was trapped in a tomb.

As such, she suddenly feels out of her element, off-balance, like he's swept the rug out from under her feet. She shakes her head, flustered and unsure (as she always is around him). Lately she's been a jumbled mess with him, unable to reconcile the passion in his eyes with the cruelty in his voice. She wonders if he's trying to let go of her, or if he's holding on for dear life.

(She wonders if she understands him at all.)

"That's not fair," she stutters at last, her brow furrowing.

And it isn't fair. He doesn't get to decide who lives or dies, even if it's her life he's trying to save. More than that, she can't accept what he's saying, what he's promising. She will not let him stand by and watch her best friends, her family, die so she can live. She won't let him do it.

Even if she completely understands why he would do it. Even if she cares about him in ways she can't explain.

Not even if it's the most powerful expression of love he could give her.

She expects him to raise his eyebrows at her disapproval, or at least shoot her the incredulous look she knows so well. But the intensity in his eyes doesn't fade; the curve of his lips remains minute and stern. He just shakes his head slowly and deliberately, his gaze lingering on her face as if he realizes their days may be numbered.

A strange sort of ache settles in her throat; it's as difficult to dislodge as he is.

"That's how it is," he says seriously, not bothering to coat the words in sarcasm or flippancy or even nonchalance. "That's how it is," he repeats slowly, as if he worries she hasn't quite heard him right.

Indeed, she blinks, suddenly afraid of the certainty etched in those impenetrable orbs. Where is all this assurance coming from?

She doesn't understand. How can he be so sure of his feelings for her? All she's done is proclaim her love for his brother over and over again, and still, he is steadfast. She wonders frantically what she ever did to deserve this kind of blind, potent love, the kind of love that warms her and chills her in equal measures.

The kind of love that often leaves her breathless.

And still, she has to resist him. Because the way he loves her – this big, this aching, and this selfless – will only hurt him in the end (it's already hurting him). She can't give herself to him, but she also can't let him go. So this is where they stand: in limbo, in the space between too much and not enough. In a painful place she can't navigate her way out of.

She's tried, she has. But she can't figure out what to do with him – what to do about him. Really, all she knows is that no matter how much he loves her, he can't sacrifice the entire world for her. That's not romantic. That's crazy.

(Her life isn't some tragic love story.)

So she shakes her head, her eyes fixed on the concavity of his face, the face she knows so intimately, and yet, not nearly intimately enough to satiate her.

"I can't be okay with that," she begins slowly. She wants to be okay with it; some part of her is. She realizes she should be ecstatic that someone loves her enough to make such a romantic declaration, but it doesn't sit well with her. She accepts where it comes from (that place of love he only reveals with her), but she can't condone it. She won't let him sacrifice everyone for her. She can't let him.

She thinks it would destroy him, even if he's not willing to face that possibility.

She feels like she's going in circles, her thinking so repetitive that she wonders why she's still trying to figure it out. She hasn't come to any new conclusions in the past few weeks. Her knowledge is as complete now as it was when she first found about the curse:

Damon loves her. Damon would do anything for her. Damon isn't fighting for her because he believes Stefan is the better choice for her.

She knows all of this, and she agrees with it, mostly (whether Stefan is the better choice for her is a grey area).

So why does she feel so goddamn restless?

Damon holds her gaze steadily. "I don't care," he emphasizes, his eyes clear, the words succinct. "That's the difference."

She blinks. This boy does absolutely crazy things to her. Crazy, crazy things that should be several hundred kinds of illegal.

(Instead, they just make her pulse race.)

"You don't care if I hate you?" She asks, her voice wavering in confusion, even as the puzzle pieces fall into place. She shudders as everything finally begins to make sense to her: his willingness to put her through actual grief at Bonnie's staged death, his complete disregard of her fragile nerves. It all makes sense. He really doesn't care.

But he glares at her, his eyes cold, like she remembers from so many nights she'd rather forget. "Of course I care," he manages to choke out, clearly struggling with his desire to throttle her (she thinks wryly that they're alike in that respect). "I just would rather you hate me than be dead."

She sighs. She should have expected that. She thinks she'd feel the same way, if given the choice.

But she holds his gaze, holds her ground. "Well, here's the problem with that," she tries to start.

He waits, his gaze blank, searching. She realizes he's always waiting (for her), and that hurts. As the silence stretches and she can't find the words to make sense of this, she wonders if this thing between them is really as fleeting, as evanescent, as she believes, or if she's just not putting enough effort into it. Some days she wants to throw caution to the wind and succumb to the weight of so much affection between them. Some days, she thinks she's ready.

And every day, she decides she's not.

So she hedges her bets. She goes the safe route, the route that doesn't involve her admitting that she needs him, needs him like the sun will always need the moon, like the light will always need the darkness. Needs him because he's her other half.

"You're willing to die for me," she surmises heavily, raising her eyebrows, forcing him to confirm her words.

He nods. He is deadly serious.

She swallows, hard, taking in the arch of his eyebrows, the beauty nestled in every crevice of his tragic, tired face. He has given up so much for her, and still, she has no answer to the question he unconsciously asks her every day. She has never been able to define what she feels for him, not even when he forces her to think about it (like he did only a few minutes ago).

And she can't start analyzing the way her heart is pounding right now. Not when the tears have only just begun to dry on her cheeks and she can still trace the faint slap mark on his otherwise unblemished face. Not when her best friend faked her own death.

Not when her death looms larger and larger.

So, as usual, she deflects. (It's all she ever does.)

"But what you don't understand is that I won't let you do that," she finishes, crossing her arms like he's not immune to her defiance.

He chuckles under his breath. "And how would you stop me?" He asks her curtly, but somehow his voice is placid and mollifying, as if he's sorry that he has to go to such great lengths to save her life. "And why do you think anything you say would matter? Why do you think I care about anything other than keeping you safe?"

She shakes her head angrily (but oh, she's not angry at him, she's never been angry at him, only sad). "Because," she grits out, struggling to maintain some semblance of composure, "I'm willing to die for you. I will die for you. I will. You aren't the only one who can choose."

He staggers backward, his hand flying to his mouth, a movement that catches her thoroughly off-guard. "What?"

There's something almost reverent in the word, and she wants to laugh. It is so unusual to see Damon Salvatore astounded like this.

But she doesn't laugh, because nothing about this situation is funny. She just stares straight at him, refusing to shrink away from him, refusing to hide from this thing between them (she has run from it enough).

"I will die for you if it comes down to that," she insists firmly. "I will not let you save my life if that means you dieing. I won't allow it."

He doesn't react to this blatant statement of something much, much more than just caring about him (she thinks it's because she has yet to admit anything). Instead, he crosses his arms, too, mirroring her stance in that instinctive way they have. "Well then," he suggests snarkily, his lips curling up at the corners, "I guess we have a problem."

She sighs, the sound deafening. "I guess we do."

His eyes immediately soften, his hands hovering in the air, his smile pure and untainted. It's like he wants to touch her, if only to reassure her that he's not going anywhere. But that's a promise he cannot make, and he has never lied to her.

She feels like crying. Of course they have a problem. He's willing to die for her, to kill for her, but what he doesn't understand is that if and when the situation is reversed, she will do exactly the same for him.

She realizes suddenly that they both love like this: fierce and passionate and unconditional. He can kill as many of her brothers as he wants, but she will still forgive him.

(She will always, always forgive him.)

And suddenly, the enormity of what he's saying floods her. He's willing to have human blood on his hands – the hands that basically gave up taking innocent lives for her – if it means she will survive. He's willing to do anything to save her.

And so she crumples into him, putting her full weight on him, knowing he can take it, but afraid that he won't.

She clasps her hands on his chest and breathes in the scent that has become as familiar as the sound of her heartbeat, whispers nonsensical promises into the scratchy fabric of his t-shirt. His arms come tentatively around her (probably because usually they only hug when his grief is almost crippling), but when she doesn't pull away, he clutches her tightly.

"Just let me die for you," she whimpers suddenly, the words surprising her, her voice a tangled mess of break and helplessness. "Just let me give up."

He pushes her away roughly, his eyes widening, that tantalizing blue a cacophony of dread and devotion. "I can't," he roars savagely. "I can't."

She shakes her head ferociously, wanting so badly just to fix this, to take it all back. But she's afraid to touch him, afraid to say anything (afraid of everything), because she can't make it stop, no matter how hard she tries. She can't make it stop.

And suddenly, as if he's done fighting this mammoth between them (as if his strength has finally failed him), his lips are on hers, sweet and tinged with desperation and so, so beautiful.

She doesn't push him away. She doesn't think she can. If nothing else, he deserves this moment. It may be all she can ever give him.

When they break apart, he growls into her mouth, hungry with such crazy despair, "No, Elena." His breath is hot on her face, and he touches her hair, panting against her, firm and sure and painful. "You would survive if I died. You'd go on living your life. But me?"

His voice grows quiet, soft, gentle, his hands caressing her face like he holds his heart in his hands.

"I'd have no reason for existing if you died," he murmurs, and the words should be harsh or even cold but instead they're warm and inviting, and she just wants to sink into him, to hold him and cry and escape for a little while. "None at all."

The words sound like the bells at a funeral, and something in her shrivels, dries up.

Dies.

He shoots her one last lingering look, brushing his lips across her forehead with a heartbreaking glaze over those luminous eyes. He whispers that he loves her, and then he leaves her.

She stands there for a long, long while. Because like so many things with them, they're at an impasse they can't bridge despite their best efforts.

She stares at the spot he occupied only a few moments ago and touches her fingers to her lips.

She says the words she couldn't say, knowing he'll hear.

"I will always choose you."

fin

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