A one-shot from Elena's POV as she and Damon... y'know ; ) Let me know your thoughts! Does it fit them?

Gleam & Shadow

His hair tickled my face and I laughed and nuzzled in next to his nose. He pushed his body up and I admired the motion of tendon and muscle in his arms then caught sight of a smile that actually hurt my heart.

He could have been a boy. Or, rather, I could see that smile on a child Damon as he played but it told so many things about what a child Damon would be like:

Interested, but wary. I could picture him hugely invested in whatever task in which he was involved but easily hurt if deemed inadequate or if he failed in even the smallest way.

It was such an open, engrossed, enthusiastic smile and his eyes sparkled all the while.

I was hypnotised but well aware that whilst this was a Damon it wasn't the Damon. This was one reflection in a house of mirrors and- true- only I was privy to it, but that didn't mean I ignored every other gleam and shadow.

I traced the tips of my fingers over the milky skin of his toned chest and ridged stomach and he exhaled slowly, surrendering it sounded like. His eyes hooded and that heart-hurt smile warmed.

I needed to savour these moments, archive them so that when I next saw the darkest of this man I would remember that I could hone into this or even provoke light in him.

So much was rushing into my heart as I reached up and- stroking round his ears- requested a kiss, which he softly delivered, his body lowering back down onto mine. The pressure felt like home- safe and warm- but with an added pinch of excitement.

His fingers slid down my sides and I tried- I really did- not to recall what else those fingers could do and had done. That whilst they bewitched my heart they could also literally rip out another with relish.

I banished memories of his torture to those I loved, balancing them with recollections of his miraculous rescues and sacrifices. I hated what he had been, what he could be- but it was absolute that I wouldn't hate him so much if I didn't love him in equal measure. There's a certain level of caring that requires such contrast. I think it was knowing- and learning- the sources of his vices that both shielded me from him and endeared me evermore.

Both of my hands were pressed at the centre of his chest, a hearth to the figurative candle I felt glowing hot between us, which I was desperate not to be snuffed out. One single blow to his ego at that moment could render his confidence, warp it to self-loathing once more which would involve indiscriminate and discriminate bloodshed. I needed to mend something for him, something nameless, before he trusted that I was his completely. And, as sure as I was that it would irk my friends to no end, that would mean boundless reassurances in every form for a long time.

Which was no torture for me. Not at all.

My breasts pushed so softly against his chest, his heartbeat drumming next to mine, and his toes played absentmindedly with mine as he sweetened the kiss with a grin and stroked my eyebrows, my cheekbones...

My love for him gave me air and choked me all at once.