takes place during 2.22.
Death here, beneath chipping paint and strained hospitality, was not what he wanted. In fact, death in and of itself was not what he wanted.
(But, fuck it, he knew he deserved it all the same.)
He wasn't lost in the irony, just sort of dwelling in it, relishing; it was payback for what should have been him in the first place, what instead took Rose. Jesus, did he miss her, now more than ever: a slight smile, an understanding mind, a cool but steady touch. Now, instead? Stefan kept rambling on about magical cures to the point of absurdity and Elena kept holding him awkwardly, so obvious in an attempt to find an emotion to feel that wouldn't betray other more well-founded, safer ones, and he just wanted everyone to shut the fuck up and let him go.
Death, if ever a possibility for him, was supposed to be quick, fun and bloody; a situation, a something, where he'd take a bunch of people he hated along with him. Not this deathbed, slowly dying in someone's arms bullshit. Even if that someone was Elena.
Oh, but did he want her to hold him tighter and...
But it was funny as hell how everyone pretended to give a shit at the end. He enjoyed the comedy of it, on some level. After he was gone maybe they'd finally admit that it was for the better, anyway. That is, if Stefan didn't do something stupid in his useless attempt at heroism. It would make some sort of perverse sense if both he and his brother ended up dying together.
(It wasn't like he didn't appreciate Stefan's effort, even if he'd never tell his little brother that.)
He briefly wondered what Stefan was doing right now.
Then he realized that he probably didn't give a shit what it was, anyway. What did it matter what Stefan did? It wouldn't work in the end. But... Hell, Stefan was doing it for him. It was more than he deserved. Stefan was probably forcing Bonnie to find a cure for his poor, misunderstood (is that what it's called now?) older brother who had no qualms about sacrificing that very witch to begin with, all so Stefan can ride in on his white horse (or that little pussy car of his) and save the day.
Save the day...
He couldn't save the day. He couldn't be like Stefan, he couldn't... Damn, did he feel like he was burin' up right now... Everything that was Stefan went against the very core of himself, his very being. But if ever he wanted to, if ever he tried, he knew it would all be for only Elena. He wanted to be better, he wanted to be the way he used to be, long ago. But he knew he never would be, no matter how he tried (and miserably he remembered that he did at least try). He was what he was, balls to bones.
And it had been fun, after all. Well, most of it.
But what the hell could that witch do, anyway, now that her borrowed mojo was all used up? Light a few candles for him with her mind? Give him a bigger headache? Ooh, mystical.
Bonnie. But she wouldn't be looking for a cure, would she? Not for him. Wouldn't she be busy with saving someone else right now? Wasn't someone else fading away? Someone was shot, bleeding, dying. Someone who didn't deserve it, like he deserved it. Who was it again? Oh, fuck. He couldn't remember. Something to do with Elena, he was certain, but then again everything had everything to do with Elena.
Finally she held him tighter, whispered something to him; her long, slender fingers tangled in his sweat matted hair. He could feel the sharp tug whenever she moved and shifted and twitched.
He didn't entirely hear what she had said, but he wished he had.
"They'll find something", maybe? He'll? Stefan? He suddenly wished his little brother was here. There were comforts in his lies.
(Shit, but did he hate this.)
"There has to be a cure, Damon."
"There isn't." He thought he said that, anyway.
Forget Stefan. He liked to hear the lies from her better; pretty lips telling pretty, empty things. Somehow they meant more because now she was lying for his sake. It was pathetic, he knew, but he didn't care. Hell, maybe he just wanted to hear her voice as everything around him faded away. Yeah. That didn't sound half bad. The last thing he ever heard, not truths or a future or even god, but the voice of a loved one; the last thing he ever felt, soft lips against dying ears.
"You don't know that. Maybe Bonnie-"
It hurt. It hurt to think, it hurt to strain to hear her, find her words. It just fucking hurt, really.
(Most of all it hurt because now he knew she was suffering because of him, always because of him.)
Why was everything he touched destroyed and ruined?
"What'll the witch do? Help it kill me faster?" He tried to smile, he genuinely tried, just for her.
Never mind. Just stop talking.
"...find something. If not a cure... Damon..."
He really couldn't understand her anymore and just wanted her to shut up now (suddenly he felt bad, having her lie to him like this) and hold him tighter, so tight that he couldn't feel anything else, so tight that she... He just wanted her against him and nothing else.
Hell, his arm hurt. Throbbing and blistering and raw, like it was on fire.
Then, shaky and unsure, "maybe Bonnie'll find a way for you to live with it, Damon. Some way to manage it. It doesn't have to... Maybe you can live with this."
"What, like herpes?"
She didn't say anything else.
Yeah. Him and his herpes arm will find a way to deal with it daily. Or something. Then he'll magically turn human and run away with her and everything will be peachy forever. God did his head feel like it was going to explode.
She was next to him suddenly, more so than before, closer somehow (where the hell had she been before, holding him like that? Behind him? Where was he again? He couldn't remember). He finally realized that his eyes were somewhat open, watching her. But it wasn't like he went looking for her face, not really, and it wasn't like she changed her position; she was there all along, his eyes just hadn't been working properly enough to see her, everything unformed and blurry. That frightened him for some reason, this unknowing. It was like her form just sort of materialized out of nowhere before him, like a goddamned ghost.
What else was around him that he couldn't see?
Her face was wet and puffy and red. But still beautiful.
And oh god.
He couldn't take it anymore.
She leaned in to kiss him, but he could barely reciprocate. Figured. Now she kisses him, but he's too fucked up to do a damn thing about it.
"You should be gone."
"I won't leave you here alone, Damon."
Here? He felt beneath himself for a moment and found sheets and something sticky and warm. Shit, he sure hoped that was just blood. The tangy and sharp smell that quickly followed his disturbing the sheets pretty much confirmed that it was.
"You should just save me the trouble and end it right now."
"I can't."
"No, you won't. But you could, if you really wanted to."
"Please don't, Damon."
"It's not so bad, Elena."
"Please-"
ohgodohgod.
"Nothing should last forever, you know that. Nothing ever does. Not anger or hate... not even love." He felt something lurch and twist inside of him, something trying to come up. He coughed and tasted blood.
This is just what should've been coming up to kick him in the balls, nothing more.
And he wanted to say something inspirational to her, make her feel like this whole thing was worth something, but he couldn't think of a damn thing, only-
"I tried not to."
A long pause. "Tried what, Damon?"
"But I loved you anyway."
"Damon..."
"I'm not sorry."
He felt her heart beat from behind him, her chest against his back again, a steady and alien rhythm. "I..." She faltered.
"Sometimes it's all I ever feel. S'not so bad, drowning in it... And..." Oh. It didn't hurt so much, for just a moment. But what he really wanted to say... He found himself slurring and his mind unable to hold onto his thoughts.
He suddenly couldn't form the damned words.
Shit. Whatever.
It probably wasn't important anymore, anyway.
"It's okay, Damon." Her voiced cracked and he felt horrible again. "It's alright. I'm right here." He felt her fingers in his hair again and her lips against his neck. He thought briefly about blood and warmth and something beautiful, but he forgot it just as quickly. She held him tighter.
She kissed him again, or at least he thought she did, but he couldn't be sure.
Heh.
Dying sucked, but her lips against his sure as hell wasn't bad.
Hell, whether or not he made it out of this, at least he had that.