Author's Note: This takes place after Episode Twenty. 3
Disclaimer: Seriously, if I owned this, Stefan would be much less broody, and Damon would be with Elena, and shirtless lots.
Elena Gilbert wasn't used to this, wasn't used to feeling so utterly conflicted. Typically, she knew what she wanted, and in knowing what she wanted, she usually went for it. However, this time, things were different. Worlds apart. And now her heart was aching with desire for things she could not have.
She loved Stefan. That much, she could give in to. Because Stefan was good, and Stefan wasn't a lit fuse on the end of a stick of dynamite. Stefan did not take pleasure in the torturing and killing of people. Stefan felt remorse.
But then there was the other end of the spectrum. Stefan had never fed on human blood in earnest before, which was what landed him in the cellar to begin with. Stefan did not control his cravings for human blood – because he had never tasted so much of it before, and therefore, had no craving. Stefan knew the mechanics of tapping a vein, but had never really done it before. Stefan had not been clean in his attack on her classmate. Stefan had not covered his tracks.
Despite everything that Elena had heard that night, despite the two stories she had heard, despite knowing that Stefan was the better brother, part of her wondered, just a little, what Damon was like. What he would be like, if she could ever get under his skin and beyond all of his acidity and cynicism. Would he be good? Would there be a truth unveiled about him that she had never known? Would she discover a hidden talent, a new facet of his life? Or would only darkness remain where she had sworn she had seen light?
It had been at the Founder's Party where she had first taken higher notice to it. Not that she hadn't seen the proverbial light before, as she had, but she had always chosen to disregard it as a trick of the light, or some other deception. She hadn't really wanted to read into it. But after he told her of Stefan's newly discovered affinity for human blood, and had stood in for Stefan as her partner, she was noticing more of it. It was a well kept secret, that she knew, but why was she starting to see it now? More importantly, why was he letting her see it?
As they had stood across from each other, the tips of their fingers, flat of their palms inches apart, sparking lust for the intangible, Elena had looked into Damon Salvatore's eyes and had seen something other than the monster she knew he was. There was something there, beyond the broken pieces she knew of, something different, almost tangible in the space between. If she could have reached a little further, could she have touched it; sparked a flame? It was light in the shadows of his eyes, something like respect, bordering affection, bordering passion.
Desire had never looked so devious. Or desirable.
She had seen shades of that look again in the following days, as he sat with her in the cellar, or the front room. Had heard it in his voice, in their verbal repartee. And now she was hopelessly confused, because a part of her wanted to taste Damon, feel what he would be like to love; but a part of her still yearned for Stefan.
Confused, and torn, she left Stefan sleeping in his bed in the boarding house, and slipped on her jacket, and boots, and disappeared out the door. Initially, she didn't know where she was going, just wandered aimlessly, until her feet guided her into the woods, stopping her where the not-so-recent events had started everything.
She stopped at the ruins of Fells Church.
Her fingers traced the crumbling façade, the coarse brick scratching divots into her fingertips. She outlined the inside wall, pressed her fingers against the open door of the tomb, continued walking around, and around, hand trailing behind her against the ancient cinderblocks. Her mind tried to sort itself, but failed in the intervening moments. This was part of the reason why she kept a journal, to keep her thoughts organized, however, the past few days had not warranted use of the pages kept within its bindings. Until now.
She was on her fourth trip around the dilapidated church, when suddenly, he was there, and she was practically walking straight into him. She stumbled to a halt a few inches from his perfectly chiseled chest – damn him for being so distractingly good looking -- and blinked rapidly, left hand fluttering to her heart as she tried to calm it.
"We need to get you a bell." She mumbled, darkly. The sound of his amused chuckle rang in her ears, resonance surprisingly pleasant despite its owner. She stepped back, trying to clear her head, when she caught sight of the look on his face.
It was much like the one on his face before, when they were dancing. Bedroom eyes. "What do you want, Damon?" Her mouth made the demand before her mind did, and she wondered if her reactions to him weren't just automatic now, after all, this was their repartee, this was their version of a tango.
"What are you doing out here so late, Elena?" He countered, leaning back against a low wall, arms folding across his chest, brow raised in curious amusement.
"I think it's safe to say that's my business, not yours." She replied. Secretly, she wanted to tell him, however, that might not have been a safe recourse. Knowing Damon, he would gloat, thinking he had won something she had no say in.
"Touché." He conceded, but watched her warily. She felt like a mouse, caught in the gaze of a cat who wanted to play with its food before going in for the kill and an involuntary shudder raced through her.
Neither moved, too caught up in the moment, too wrapped up in their own thoughts to break the spell, and Elena found herself reading into his actions way more than she should have been. She picked up on little movements, and a half smile crossed her features, which caused Damon's eyes to narrow.
"What?" He asked, finally.
Elena smiled, lips parting to speak. "You suck on your lip when you're thinking. The lower left hand corner, just a little bit." She replied with a small giggle. Her fingers reached up to trace the edge, pointing out his flaw, the chink she had spied in his nearly impenetrable armor. "Here." She said, before drawing her hand away, afraid she might have been pushing it too far, fearing he could take it the wrong way, or even the right way and somehow that scared her more than the other possibilities.
Damon froze, his body going rigid as she reached for him, uncertain of what it was she was intending. While she was aware that he knew she could not harm him, her mind flashed back to the pain on his face when he realized that Katherine had not been in the tomb. He had looked completely shattered, like his world had been destroyed, and everything he had to live for had been taken from him. Part of her realized that by looks alone, she represented everything that he wanted, everything that he had, and everything that had been taken from him – or, as such, had removed itself from his life.
Sighing, she withdrew, paced away, and sat on a low wall a few feet away, watching him carefully. There was a line here, a line she knew she couldn't cross; a line between what was, and what could, should, would never be.
"Why are you here, Elena?" He spoke quietly, voice barely a whisper through the trees, but enough for her to hear him.
"I don't know. I went walking, wound up here. What about you?"
The wry smile that decorated his face provided her with his answer before his mouth had the chance to speak the lie she knew was coming. He had followed her, to make sure she was safe. "This was my last hope for finding Katherine. Why do you think?"
"Wow, Damon, I didn't take you for a masochist." She replied, with a swift roll of her eyes.
"What's bothering you? If it's about what I told you tonight, if you ask, I'll answer." He spoke honestly, knowing that the stories of their past - his and Stefan's - were not for the faint of heart. Part of him nearly wished he had never told her, but that would have been unfair, would have made him good -- or bad, as it were. Sometimes he could never tell, with Elena.
Elena looked at him with an incredulous expression on her face. As much as she might have wanted to pry, this was sacred ground, held too many memories, and for now, she had heard enough. Stories were not meant to be told all in one night, they were meant to be told at length, draw them out. Storytellers didn't spin tales in one night. Scheherazade took a thousand and one.
"No, it's not that, Damon. Why are you so worried all of a sudden?"
Damon's brow quirked. "Let's see. You're out here, alone, at four in the morning, when you know vampires are probably hunting, and you smell very appetizing. Oh, and you've left Stefan behind, something of which, you haven't done for days. The leaving Stefan thing alone is cause for alarm, but I honestly didn't think you'd be dumb enough to wander around the woods in the middle of the night."
The acid in his voice mingled well with his almost playful banter, and it almost masked the concern she rarely ever saw from him. She decided to throw out a hypothetical. Hypothetical questions never hurt, did they? Not to her knowledge.
"What if. . ." She paused, rising to her feet to pace the nettles on the ground, mind twisting in knots. "What if I was torn; what if I didn't know what to believe anymore, and felt like maybe I'd made the wrong choice? What if I saw something, a few days ago, that made me reconsider what was right, and wrong? What if I was given a choice I had never known I was capable of making before?"
Damon had crossed the space between them in an instant, had her by the shoulders to stop her movement, and looked her in the eyes as if to pull a straight sentence from her mind, to understand what it was she might have been getting at. Absently, he brushed a strand of hair from her face, something he tried not to do on a daily basis, tried to avoid. He didn't want her thinking he was getting soft on her. "What are you trying to say, Elena? What choice?"
Was it too much for him to hope that maybe she was thinking of him some how? That maybe she was thinking what he was, that they could be good, together, they could be the other half of each other, the pieces that they had each been looking for? Was it too much for him to cling to a maddening thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, she was thinking along his lines, just once?
Verbal words would not work in this circumstance. He wouldn't believe her, but she would not risk removing her necklace to avoid being compelled. There was one way for her to convey her feelings, and she somehow knew this, and there was no way for her to say it otherwise. She cursed God for a moment in her mind before her fingers reached to stroke his cheek, grazing over the strong curve of his cheekbone, feeling his skin beneath slender fingertips, and searching eyes. "I..." She began, before she leaned up, to press her lips to his.
A guess, a chance, a choice. A way for her to see what outcome would be more prudent, would be best. Stefan proved his instability. Damon's reactions had always been out of emotion, not craving. And now she was seeing sparks of what loving Damon might be like, and it was unlike anything she had ever felt. Stefan had nothing on his brother.
Damon broke away first, his eyes searching her again, wondering. Words escaped him the moment her lips met his. Now he was struggling for them, like he was struggling for air. Wasn't this what he had wanted? Was this not what he had demanded of the gods the moment he came to grips with the fact that Katherine had betrayed him and was not coming back for him. He had wanted Elena for himself. Selfishly. Who were the Gods to have granted his wish? Then again, who was he to question the non-existent?
"Why?" His mouth demanded, while his fingers laced through her hair.
"You never lied about what you were. And you will always be in control of your actions." Her voice was quiet, timid, but strong with the truth of the words. "I feel safer with you, as twisted as it sounds." Her lips lapsed into a frown, as she felt the ramifications of her decision and her words within her heart. Something tore. But the greater half was left in tact, and as worrying as it should have been, that she had chosen the evil brother, even if for a moment, she felt more at home than she had in a long time.
"Damon," she began, peering up at him, one hand slipping into his.
"Elena." He spoke in enigmatic response.
"I'm cold. Let's go home." Her words elicited laughter, warm and rich, and she knew that for once, he wasn't faking what he felt. That, at least, was a good start.
-Fin!