Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously. Just playing in their world for a while.

I wrote this story for the 2015 DE holiday A2A exchange. This was my first time participating, and I had a blast!

Here's dope_rev's awesome prompt:

Set after 3x14, the Mikaelson's Ball during which Elena states that Damon's love for her might be the problem.

Elena realises that this Christmas is not going to be merry at all as she finds herself alone at home on the 24th until the phone rings and an exhausted Sheriff Forbes begs her to come and pick up a drunk Damon Salvatore, who's compelled half the girls to be his playmates [not sexually, just for entertainment like dancing on the table ;)].

I'd like to see a cocky and tough Damon.

Hope you like it! Happy Holidays! :)

"I'll have a blue Christmas without you—"

Elena snapped off the radio before the song could get any further in its tale of woe, but it was hard to tell what was more jarring—the plodding melancholy of the lyrics, or the sudden silence that surrounded her.

"Thanks, Elvis, but I don't need any reminders of what a crappy Christmas this is shaping up to be." It was December 24th, the date repeatedly drilled into her mind by the DJ who kept urging everyone to finish up their last-minute shopping before it was too late, and she couldn't have felt less in the holiday spirit if she tried.

She glanced around at the cheerful decorations that did nothing to lift her sour mood, her gaze landing on the expertly trimmed tree (real, not fake; Caroline had insisted) in the living room. The gifts she'd purchased for the dwindling number of loved ones in her life, some of whom she hoped still considered themselves part of her life, were wrapped and neatly arranged on her mother's handmade tree skirt. The sight of Miranda's felt snowflakes-and-snowmen masterpiece still made her eyes sting.

All the decorating fuss was a bit ridiculous, really. The house where she'd experienced her happiest childhood memories—putting out milk and cookies for Santa before racing off to bed so she could get a head start on those visions of dancing sugarplums—was empty now.

Well, empty except for her anyway.

This year was wildly different from those Christmases she'd longed for with bated breath. This promised to be a depressing Christmas, a Christmas of Confusion. Everything was off-kilter, out of orbit. Stefan had made himself scarce after he'd admitted feeling nothing but pain when he could muster any feelings at all; Bonnie was spending some long overdue family bonding time with her mom; Caroline was volunteering at the soup kitchen, as any good Miss Mystic Falls would do; Alaric was having dinner with Meredith and would probably spend the night at her place; Jeremy was still in Denver, reluctantly taking part in some family gathering with cousins he hadn't seen since he was too young to remember who the hell they were; Matt was stuck working his shift at the Grill; and Damon . . .

Damon was another story.

Her calls were directed straight to his voicemail, and even her texts went unanswered. Their relationship had been torn at the seams since their spat at the Mikaelsons' ball, and it hadn't shown any signs of mending. If only she'd kept her mouth shut instead of spouting the words that were guaranteed to cut him the deepest, she wouldn't be typing out yet another text for him to ignore.

Just tell me you're okay, she wrote, which was beyond stupid. Of course he wasn't okay. She'd told him, to his face and within earshot of a whole host of vampires, that his love for her was problematic.

Brilliant, Elena. Just fucking brilliant.

When her phone (and Damon) remained silent, she grabbed her coat, purse, and keys. Staying home alone was only going to lead to more wallowing, so she might as well join Caroline and do something worthwhile. There would be plenty of time to reexamine her issues with the elder Salvatore later.

She was almost out the door when a snippet of what could only be described as "Jingle Bells" on speed started blaring from inside her purse. The festive, and incredibly annoying, ringtone was Caroline's doing, but her phone hadn't rung enough lately for her to bother changing it.

Elena quickly fished the thing out of her bag, instantly on alert when she noticed Sheriff Forbes's name flashing on the screen. She answered the call and put the phone to her ear, bracing herself for more bad news.

"Sheriff Forbes? Is everything okay . . ." Her voice trailed off when she heard the noise in the background. If she didn't know any better, she'd think Caroline's mom was attending a Rolling Stones concert and had found her way into the mosh pit.

"Elena, are you there? I can hardly hear you," the sheriff hollered by way of greeting.

"I'm here. What's going on?" she yelled back, stepping inside again so the neighbors wouldn't be treated to a blow-by-blow of the latest dilemma.

"I need to ask a huge favor. Damon's turned the Grill into his personal party zone, and he and his friends have depleted half the town's liquor supply in the process. I've already tried calling Stefan, but he's not picking up," she tacked on, sounding tired in spite of her raised voice. "Could you please come and talk to him, maybe see if you can get him to leave?"

I guess that explains why he isn't answering my text. A drunk Damon was an unpredictable Damon, which made her slightly uneasy, but Elena couldn't very well refuse. "Sure. I'll be there in a few minutes."

The sheriff gave her a hasty but grateful goodbye, then hung up. Elena tossed her phone back in her purse and was about to leave when she remembered the gifts under the tree. Grabbing the one she needed, she tucked it under her arm and headed out to face her latest challenge: how to make Damon part ways with his bourbon and still leave the Grill in one piece.

###

As soon as Elena got out of the car, she understood Sheriff Forbes's concern. She could hear the music clearly enough to sing along, and she hadn't even gone in yet. If she didn't know any better, she'd have thought there was a live band playing.

When she did finally summon up the courage to go inside, she was met by a wall of sound that made speaking (and being heard) and rational thinking virtually impossible. Between the dulcet tones of "Sweet Child O' Mine" and a combination of rowdy laughter, people trying to talk over one another, and glasses clinking together, she was seriously reconsidering her decision to help out the sheriff.

It didn't take long to spot the eye of the storm. Damon was holding court in the center of the dining area where several tables had been pushed together to create a makeshift, elevated dance floor upon which an assortment of tipsy ladies were doing their best to impress the Lord of the Drink without losing their balance and falling into a heap on the floor.

For Damon's part, he was seated at another cluster of tables, playing what appeared to be a card game of some sort. Competing against him was a second group of women gathered around the multi-table setup, all of whom were batting their lashes at Damon and toasting each other (and him) with shots. They'd obviously been at it for quite some time; the empty tables surrounding them were littered with shot glasses, bourbon bottles, and beer pitchers.

Tearing her eyes away from the chaotic scene, she noticed the sheriff ushering a few less-than-pleased patrons toward the exit and hurried over to catch her before the next round of complaints started. Along the way, she caught a quick glimpse of Matt, who gave her a long-suffering look as he handed another pitcher of beer to a giggling coed.

"Elena. You have no idea how glad I am to see you. Thanks for coming," Liz Forbes greeted her with a tired smile. Caroline's mom (and Elena's surrogate mom ever since Miranda's passing) was sporting dark circles under her eyes and looked to be on the thirteenth hour of a twelve-hour shift.

Elena hugged her and then stepped back to observe the melee once more. "When did all this start?"

"About three hours ago, according to Matt," the sheriff replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Asking Damon to knock it off and go home hasn't helped. As far as I can tell, only his throng of admirers has been compelled. I've been trying to get everyone else out the door before the situation escalates."

Lovely. "Okay. Well, here goes nothing. Wish me luck." Elena put on what she hoped was her best I-mean-business face and went to confront Damon. When she passed the bar, Matt called to her, gesturing for her to come over.

"Need any help?" he shouted above the din, grabbing a pencil off the bar and making staking motions with it.

"Thanks, but I think you've seen enough action lately," she yelled back, pointing to his bandaged hand that was just starting to mend after Kol's recent attack.

She resumed her trek toward the debacle in the center of the room, carefully picking her way through the mass of drunk patrons. She arrived just in time to see everyone at the table reveal their cards. They were playing poker, she noted, watching as one of the women laid down a full house. Damon was grinning like the Cheshire Cat, and when she saw his hand, she realized why: he had 4 of a kind. Everyone else had either folded or produced an inferior hand.

"Congratulations." Elena didn't bother raising her voice; she knew Damon could hear her in spite of all the ruckus. "Aren't you betting anything? Where are the chips?"

"No chips needed," he answered, shooting her a devilish grin. He was the image of drunken nonchalance: dark hair slightly mussed, eyes too bright (which was odd, considering), shirt missing a button, smudged lipstick mark on his neck. He took a swig from the half-empty bourbon bottle he was holding, studying her while she studied him. "This is my version of the game. It like to call it 'Nip 'n Sip Poker.'" Refocusing on the crowd gathered at the table, he leaned forward in his seat, surveying the women's cards with a keen eye. When he found the weakest hand—a single pair belonging to a pretty blonde who didn't seem all that upset that she'd lost—he crooked his finger at her. "Time to pay up, sweetheart," he crooned.

Her cheeks reddened as she scrambled out of her chair and plopped herself into Damon's lap where she eagerly stuck out her wrist, acting like she was about to have the most amazing experience of her life. Elena's breath caught in her throat when Damon pressed a kiss to the underside of the woman's wrist, then curled his lip just enough to expose the tip of one very sharp fang.

I guess that explains why he's extra buzzed. Before he could bite down, Elena surged forward and yanked on the collar of his shirt hard enough for another button to pop off and go skittering across the table. Damon pinned her with a glare so fierce she was almost convinced he was going to bite her instead. To make matters worse, he hadn't bothered to let his features return to normal, and the way his reddened eyes bore into hers was chilling.

"Stop this," she hissed. "Don't you realize how reckless you're being?"

"I don't know, E-len-a," he drawled, stretching out the syllables of her name. "Why don't you tell me? You're the resident expert on reckless behavior. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be off playing Russian roulette or something?"

She opened her mouth to fire back, but he just snickered and turned his attention to the overeager woman perched in his lap. "Will you excuse me for a moment? I have to attend a—" he paused to sneer in Elena's direction, "lecture, but I'll be back before you know it."

The blonde pouted but did as he asked, and he rewarded her with a wink before rising from the chair. Stalking over to Elena, he snared her by the elbow and led her to a vacant corner where the music was only slightly less insanity inducing. There, he released her and leaned against the wall expectantly, arms crossed over his chest.

"What are you doing?" she asked, mirroring his defensive posture.

"Am I not allowed to have fun now?" he shot back with a lift of his brows.

"Not if you think 'fun' is creating a giant mess for Sheriff Forbes to clean up. On Christmas Eve," she emphasized.

In signature Damon style, he held up a hand and started ticking off his rebuttals on each finger. "A, it's not a mess. B, I'll take care of the not-a-mess—"

"By killing them?" Elena interrupted.

"—myself. Wait, what? Why do you assume I'm going to kill them? I was just having a snack. Plus, these ladies actually enjoy my company. Y'know, like I thought you used to."

Elena sighed and dragged a hand through her hair, catching both Matt and the sheriff watching them with concerned expressions. "Why don't you just lift the compulsion and send them home? Nothing good is going to happen if you keep drinking and feeding on them. Speaking of which, how are you still upright? By the looks of this place, you're about four bottles into a ten-bottle bender."

"The blood gets rid of the alcohol fog and amps up the buzz. It's a win-win in my book. And no, I'm not gonna send them home. I came here to have a good time, and I plan to keep on doing it. If you don't approve, that's your problem." He shrugged and pushed away from the wall, heading back to his adoring companions.

"Damon, wait," she said quietly. He stopped mid-stride but didn't turn around. "What if I agree to play a game with you?" She knew she was tiptoeing into dangerous territory, but it was her only option.

"You're welcome to join in."

"Not here. I'll drive us back to the boardinghouse."

He spun around to face her again. "So you can ditch me as soon as I've cleaned up my 'mess'?" He curled his fingers into quote marks as he growled the last word.

"No, I'll stay for a while."

Damon stared at her as if he wasn't sure whether or not he could trust her to keep her word. Elena tried to act like it didn't bother her, but she eventually shivered under his scrutiny. Adding to her unease was the way his mouth slowly curled into a smile sinister enough to rival that of the Grinch himself.

"You know what? I think I will take you up on your offer," he said after letting her squirm for a few more minutes.

Relief washed through her, but she didn't let herself get too swept away in it. She'd just made a deal that was potentially as risky as the current situation. "Okay. Good," she answered lamely, but Damon had already returned to his playmates. She watched as he approached each of the women, cupped their faces, and let his pupils expand until their minds were open books he could rewrite as he pleased.

It looked nice enough—Damon behaving and all—but it had been a little too easy to get him to agree to her plan. Clearly, he had an agenda of his own.

Fuck. What had she gotten herself into?

###

To say that the ride from the Grill to Chez Salvatore was awkward would be the understatement of the year. Damon didn't utter a word; he simply stared out the passenger window for the entire trip. He didn't even react when she turned on the radio to break the silence. Pop. Radio. She couldn't tell if he was plotting or just plain pissed.

When Elena finally pulled to a stop in front of the grandiose house, Damon was out of the car before she'd turned off the ignition. He disappeared inside, and having no choice but to follow, she hopped out and trailed after him. She was halfway to the door when she remembered the present she'd left behind. Jogging back to the car, she grabbed it and hurried inside.

The interior hadn't changed much since she'd last visited. Okay, there were a lot more empty liquor bottles scattered around, but what was most noticeable was the lack of even a hint of holiday cheer—no lights, no garlands, no tree, not even a lit candle. None of it.

"Why don't you decorate?" she called to him. "Well, maybe not you personally, but you could hire someone." She quickly set the package in a nearby chair and then shed her coat and scarf, tossing them on top of it to hide it from Damon's view.

"I'm a vampire, Elena, not Martha-fucking-Stewart," he scoffed, reappearing on the carpeted staircase. His ruined button-down had been replaced by a black V-neck tee.

"It wouldn't kill you to put up a tree," she muttered, not realizing the ridiculousness of her statement until it was too late.

"Technically . . ."

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

Deciding she could use a drink that was nonalcoholic, she headed to the kitchen in the hope of finding some hot chocolate mix. The clink of crystal reached her ears, and she sighed. More bourbon for the lushy vamp.

"Where are you going?" he asked after taking a big gulp from his glass.

"To get a cup of hot chocolate. That okay with you?"

He grumbled something she couldn't quite catch and then sank into an overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace. Shrugging, she continued on her way.

Thankfully, the Salvatores did actually stock more than just alcohol in their pantry. She found a box of Swiss Miss and prepared two mugs, figuring she could at least try to sober Damon up a bit.

When she returned and handed him a steaming cup of chocolatey heaven, he eyed it like it was poison. "I'm good, thanks," he said, waving it away.

"Drink it. Taking a little break from your booze fest isn't going to hurt you."

"Bossy," he murmured, finally accepting the mug and taking a generous swallow. She winced as she imagined the piping-hot liquid burning its way down his throat. Damon also made a face and reached for his trusty bottle. Topping off the drink with a dash of bourbon, he took another sip, seeming pleased with it now. "Much better," he added with a smirk.

"You're impossible." Sitting across from him on the couch, she carefully tasted her own hot chocolate, wrapping her hands around the mug to warm them. "So, what game are we playing?" she asked, the irony of her question not lost on either of them.

"You're letting me choose? How brave of you."

"As long as there's no stripping involved, I'm in," she replied, sounding more confident than she felt.

"What if I strip?" He waggled his brows while taking another swig of his spiked cocoa.

"Damon . . ." she warned.

"Fine, I'll keep it clean. How about Truth or Dare?"

Elena hesitated, not sure she wanted to go down this path with him. "Uh, okay, I guess."

He sat forward in his chair, watching her intently. "What'll it be then? Truth? Dare?"

Aaaaand she had to go first. Perfect. If she chose dare, she'd probably end up doing a keg stand in the basement. If she chose truth . . .

Neither one was going to be easy. Flipping a mental coin, she went with what she hoped would be the lesser of two evils. "Dare," she said warily.

"Good choice. Let's see here." He tapped his chin and looked thoughtful while she braced herself for whatever ridiculous thing he was going to challenge her to do. When he finally made his decision, his icy blue eyes locked on hers, and she knew she was in trouble. "I dare you to tell me the truth about your feelings for me."

Holy. Shit. He couldn't be serious, could he? "Damon, now's not the time for that."

"Of course it is. It's the perfect time."

"No. You're drunk, a functional drunk, but still . . . I'm . . . I don't know what I am, but I'm not ready to have this conversation." She got up and grabbed her coat and scarf, unearthing the gift she'd hidden earlier. "I should go."

"What's that?" he asked, leaving his spot by the fire and sauntering over to her.

"What's what?"

"This."

She finished buttoning her coat and looked up just in time to see him pluck the gift out of the chair and give it a shake. "Um, it's your Christmas present."

He tore off the wrapping to reveal a shoebox that had originally held the last pair of heels she'd bought for some dance. Probably the Miss Mystic Falls pageant. "Thanks, but I don't think they're quite my style. Also a bit on the small side," he said as he pointed to the size written on the box.

Elena laughed, surprising herself. She hated how tense things had become between them since the ball. If only they could go back to the way they'd been before, but too many feelings were out in the open; too much had been left unsaid. Or maybe the problem was that too much had been said, especially on her part.

"Ignore the box. Haven't you ever wrapped something in a weird box to throw . . . someone . . . off . . ." Her question ground to a halt when he tilted his head in his patented do-I-look-like-someone-who's-done-that way. "No, I guess you probably haven't. Just open it."

Damon complied, tossing aside the lid and rummaging in the tissue paper until he'd uncovered a length of blue-gray fabric. Pulling it free, he let the box fall to the floor. "It's a scarf."

"Yeah, it is. D'you like it?" She couldn't very well say I got it for you because it matches your eyes and complements your jacket and because I'm pretty sure I love you but I still kind of love your brother too and I'm really sorry about everything and this is all super confusing.

He ran it through his fingers a few times before draping it around his neck. "Yeah. Thanks. So, are you gonna ditch me?"

"I'm leaving, but only because I can't give you the answers you want right now." She stepped closer, reaching out to take the ends of the scarf in her hands. "I wish I could redo the night of the ball so I could take back what I said and the way I treated you. I didn't mean it. What I said was wrong, and I'm sorry." She paused, trying to gauge his reaction. Unfortunately, Damon's poker face was better than anyone's, so there was little change in his appearance other than a slight crinkle in his brow.

Elena tugged on the scarf, which made him dip his head so she could brush her lips over his cheek. "Merry Christmas, Damon."

When she released the fabric and glanced up at him, she found his wide eyes were glued to hers. Before she let her heart run away with itself, she gave him a little wave and slipped out the door. An apology and a chaste kiss weren't going to fix everything between her and Damon, but they were an improvement over the personal Cold War they'd waged with one another.

Her Christmas Eve might have started out on a depressing note, but despite having to break up an impromptu bar bash and deal with a testy, inebriated vamp she sort of loved even if he had plenty of rough edges, it had somehow managed not to end on one.