A/N: I just can't get this scenario out of my head. Because, come on: at this point, we're only waiting on you, Lena. Disregards 2x21…Because after that devastating, BEAUTIFUL episode, we need this.

SO HAPPY. Enjoy :)

Title from "Heavy" by Holly Brook. Thanks as always to Mountain-Woman. Thanks for reading, enjoy, and please don't favorite without reviewing.

It's your aching smile
That won't let me get away.
- "Won't Be Long" by Ferraby Lionheart

He finds her huddled in his bed, knees tucked up to her chest, hair covering her face. She is shaking.

He sighs. He's not sure why he expected anything different. She has been strong for so long, holding them all up, making sure she fights and they fight and they survive until they can find a way to stop this. But come tomorrow, she will probably die.

He winces at the thought.

He approaches her carefully, hands splayed in front of him, as if she might attack him. Realistically, he knows she cannot injure him, but there's something in the curve of her body that terrifies him. She has been capable of tearing him apart for so long now.

Quietly, he sinks down on the bed next to her. His hand finds hers quite naturally, and he wonders when he became so unequivocally comfortable around her.

"I'm afraid," she suddenly whispers, eyes downcast. Her voice sounds unassuming, almost tentative, which he finds somewhat hysterical (she's always assertive with him).

He rolls his eyes. "Like that's old news."

But she shakes her head fiercely, her gaze snapping up, meeting his, explosive and sure. "No," she declares, and he thinks she might be crying (there's a scratchy quality to her voice, like her eyes have bled silken tears). "I'm afraid of you."

Something in him snaps. He wasn't expecting this. Not tonight. The last thing he wanted to do tonight was have this conversation with her.

Of course, he should have known that she'd take this chance to rip his nonexistent heart from his chest once again.

He shakes his head, his fingers digging unapologetically into her pale skin. "Not possible. I don't scare you," he announces flippantly. "Not anymore, at least," he adds as an afterthought, remembering her nurse's outfit and her birth mother and her brother. He scared her then. But not anymore.

And yet, she heaves a sigh, pure annoyance emanating from her (he doesn't know why the sight makes him so happy). "Yes, you do," she says loftily, like the admission costs her nothing at all. "You scare me because you're not such a bad guy. You're not nearly as evil as you think you are."

He blinks. He has no idea where any of this is coming from (not to mention whether she's right). She goes on, smiling now, a smug, soft smile, like she knows something he doesn't.

"I'm afraid of how you make me feel. I'm afraid of how much I don't want to want you, and how much I do anyways. I'm just afraid."

She sounds so sure of herself that he comes closer, hope shoving its way into his thoughts. (He wills it away, but it's indomitable, much like her.)

"You're afraid…" He tries the words out on his lips. "Of how I make you feel?"

(He hates that he sounds like such a pussy, but he's not sure he minds.)

She nods firmly.

He sits back and stares at her. As usual, she looks beautiful: brown locks framing her heart-shaped face, doe eyes bright and hopeful, rosy red lips curved almost defiantly. But there's something different tonight; inherent joy and affection flit through her features, and that wondrous smile is directed towards him for once. He wonders idly what this crazy honesty is all about. He thinks it must be a result of her death potentially being hours away.

Regardless, she doesn't look away.

"Yes," she clarifies, her eyes locked on his, her fingers settled in his like they belong there (and maybe they do). "I'm afraid of how you make me feel."

"Your point?" He deflects, shifting uncomfortably. He doesn't know how to have this conversation with her. He's dreamed of this moment many times, of course, but she's surprising him at every turn with her vague comments and evasive glances. Goddamn him, but he loves this girl.

She smiles again, slow, sly. "Stefan's not perfect."

He glares at her (he won't let this be about Stefan; she has to want him for him, not because he's not his brother). "Your point?" He asks again, and this time he's just being a dick.

"My point," she bounces back, sitting up and narrowing her eyes at him like she does when he's being particularly obtuse, "Is that I no longer have my boyfriend's perfection as an excuse to avoid how much I care about you."

His head swerves towards hers, a double take he can't control. He must not be hearing her right. He's imagined many reasons for her purposeful ignorance of their connection, but this is the last thing he expected. How does he deal with the information that she clung to her flawless image of his brother to avoid falling for him?

Honestly, he doesn't think he can.

"What are you saying?" He finds it's impossible to feign indifference in this situation. He is so invested, so aching. He needs her; he always has.

She scoots closer to him on the bed, covering his free hand with hers casually, her face inches from his. "I might die tomorrow," she says matter-of-factly (he hates the hiss of pain that statement sends through him, but he can't deny it either), "And all I could think about today is that I finally understand why Katherine ruined your lives in 1864."

He shakes his head again. He can't follow her thought process. He's not even sure she's making sense. What the hell does Katherine have to do with this?

She grins wider now. "She wanted you both." She shrugs. "I get it."

His jaw drops (it's such a cliché thing, but it always happens to him in her presence). Obviously, she's throwing caution to the wind: comparing herself to Katherine, admitting that Stefan's not perfect…he thinks maybe she's gone a little insane. He doesn't know how to cope with her calm eyes and easy smile.

"Why are you telling me this?" He asks, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. He hates relinquishing the upper hand, and she's firmly in control of this situation.

But then, she's always been the one in control of their love-that-isn't.

She smiles at him again, and this time he can't detect a single note of deceit or regret (or even guilt) in the flash of her white teeth. Her eyes soften. Still, the warmth of her hand envelops him, making it impossible for him to doubt her resolve, even though he very much wants to.

"I know sometimes I act distant," she admits, and only now is there remorse in her voice (he doesn't know what to think). "I know you must think I don't care. But –"

"But?" He pushes, unable to stop himself. He's sick of being so goddamn whipped for this girl, but seeing as he's going to live forever, he doesn't imagine that'll change any time soon. He might as well do something about it while she's still his to fight for.

(If she ever was.)

She raises a hand, as if asking him for permission. He doesn't give it; she lets it fall, her fingers trailing the air like some kind of lurid claim. She sighs, the sound heavy with words he knows she wishes she had the strength to say.

"But I do care," she persists hotly. "In fact, I –"

I love you.

He hears the words anyways.

She touches his arm lightly. He holds very, very still.

Her eyes flutter, just a little bit. "Of course, it's not fair," she concedes, surprisingly enough. "I can't keep doing this to you. It's just hard, you know? In the middle of all this, the fight and everybody being so terrified and Klaus…" She shakes her head almost sorrowfully. She lifts her eyes to his, holding his gaze steadily. "It's hard to be brave for anything else."

All the air (the air he doesn't need) in his body escapes rapidly.

"Brave?" He hears himself repeating. He doesn't really believe his lips form the words, but the evidence is in the shy, easy curve of her mouth.

"Yes," she says. "Brave." She takes a deep breath, the weight of her words hovering in the silence between them. "I don't have it in me to be brave for you."

Brave for him? Where the hell did that come from?

So he glares at her. But she just smiles serenely, affection (love) blazing through those unforgettable eyes.

And he wants to hate her for this. She's just turning the screw. She's just trying to placate him, keep him sane and satisfied so he will fight for her tomorrow (as if he could ever not fight for her). He knows that's all she's doing, but the ringing in his ears, the light in her eyes, tells a different story. She means what she's saying. She's really confessing that right now, she doesn't have the courage to fight for him.

He makes her spell it out anyways.

"And why would you need to be brave for me?" He finds himself asking, his voice laced with contempt.

She grins like the Cheshire cat, eerie and fascinating and altogether so fucking beautiful that his heart would stop if he had one. "Because," she breathes, almost giddy with the weight of her words, "I love you."

He shakes his head, certain she's messing with him or something. He can't believe those words; he just can't. He hasn't heard them in so long. And besides, this is Elena who's saying them. The same Elena who until five minutes ago was completely in love with his saint of a brother. This is totally unbelievable.

But all she does is nod. Nod, and keep talking.

"I love you," she repeats, and it's the heaven he's never believed in until now. "But I can't. Not right now. Not with everything that's going on. Maybe after Klaus…" She trails off, her voice wistful. "I just wanted you to know, in case I die tomorrow. I do love you. Very much."

There is not a trace of hesitation in her voice. There is no regret in her eyes. There is only the pure certainty that she, Elena Gilbert, loves him, Damon Salvatore.

Honestly, what the hell?

Still, he throws up his walls. She can love him until the cows come home, but all the declarations in the world won't change the current state of affairs. She can't taunt him with these words if she's just going to go back to his brother when all this is over. He won't let her.

He glares at her with defiant eyes (all he's done tonight is glare at her). "So you're leaving Stefan once Klaus is gone?"

He expects to see indecision flash across her face, a hint of that fear she can't quite suppress. But her lip trembles only slightly, and she doesn't look away.

"Yes," she says matter-of-factly (that's been her tone of choice lately, because there's no time for deception).

He peers curiously at her. "What?"

She smiles now, sweet and blushing, and he'd be damned if it isn't the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "Of course I'm leaving Stefan," she promises softly, like she's aware of how strange that must sound to him.

But he just scoffs. "Am I supposed to believe you?" He asks incredulously, folding his arms over his chest. She stares at him, her eyes inexplicably dead.

He expects her to pull the vulnerable act, to whimper that it hurts that he doesn't believe her, to cite all of their shared history and turn those round, huge pools of darkness on him. In fact, he thinks he might want her to do that, because then he could explode at her like he's been aching to for months: scream at her that he can't take any more pain and she can't possibly be as oblivious as she pretends to be and even through all that, he still loves her, loves her so much that he's been lying awake hoping she somehow survives tomorrow.

(Even if it's impossible.)

But he underestimates her, as per usual.

Instead of scrunching up that petite nose and crying those pretty tears, she catapults herself towards him, hitting his chest emphatically with her small, ineffectual fists. He falls back in shock, but she just keeps pelting his body with smacks and slaps, her eyes hard, her shoulders shaking indisputably.

"Do you think this is an easy choice for me?" She roars, her hair rising in some sort of dark-tinted halo around her angelic face. "You can't be so angry at me, not anymore. I saw Stefan first. I loved Stefan first. How could you ever expect that it wouldn't take me some time to figure it out?"

He smirks at her, avoiding these difficult questions. He doesn't like thinking that if he had only been the one to meet her first, this entire situation might be drastically different.

"I assumed my devilishly handsome looks would have hurried you along," he murmurs suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows. That familiar fire spreads ravenously through those dark brown orbs in response, and he chuckles.

He's all set to lock his arms behind her back and kiss her senseless when she draws back, her eyes suddenly sad and filled with tears.

His first instinct, as always, is to hold her close and take the pain away.

"I don't know why I'm surprised," she whispers.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. She has a tendency to make all their interactions very tragic and woe-is-me, and sometimes, it just doesn't make sense to him. Except…frankly, it bothers him that he understands where she's coming from right now.

They could have had it all, if only they hadn't been so stubborn. That reality is indescribably painful, because they were so close. And now, it's all but unattainable.

Except…here she is. After everything he's done, she's still here.

"Of course you don't believe me," she continues thoughtfully, almost ruefully, avoiding the heat of his eyes on her face. "I haven't given you any reason to."

He blinks. Like this entire conversation, he wasn't expecting that.

"What do you mean?" He asks slowly.

She bites her bottom lip, her hands stilling on his chest. He's acutely aware of her legs wrapped around him, the ends of her hair tickling the expanse of skin between the bottom of his shirt and the top of his jeans. But all he can feel is how her innate effervescence is dim, raw, smoldering. She looks so heartbroken. (He wants to fix her.)

He strokes her cheek without thinking. She sighs into his touch, closing her eyes, and he thinks he'd like to die right now.

"All this time, I've been so sure that Stefan's the only choice," she begins to explain, her voice cracking on almost every other word. She looks like she might crumble.

Suddenly, he doesn't care how angry he should be at her for springing this on him like this. He recognizes how hard this must be for her, and so he caresses her cheek and urges her on as best as he knows how, slipping a hand at the base of her neck, tracing her collarbone.

Her brow furrows distinctly. "I've been so sure that even if there was something redeemable in you, it wouldn't be enough to change my mind. Even if you really found your humanity, I still wouldn't choose you."

The words hurt, but he doesn't push her away.

And then, without warning, her eyes are blazing again, and her hands are on his face, and her voice is serious and sure and, somehow, all he ever wants to hear for the rest of his eternity.

"But then you found your humanity," she continues, and there are tears trembling on her eyelashes, like she's on the verge of something, something she's going to reach for even though she's not quite sure she's ready for it, "And I couldn't ignore who you were anymore. I can't ignore who you are anymore."

He cocks his head, afraid to smile, afraid to move. This could go one way or the other. If this doesn't end the way he needs it to, he doesn't think he'll survive. "And?"

She leans toward him, her fingers idly brushing his temples, a touch so idyllic that he's helpless to do anything but stare at the girl who managed to bring him to life. "And it's scary," she murmurs, her lips pursed unmistakably, drawing his gaze even though her eyes are so precious right now. "It's scary, the way you love me. It's scary that you would kill everyone in this town if it meant I would live. It's scary that you love me enough to tell me that you love me and then make me forget because you don't think you deserve me. That's scary."

He raises his eyebrows. "You know about that?" He wonders how long she's known, how much of their interaction has been based on the fact that she knows how he truly feels. He wonders…

"The feelings don't go away," she reminds him, leaning closer still, close enough for him to feel her sweet breath waft over his face, exquisite and welcoming. "You took away the words, but the certainty that you would do anything for me has been lodged in my heart ever since."

But now he's angry. She's known all along, but she hasn't had the courage to confront him about it? Does she really care about him that little?

She must see the wrath in his eyes, though, because she rushes to placate him. "And that certainty made it easy for me to ignore how you felt," she explains, panic flitting through her eyes, as if she worries this will change the way he feels about her (as if anything could change the way he feels about her), "Because it didn't matter what it did. You would always feel the same way."

He blinks. That sounds so unforgivably selfish. And yet…it makes sense.

She looks up at him through sweeping, dusky eyelashes. "Obviously it was a mistake," she acknowledges, "But I could unload all my emotions on you, all my anger and my fear and my bitterness. I knew you could take it. I knew nothing would change between us. And I needed that, so I took advantage of you." She sighs, biting her lip. "I'm sorry."

He stares at her incredulously. Of all the things she could be apologizing to him for, she chooses her tendency to manipulate him? He shakes his head wryly. Damn, this girl confuses him.

"Well," she continues, and it's like something in her has blossomed, because a film of joy and determination has enveloped her face, so beautiful that he feels like he's staring at the sun. "I can't do that anymore. Because it occurred to me today that if you die tomorrow, I'll never be the same. It occurred to me today that I love you just the same as you love me."

He's about to contradict her, to tell her that that can't possibly be true, because the way he loves her is terrible and beautiful all at once, terrifying and gratifying and so intrinsically special that he'll never give it up no matter how much it breaks his heart.

But she presses her lips to his forehead, and he temporarily loses his train of thought. "I would give you up if it meant you'd be happier. I'll let you go right now, if you think you'd be happier without me."

His eyes soften; she looks so inexplicably frightened, like she honestly thinks he's capable of walking away from her.

"Do you really believe that I could let you go?" He asks gently, sweeping her long brown waves off her dear, dear face.

She rolls her shoulders nonchalantly, although the movement is anything but. "It's like I said," she explains haltingly. "I haven't given you any reason to believe I'd ever change my mind."

He nods, realizing suddenly that his expression must be one of ineffable affection, because he certainly feels like he would do anything for the fragile creature before him. It doesn't matter what she's done in the past, or what he's done, or the pain they've both caused the other. They are here now, and he can't breathe for fear that she will somehow be wrenched from his grasp.

"I could never leave you," he promises her sincerely, smiling just a little as it occurs to him that they're really doing this together. "No matter how much it hurts, I could never leave you. Do you understand that?"

She nods vigorously, but he's not convinced.

"Do you?" He asks again, shifting so her face hovers just above his, delicate and composed and more perfect than anything he's ever known. "Do you understand that the way I love you makes it impossible for me to ever leave you, no matter what you do?"

She bats those long eyelashes and sighs. "I think I do," she breathes, her eyes fixed on his lips. He longs to kiss her, longs to make sure this is real, that she is indeed giving herself to him. But they have to be on the same page here.

"Is it the same for you?" He asks tentatively. He's ashamed by his insecurity, but this girl has done messed up things to him. He doesn't think she can blame him for needing some assurance here.

But her eyes are fierce, full of that fire he adores so much, and she declares hotly, "Of course it's the same for me. I'd die for you. I'd live for you. Hell, I'd kill for you! I love you so much for all that you are. Now tell me, is that enough?" She snatches her hands away from his face so she can take her favorite hands-on-her-hips cheerleader pose, her bitchy face in full order.

He grins. He never thought he'd hear any of that from her.

"It's enough," he says gently.

Her face breaks into a wide, happy smile. And then, without further ado, she leans forward and captures his lips with hers.

And he's spiraling. Spiraling the way he never thought he could, full of her and her touch and the love he can feel pouring out of her and into him. As he breathes out, she breathes in, and nothing could be more intimate; nothing could mean more to him. All he wants I her.

(All he'll ever need is her.)

When they break apart, he feels dizzy with the strength of how much he loves her.

"We could die tomorrow," she muses quietly against his lips, her breath hot and savory.

He nods. "We could." His hands trace the planes of her gorgeous face.

She looks up at him, her eyes sparkling with tears he knows are both happy and sad, tears she could only shed while nestled in his arms. She burrows deeper into him, her hands braced against his chest as if to hold him close. "It doesn't matter," she decides resolutely, her lips curving to meet his once again.

"It doesn't matter," he repeats firmly, molding his mouth to hers.

And right now, with their hearts laid bare and their destinies intertwined, he's surprised to find that it doesn't. It doesn't matter at all.

fin

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