Wow. I cried when Rose died. I really did. And the dream scene was... God, genius.
Damon feels like wincing when he hears his own voice. The topic is strangely sensitive and he finds himself retreating into the hard, sarcastic shell he has perfected over the years. "I'm not an expert in the field." And that's the problem really, because if he knew something, he could do something.
"Death happens. We come, we go. The sooner she dies, the better." He can see Elena's expression twisting now, confused and slightly angry. He wants to take it back, actually, wants to stop talking and go back to the fireside to tend to Rose. He doesn't want to walk out of the house.
But then again, the sooner he finds Jules, the better.
"It's gloomy as hell in here," he concludes, giving a small shrug before walking off.
Goddamn.
Stefan isn't helping. "Damn, there goes my plan to rip her spleen through her back." Damon tosses him a sarcastic look and starts to move away again, looking forward to wringing every drop of information from that werewolf's head.
Stefan holds him back again and spews some sentimental line about Rose. Damon feels his indifferent mask sliding back up and he says, "Why does everyone think I'm worried about Rose? I'm fine." Liar, liar, pants on fire. "I don't know if you know this: sometimes, vampires die." And he really hoped it wasn't the case here.
But something told him things weren't going to work out the way he wanted.
Really, when did they ever?
He wants to take Jules's head, rip it off her body, then dismember her corpse so he can scatter the pieces around the world. This wolf is so damn unhelpful and cagey with information. It's irritating beyond words.
"Take a stake, and drive it through her heart." She backs up and walks away, and Damon slowly realizes that this is the first time he doesn't have a comeback ready.
Fate has a way of screwing him over.
It's dark and he's speeding, running as fast as he can without using vampire speed. There's a crash and he knows that they're too late to help, but he tries anyway.
"Stop!" His voice cuts through the sobs of the human in Rose's arms and she freezes, fevered eyes registering nothing but a new threat as she drops the girl and tackles him instead. Damon flips her over and pins her down, yelling her name as they go. "It's me; it's Damon," he manages to breathe out, watching her face relax from her scowl, then collapse. "It's Damon," he whispers again, feeling her body go loose against the asphalt. "It's Damon."
And as she starts to cry and regain her senses, he can't do anything but comfort her.
He sucks at that, too.
Common sense tells him that it's only been an hour, but he feels like it's been years since he laid Rose on his bed. He's gripping the edge of the mattress as he watches her, legs braced against the floor and expression unwavering. Rose's gaze flickers from his and meets Elena's, who has somehow snuck up on them. Rose says something but Damon feels a flame of anger scorch his chest.
"You shouldn't be here," he snarls, unsure of whether it's because he doesn't want her hurt, or because he wants to be alone with Rose. There's a long, tense silence, which she breaks with philosophical meanderings about thirst and pain. He can feel her shattering and he wants her to stop being so masochistic. "Well then, stop talking about it," he says brusquely, shooting her a sharp look. Rose glances up at him blankly as he walks away, staring at the wall in an effort to hold things together.
He hears her voice, lets the words sink in, and knows that somehow, Rose knows. Somehow she'd found out, she'd seen it. He tries to process that.
Her voice breaks as she talks to Elena and then slips into a strong accent before she starts coughing, making him turn around hastily to see what's wrong. He sees Elena leaning over her and looks away again, secretly thanking God when the coughs soon stop. Then Rose talks about humanity, the feeling that she misses.
How it's haunting her.
The word that she uses - haunting - and the bitterness in her voice so mirrors his that he turns to look at her again. She says that it doesn't hurt anymore, but the instant of relief is snatched away when her body is seized by coughs and she starts screaming. Elena turns to him, panicking, and he points her toward the door. "Go," he orders, voice tight. He takes her place on the bed and sits against the headboard, drawing Rose's head onto his lap. Elena calls his name, unsure, but he barely spares her a glance. "Just go; I've got this."
Rose is screaming for him to make it stop and he does his best to hold her still, a terrible possibility forming in his mind.
She stops eventually and the silence is like heaven, signaling calm and peace ahead. Her body starts to loosen bit by bit before she's completely relaxed, lying on his legs and torso as he leans on the back of the bed. Their hands are tangled enough so that he can't tell where his end and hers start, but that's okay. She's strangely warm against his body and he lies still, no thoughts skimming across his mind at all.
She tells him that he's nice; he responds with a quick, "I'm not nice. I'm mean. I like it." Her eyes are closed and there's no way she could tell by his voice, but somehow she hits the nail on the head when she says that he's a liar.
She knows him very well. It's very scary - but comforting too. It hurts. Seeing her caught in the lull between her body's storms, he realizes that there is, ironically, only one humane thing to do. So he says, "Shh, shh. Shh. Just sleep. Just sleep." And she does, her consciousness slipping as his fingers brush through her hair.
She's sleeping and he's awake, but they're both in the same place at the same time.
She comes down the soft grass and marvels at her surroundings, taking in the familiar view, the familiar air. Her long, wild hair and plain blue dress are stunning, framed brightly by the afternoon sun. He sits on the turn of the hill, staring around into the distance with a contemplative expression on his face. She tells him that this was her favorite place to come as a girl, and asks him how he knew where to place her. He says, "Word gets around." At her widening smile, he gives up all pretense of mystery. "You told Elena." She asks if this is a dream, and he shrugs. Really, there's no right answer to that.
She misses things, she tells him after they sigh simultaneously. She misses being human. He tries to comfort her even then, tells her, "Humanity's not all it's cracked up to be." She tells him the things she had, the relationships. "You still do," he reminds her, thinking of Trevor, of Elena, of Stefan, of him. She refuses the comment, but turns it back on him. She points out what he has, what she missed out on in the five hundred years she was running. "You didn't have a choice, you were running from Klaus," he says, defending her from herself. She says that there's always a choice.
He can't refute that properly without bringing their complicated, quote unquote, relationship up, so he lets it go for a witty remark. "You know, you are ruining our perfect day with your strange philosophical babbling." She laughs softly and hugs him, both of them leaning slightly into the embrace. She finally tells him that she wants to enjoy the fresh air, and will he enjoy it with her? The phrasing of that question draws slightly on the formality of speech used in her childhood. He smiles and replies with a "For a while," and a smile tinged with sadness. She smiles back and they draw closer, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder as their hands tangle in each other again. They don't spoil the calm with talking, instead watching the scenery as leaves change color and fall.
Her head is heavy on his chest but that's not why he can't breathe. He stares far, far away, lost in autumn colors and warmer light.
She says thank you. He asks, "For what?" And then she tells him that the pain is gone, something that he's been waiting to hear, but not like this. Nevertheless, he tells the truth: "I'm glad." They rock slightly back and forth before she asks if she'll see them again, see her family. He responds as he knows best, saying, "I think you'll see whoever you want to see." He doesn't look at her, but he can tell she's happy. She says that seeing them would be nice, and that maybe she'd even see Trevor. Then, sitting up slightly, she tells him wonderingly that she's not afraid anymore. He just smiles at her.
His hand tightens on hers before letting go, reaching down beside him to grab a worn, pointed shaft of wood. Placing it carefully over her shallowly-breathing chest, he can barely look at what he's doing and starts to breathe faster, deeper.
She stands up, an expression of utter happiness written all over her face. She tells him that she'll race him to the trees. "Well, you'll lose," he tells her back, looking up at her from his sitting position. She tilts her head, reminding him that she's older, faster. His mouth opens slightly as he gives her a challenging look. "Oh, you think?" he asks her, standing up easily. She laughs outright, the sound clear and beautiful. "Well, I'm controlling this dream; maybe I'll cheat."
She gives him a confident, playful look. She tells him on the count of three, readying her stance.
His grip tightens on the stake, recognizing his cue.
Her words are quick now, eager. She counts to one, still holding his gaze.
He can't get a comfortable hold on the wood; his fingers keep dancing.
Her lips form the number two and he can almost see her heart racing, blood pumping. She's about to count to three.
He plunges straight down, ignoring the wrong feeling his fingers have and the gasp she gives as she turns her head. He can tell when she finally leaves because her body is slumping instead of leaning, her skin suddenly rough with desiccation. He lets go of the breath he didn't know he was holding and can hear it rattle in the silent room. The single droplet that he lets fall is hot against his cheek.
He can't believe it's over.
He can't believe that this is how it ends.
Oh, DamonRose didn't even get there. It had so much more potential.