A/N: Because I think we have to believe she's not going to completely forget.
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A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.
~ Edward de Bono
It's almost as if he wants her to remember.
(True, she has no idea what exactly he wants her to remember, but it's a feeling all the same.)
And somehow, it begins to come back to her.
…
She spends a few weeks in increasing discomfort, and it's not because of Damon. She is continually on edge, waiting for the ambiguous, mysterious Klaus to come and take her away. Obviously, she's terrified; she's not really afraid of the pain, per se, but at the risk of sounding cliché, she has so much to live for.
(She's surprised that it doesn't bother her that the first thing she thinks of is those playful, sharp blue eyes.)
Regardless, these days she sort of lives in limbo. She goes to school, of course, makes all the necessary social appearances, smiles when the occasion calls for it and speaks when spoken to. But she constantly looks over her shoulder, and she clutches Stefan like the life line she's not quite ready to admit he has become. She takes comfort in Damon, too, in his snarky comments and how easily he diffuses the tension. She'd never tell him that of course, but she's pretty sure he already knows.
In fact, it's disconcerting how well he knows her.
…
One of those nights when she's scared out of her mind and seriously considering not going to bed at all, she hears a scuffling outside her window.
She sighs heavily. She's not quite sure what to do in this situation. She could go get Jeremy, but ever since he and Bonnie started doing whatever it is they're doing, he's been so happy. She can't ruin that for him, especially not because of some stupid noise that's probably all just in her imagination anyways.
So she climbs into a bed with a sinking feeling in her heart, closing her eyes and wishing she could, just for once, be normal again.
Yeah, as if.
Because after only a moment, she bolts upright. She believes in her intuition more than anything (it's served her well in the past), and she knows that someone is here.
"Whoever you are," she threatens, even as her voice wavers (she remembers Stefan and Damon are on constant watch of her house, so it could very easily be either of them – which would be embarrassing to say the least), "I have vervain."
There's a quiet chuckle, and she breathes a sigh of relief. She would recognize that dark laugh anywhere, and besides, he's leaning against the wall, flashing that flirty eye wink at her with an extra dose of smoldering beneath those intoxicating eyelashes.
But he looks strangely vulnerable, and he whispers, "Oh, I know."
She's shocked by the tinge of regret in his voice, the hint of pain. He so rarely shows emotion that when he is open like this (even if she has no idea why), her heart feels like it might burst out of her chest.
So she deflects, because she can't explain this slight tenderness towards him, and that scares her. "I'm tired, Damon."
His jaw clenches. He clutches the wall for support. And she is completely bewildered.
But she doesn't want to ask why he seems so broken, so suddenly. She feels like it's important, yes, but it feels more important to save him from the source of that heartbreak written clear across his face.
Especially because she knows she's the source.
She stands up and walks over to him, crossing her arms over her chest. She tries to infuse her voice with the right amount of compassion and urgency (it unnerves her to have to be delicate with the sadistic crackhead Salvatore brother, but then, so much has changed since Katherine has come to town). "What are you doing here?"
He smiles weakly, and she wonders if she only imagines the barely visible crack in his façade. He looks a little desperate, even; he strains his body away from her, as if he's…afraid of her?
She shakes her head, waits.
He sighs finally, his eyes lingering on her neck like he can't help thinking about how bare she looks. She should feel a shiver, the catch of her breath as the possibility of death rears its ugly head for the umpteenth time today. But instead, all she feels is a slight flutter, an anticipation.
But he pulls away from her, as he does so often and, she has to grudgingly admit, so well. He smirks at her, and she sees just a flash of something in his eyes before he becomes the Damon Salvatore she knows and loves.
Wait. Loves?
He comes a little closer, leans in until she catches a flash of something intangible. It feels like a memory.
"Just trying to protect you," he breathes. "As always."
His eyes linger on her for just a moment, and then he's gone.
She walks slowly back to her bed, searching. Her eyes fix on the billowing curtain on her window.
Her fingers fall to her necklace of their volition. It's an unconscious, involuntary movement, and she almost knows why.
But not quite.
…
It doesn't take long for them to decide that they might as well talk to Katherine.
Yes, she's a monumental bitch who ruptured Damon's soul and wreaked havoc on the once-peaceful lives of most people in Mystic Falls. And yes, she's manipulative and, frankly, pure evil.
But whoever the hell Klaus is, he's obviously much more dangerous than the first Petrova doppleganger (oh, what an oxymoron), and as the Salvatore brothers so eloquently put it, it's Elena. Katherine could very well have information they need to take down the Originals.
To put it bluntly, it's a risk they're more than willing to take.
(Well, Elena tries to persuade them that her safety is not worth risking Katherine going on one of her patented killing sprees, but, predictably enough, they don't listen to her.)
And somehow, a couple days after they've all discussed the possibility of a visit and the logic of it, Elena overhears an argument she knows she has no business overhearing.
"I'm coming with you."
It's Stefan's steely voice; she smiles at how stubborn he sounds, how unmoved. She's always loved that about him (no, they haven't exactly talked about what they are to each other).
She can tell this is going to be a conversation with interesting implications. So she presses her ear to the door and listens fervently.
(In her eagerness/anxiety, she fails to realize that the beautiful brothers probably hear her heartbeat, probably know she's here.)
"I'm sorry," she hears, and how could she not recognize the voice of the boy (despite the fact that he's almost 150 years old) who infuriates her and completes her in equal measures, more gentle than usual, certainly, but with that trademark snark brimming just below the surface. "But you can't come."
"And why the hell not?" Stefan asks angrily, and Elena can almost feel his eyes brightening, his body convulsing with rage. She knows how much he hates not being in on the action.
Damon sighs. "Because she loves you," he says finally, and she's surprised that she doesn't hear some sort of hesitation in his voice, or even bitterness. Jealousy, maybe?
But no. He just says it, without preamble and without emotion. It's a simple statement, but it says more about his feelings for Katherine than anything else ever has.
He's giving up. He's done. He doesn't want her anymore.
(Elena is surprised by how happy this newfound information makes her.)
But Stefan is not giving in so easily. "Why does that matter?" he argues, and she wishes she couldn't hear the pleading in his voice. "Maybe she'll listen to me if she loves me so much!"
Elena is instinctively angry, but only for a moment. She's not naïve enough to think his desire to be there by the tomb has everything to do with ensuring her protection, but she knows it's the motivating factor. So what if a small part of him wants to hear Katherine profess her love for him over and over again?
Well…despite herself, she's angry.
But Damon takes care of it, as he always does. She wonders if somehow he just has the uncanny ability of knowing exactly what she'd say if she was in the conversation, or if he really does know her that well.
He nods (she can almost feel it, which bewilders her). "She'll only manipulate you," he reminds Stefan smoothly. "She'll look at you with those big brown eyes and beg you to let her out of the tomb, and you'll be helpless to resist. It'll be just like Elena when she wants something, except ten times worse, because Katherine will mean to bend you to her will. You will not win this, Stefan."
Elena smiles a little. She tries to avoid thinking about the power she has over the Salvatore brothers because it causes too much grief and heartwrenching indecision (not to mention too many parallels to Katherine herself), but sometimes the evidence is too blatant to ignore. This is a fight about her, at heart.
She doesn't know why she's so self-centered when it comes to things like this.
But then she frowns. She doesn't like it when they fight over her – or or even just about her. And besides, where are all of Damon's cocky comebacks? He really doesn't seem like himself. (Why that bothers her is beyond her.)
There is utter silence for a long moment. Elena imagines Stefan must be gathering his thoughts, trying to decide how best to counterattack. He's no match for his brother, of course, but points for trying.
"Katherine's a manipulative bitch," Stefan says finally.
"Ain't that the truth," Elena mutters under her breath, before clapping a hand over her mouth. The last thing she needs is to blow her cover. (She's already blown it really, but still.)
Damon sighs, the sound so world-wary that Elena has this inexplicable urge to burst into the room and wrap her arms around him and hold on tight, to take away all his pain and that ice, to break down those unbreakable walls.
Of course, she does nothing of the sort.
The less noble (at least, in most people's minds, although sometimes she'd beg to differ) of the Salvatore brothers shakes his head. "That she is."
Somehow – and she wonders if she is officially, irrevocably intertwined with these boys, no matter how potentially life-threatening that is – she can feel the heat of Stefan's glare. She thinks this might be the angriest she's ever seen him, and the thought is disconcerting.
What's even more disconcerting is the worry that floods her. The worry for Damon.
She shakes herself free of the traitorous feeling and closes her eyes, trying to swallow the strange lump in her throat.
"Maybe you deserve each other," Stefan spits, his voice rising as he takes a harsh step towards his brother, the man who's ruined…well, everything, so many times. "You should go rot in that tomb with her. You deserve her."
Elena almost gasps in indignance. She wonders suddenly if Stefan has been drinking. He's not usually this volatile, this angry, this…cruel. She really doesn't even know what has him so riled up.
She's even more shocked by Damon's reply. She would think he would lash out, retaliate – Katherine has, understandably, always been a sore spot for him. To think that the woman he loves would prefer his brother, but then that brother would cast her off anyways….She can't imagine how much pain he's in, and she thinks she wouldn't even be angry if he attacked Stefan right now.
Oh, God. When did her preferences shift so drastically?
She shakes herself free of the overwhelming indecision and waits for Damon's reply.
"I don't deserve her," he asserts at last, and Elena wishes she could explain why the words sound so extraordinarily familiar, but also wrong (it's an itch she can't quite place). "But then, my dear brother, neither do you."
It's an uncharacteristically sweet note to end on. But somehow, Stefan remains cold; he strides out of the room, brushing past Elena with more force than the moment probably demands. She feels slightly guilty about eavesdropping, but she figures one of them would have told her about their conversation sooner or later. So why is he being such a dick?
She shrugs it off and turns slightly, ready to leave. Instead, she comes face to face with a brooding Damon. Suddenly, she feels like she can't breathe.
He tilts his head, and it's like déjà vu – she remembers that head tilt, and the way his eyes burned, and the roughness of his voice as he told her – as he told her what? What? Why can't she remember?
And one pertinent question: What is she trying to remember?
What has she forgotten?
…
Later, much later, after Damon and Elena have been to the tomb, after Katherine has told Elena to run, run, run, or else turn herself somehow so she can't fall into the grip of Klaus, Elena finds Damon sitting by the fire in the boarding house.
Her first thought is that he looks rather beautiful. It's a thought she has often, because somehow the dark, wounded, sexy thing works for her. She wishes she wasn't so attracted to him, but she always has been, and she realized long ago that there was no point in trying to resist it.
She clears her throat, and he slowly swivels his head. "Elena." His voice is emotionless, as are his eyes. It is a strange sight, but not an entirely unexpected one.
She tentatively takes a seat next to him, sweeping her hair off her shoulder, watching the reflection of the fire light in his unfathomable, fascinating eyes. "I'm sorry," she breathes, barely able to avoid falling into his arms and never letting go, for reasons she couldn't explain if Katherine herself tortured her until she broke.
"For what?" His voice is dead.
She clasps and unclasps her hands nervously. She knows he hates pity of any kind, but she does pity him, despite the fact that he killed her brother (the intent was there), killed Vicki, killed…everyone. She pities him, because the only person he ever cared about could care less about him.
"For –" She unconsciously scoots closer to him; he doesn't move away. "For –" She doesn't know how to put this, and she knows he won't help her along.
She takes a deep breath. She decides to take the plunge, because what the hell does she have to lose?
(Well, maybe those strange moments of what feels like history repeating itself, but she would trade those for Damon's happiness. She has no idea why.)
She reaches out with one hand, turning his head towards her. He comes without resistance, and she does her best to hide her surprise.
She stares into his eyes for a very long time, trying to decipher what he's feeling. He's never been easy to read, but it is in moments like this, when he has succumbed to the realm of numbness, that she is truly at a loss.
The shiver of her fingers on his skin is not entirely unwelcome, and she lingers there, gliding up and down his smooth, smooth cheek. She wonders what his thumb would feel like, stroking the skin beneath her jawbone. (She feels like she already knows.)
Finally, she sighs. "You don't deserve her," she promises softly, trying to hold back the single tear that threatens to break the moment, whatever moment it is they're having. "You deserve someone…" She trails off, her fingers stilling momentarily.
He just stares at her, that familiar ice-blue fire overwhelming her as easily as the heat he is radiating does. Without really thinking about it, she moves toward him and leans her forehead against his, closing her eyes. She's afraid she might cry.
She bites her lips and wishes she knew what they were to each other. But she supposes that doesn't matter so much right now. She is too invent on saving him from himself to dissect whatever relationship they have. No, that will come later.
But it will come, regardless of whether she's ready to hear the truth.
He's very careful not to touch her; his hands hover by her face, as if he is desperate to make contact but realizes what a horrible idea that would be. They are already so close, and she is very much aware that she is falling.
And what scares her is how little she cares.
Finally, she draws back, trying to ignore his silence, and holds his dear, beautiful face in her hands. She knows that somehow this moment will define them, but right now all she can feel is her need to make him see how much she cares about him (even if she's not sure in what sense).
She takes yet another deep breath. "You deserve –"
"You," he breathes, and she wishes it didn't always feel like he could read her mind.
She nods tearfully.
I don't deserve you. But my brother does.
The words go unspoken, but she hears them all the same.
…
She wishes things were awkward between them. Maybe then she'd actually believe it happened, that she actually told the less moody, more fun and altogether more dangerous Salvatore brother that he deserves her.
Maybe then she'd believe that she's not imagining things, that weeks ago when he came to give her back her necklace, something else happened, something she can't quite put her finger on, something she only remembers in bits and pieces. Something she knows happened, despite her best efforts to convince herself otherwise.
God, maybe then she'd know.
But here's the problem: Elena and Damon, Katherine Interrogators Extraordinaire, are not awkward at all. In fact, they go back to exactly the way they were before, before all the unavoidable shit happened, complete with witty banter and sly compliments.
And the difference, what has changed between them, is slight, of course, but identifiable if she really strives to find it. She catches herself blushing furiously whenever she sees him, and she notices that his eyes never look quite so warm as they do when she's with him. They've changed. Indiscernibly, perhaps, but they've changed.
She's helpless to deny it.
And really, it's because of this undeniable attraction (well, she supposes it's more of a magnetic field now) that she decides to permanently end things with Stefan.
It's not like she hasn't been building up to this for weeks now. It's not like she's really in love wit him, not anymore. She's always going to love him, of course, but it's settled into something quite different. He was always the safe option, the easy option. He eschews his vampire lifestyle and does his best to be noble and kind. Really, he's one of the most good-hearted people she's ever met.
But despite her best intentions (obviously, things are not going the way she planned, at all), she has fallen out – of what, she's really not sure. It's not so much that he bores her as she often wonders if there's something more.
She felt it that night in her bedroom, whatever the hell happened there. Something more. It felt strange, and it felt scary. But it was also wondrous, and life-changing, and awing, and…all those other adjectives she would use if she had the time and the inclination to study the dictionary for hours on end.
And really, it all comes down to this: she's not willing to forsake the hope that there is something more out there.
So she finds Stefan one winter day when the snow is falling mercilessly, and she lays it all on the line, because right here, right now, she knows she is strong enough to break free of the boy who has kept her safe for so long.
He is sitting by the fire. The juxtaposition is not lost on her. (It seems she is always flitting between memories.)
"Stefan." She clears her throat and walks ever so slowly towards the brooding vampire. (She always finds it funny that that stereotype turns put to be true.)
He looks up at her, his eyes very suddenly brightening. She realizes that maybe she's missed the almost instinctive affection flashing across his lovely face.
"Elena," he greets, the word low, warm, sweet. The three syllables have never sounded quite so tender. "How are you?"
She shakes her head. Yes, she feels something for him. She feels love. But she doesn't feel passion. And she thinks, strangely, that it isn't until this very moment that she realizes how very much she's losing.
That she knows she has to do it anyways.
She sits next to him, leaning into him, against him, almost out of habit. "I don't know how to do this," she admits softly, closing her eyes.
Stefan doesn't say anything. She suspects it's because he already knows what she's going to say. So he just strokes her hair, the movement almost too gentle for her to bear. Maybe she's the one who doesn't deserve him.
But then, that's always been the case, hasn't it?
"It's over," she finally whispers, her voice breaking on the word that she thinks might define her life.
He doesn't ask her for an explanation. He doesn't plead for her to reconsider. He just nods and pulls her into his arms. And for the first time in what seems like forever, she lets him. For the first time in months, Elena Gilbert lets herself rely entirely on someone else.
And she can't help the sigh of relief that escapes her.
…
After many tears and much discussion (Stefan doesn't push her on her decision or try to change her mind, which she appreciates more than she can ever explain), Elena carefully extricates herself from the hold of her first love's arms, kisses him on the cheek, and walks out of the room, tossing him a friendly smile over her shoulder.
The weight on her heart feels curiously light as she moves to leave, and it only gets lighter.
Because Damon suddenly appears (she wishes the sight of him didn't do crazy things to her heart, but it does), a huge grin on his face, his eyes smoldering as usual. He saunters towards her, one hand outstretched as if to touch her cheek or her eyelashes or…something.
But for some reason, she doesn't feel like playing along. She's not heartbroken, or even sad. It's just that a huge chapter of her life has now officially ended, and it's not exactly something she's ready to jump for joy over.
Besides, she's spent the last few hours desperately trying to remember what this insane boy said to her in her bedroom, and why he wanted her forget. She doesn't know why exactly it mattered so much to her, why she thought it would change things. She thinks maybe their relationship hinges on her understanding, and she can't talk to him – can't be around him – until her memory stops being so damn stubborn.
(Much like him, she thinks.)
He touches her lightly on the shoulder as she attempts to walk past him, a touch that's surprisingly gentle. Images flash through her mind: a single tear in his eye, her necklace dangling from his hand, the pain…She doesn't know what any of it means.
She spins around and appraises him with a suspicious eye, wondering what the hell he wants to say to her.
He smiles (well, she supposes she should really say he smirks). "Leaving so soon?" He asks faux-innocently, coming just a little closer to her. "What, you don't want to stay and have hours upon hours of passionate sex with me?" He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
She swallows. Hard. There is nothing new about this exchange; she can't count the number of times he's made a reference to the very unlikely (well, perhaps not so much anymore) occasion of them having sex. She doesn't really know why it feels different now.
Regardless, she's not giving in. "I just ended things with Stefan," she asserts after a moment, holding her head high even as tears flood her eyes.
Damon just stares at her, shock flittering across his face like the way he clenches his jaw, hard and fierce and much too intense for her to handle. "You –"
"I ended things with Stefan," she finishes tiredly, suddenly wishing vampires didn't exist, that was she just a normal girl with normal problems. Then again, she never would have fallen in love like this.
She's not exactly sure who she's talking about there.
And just like that, Damon drops his façade. His eyes are kind, as she imagines they are only when the people he actually cares about (i.e. his brother and his brother's girl, strangely enough) are hurting. "What happened?" he asks tenderly, and she tries to ignore how genuinely concerned he sounds.
She averts her eyes, letting her long hair fall in a dark curtain around her face. The fissure in her chest ripples, and she braces herself against the pain that is sure to come. Somehow, she knows that it is not the idea of recounting the break-up (is that what she should call it? It sounds too sudden) that makes her feel so unhinged.
It's Damon himself.
Finally, she lifts her eyes to meet his. "I was selfish."
His eyes widen, that blue dilating as if possessed by some powerful memory. He mouths the words, as if trying them out on his tongue will help him understand them, and she cocks her head in confusion. His eyes glaze over, just slightly, and it feels like breaking apart and coming together all at once. Suddenly there's fire in her mind, and his words lull over her, sweet and aching and too precious to ever forget:
I can't be selfish with you.
She's never heard him say that before. But somehow, the words are thrumming in her head, and she knows he's said them before.
"Do you…" He breathes, barely able to finish. He rubs the back of his neck, and she's blinded by a need for him so intense that she stumbles. He catches her smoothly, his voice shaking. "Do you want to talk about it?"
She shakes her head, closes her eyes. All she wants is to hold him and let herself remember.
She can feel him warring with himself for a moment (it's funny how she can feel him now) before he nods resolutely and whispers, "Okay then."
She holds onto him tighter and wishes she knew why she feels like her heart is breaking.
…
She spends the night in his room, intertwined with him, whispering secrets and giggling beneath the covers, as if they're five years old and on their first sleepover.
The snow falls softly outside the window, and the house is frigid.
But all she can feel is him.
…
When she's lying there in the clearing, afraid she might die at the hands of the Originals, the only thing she can think of, the only words she can hear, are in her head somehow, entrancing her even as she knows things are ending anyways.
God, I wish you didn't have to forget this. But you do.
She forgot, yes. Or at least, she forgot the words. She hasn't forgotten the feeling, the clenching in her heart, the terror in her eyes as he moved swiftly away, the anticipation as he leaned…still, the complete memory escapes her.
It's strange to her that the last thought she has before Klaus slits her throat is how much she hates herself for being human.
…
Suddenly, he is there, warm and worried and stroking her face, his eyes watering. "Elena," he chokes, the word rough with relief as he draws her towards him with all his formidable strength. "God, Elena –" His voice breaks, and he lets loose the softest of sobs, cradling her in his arms. "God, Elena, don't fade on me, just don't leave –"
Her eyes slowly flutter open, and through the haze of confusion she sees him hovering over her, tears somehow finding their way down his perfect, beautiful cheeks. She thinks it's the first time she's ever seen him cry.
"Damon," she manages to choke out, her mouth just about failing her. She feels inexplicably weak.
He pulls back slowly, almost disbelievingly, regarding her with that incredulity she recognizes almost instinctively. She realizes suddenly that he is shaking, and all she wants to do is kiss him into oblivion.
"Elena," he breathes again, brushing her hair ever so gently off her face, the face she sometimes wishes was hers and hers alone to claim. "You're…you're…you're alive."
She nods, laughing the slightest bit, even though her chest convulses and bile rises in her throat. "Smart observation," she wheezes.
He shakes his head, his eyes ablaze with too many emotions of her to identify. In those iridescent blue she catches memories she wishes weren't hers at all: a masked man forcing his hand over her mouth for the second time in a year; Rose whispering her deepest apologies, her eyes brimming over with tears as she begged for her forgiveness; the cool metal pressed against her throat, harsh and almost welcoming. And the cruelest of memories: the knife digging into her skin. The shrill cries filling the air as her dearest friends saw her life start to fade away.
And Damon, breaking.
She looks deep into his eyes. "Thank you," she whispers, because she knows even without asking that he was the one that stopped the knife at the last moment. She knows he was the one who risked his life to save hers. He's done it too many times to count. And besides, she recognizes that cornflower blue in his eyes, and she can feel how scared he was, how happy he suddenly is.
He doesn't say anything. Instead, he closes his eyes and kisses her on the forehead.
She is helpless to do anything but close her eyes, too, to do anything but close her eyes and hope that somehow she remembers why this feels so familiar.
He pulls her into his arms, and she doesn't resist. She barrels deep into his hold and cries.
She cries because she knows she is forgetting something beautiful.
…
Things have quieted down now.
The Originals are officially dispersed, sent into different corners of the world, never to return again. Katherine has skipped town, on the condition that she will come back in five years and if Stefan doesn't want her then, she won't come back again. Tyler has learned to control his tendencies; he and Caroline are happy and in love. Bonnie and Jeremy just started dating a couple months ago, and Jenna and Alaric are getting married.
And Elena still doesn't remember.
She's getting there, she thinks. She spends so much time with Damon now that it is almost unavoidable, the memory slowly starting to flood her mind with understanding. She already has Stefan's blessing. She is ready for whatever comes next.
All she needs now is that final image she can't quite see.
…
When his thumb falls to her cheek one spring day, it all comes suddenly rushing back to her, fast and intense and emotionally draining. She had all the puzzle pieces, but just the gentle pressure of his skin on hers ignites the pattern.
She understands now. She understands everything.
She remembers everything.
She is so terrified, so shocked, so relieved, that she runs away, leaving him staggering after her in the light April rain, lost and alone and devastated for reasons he can't explain.
Just as she was that night.
…
It doesn't take her long to wonder what the hell she's waiting for.
…
It's May when she makes the decision that will last her forever.
She drives determinedly to the house where both the boys she's ever loved (the boys who have haunted her, changed her, made her happy and sad, lifted her up above…saved her) live, not stopping for red lights or anything like that. When she arrives, she pulls open the door with an intensity that she never knew she had and stalks into the front room, where Damon is lounging on the couch (quite leisurely, she might add).
She wastes no time on formalities. "Why'd you do it?" she demands, her hands on her hips as she snatches the book he's reading (Twilight, and she resist the urge to laugh for hours) from his taut grip.
He raises one eyebrow in a calculated movement of incredulity, and if she didn't know any better she might actually believe it. But she does know better, and she can see the pain in his eyes. This is not going to be fun.
"Do what?" he urges, although not at all urgently, leaning back, hoisting his arms over his head. She does her best to ignore how positively breathtaking he is.
She glares at him. "You know what."
He shakes his head earnestly. "No, I really don't," he tells her confidently, standing up and staring her down with more fervor than she thinks the moment deserves (actually, who she is kidding? This moment deserves all the passion in the world).
She sighs. They are quiet for a long moment.
"Say it," she whispers finally, her eyes brimming over with tears as she reaches for a fate she hopes to God is hers to have.
He shakes his head, a warning flitting across his face. "Say what?"
She hisses impatiently. She can't believe he's still denying it, even after she's made it clear that she is so close to remembering everything he said to her that night.
She takes a step closer to him, her heart beating faster than the way he flashes around the room sometimes when he's trying to scare her or annoy her (it never quite achieves the desired effect). It's been months since that night, and still, she wants to relive it, wants to burrow into the pain in his eyes, wants to take back that tear and those words and that selfless, stupid act.
But she can't. All she can do is tell him.
"I remember."
His eyes widen, but he tries to play it off as unperturbed shock, as per usual. "Remember what?" he asks nonchalantly, the words purposefully, deceptively light-hearted.
Her lips pull up just the slightest bit. "Everything," she clarifies, so many different emotions flashing through her eyes that even she can't quite catch them all.
He smiles, but it's forced. "Everything now?" he asks jauntily, doing that flirty eye thing, making her momentarily lose concentration. "Oh, dear, dear Elena, there are so many things you remember. That brain of yours is just so big."
But she won't be deterred. "You told me you loved me."
He stands stock still, panic infused in every crevice of his sharp cheekbones. She moves close, ignoring how he seems to mirror her every step, attempting to widen the chasm between them. (She won't let him.)
"You told me you loved me," she repeats, barely able to speak through her tears. She lifts a hand, as if touch him, and then lets it fall, even as he staggers backward and deftly moves out of her reach. "And you said you couldn't be selfish with me. You said you didn't deserve me, that Stefan did. And then you made me forget."
He nods slowly, as if he's trying to work it all out in his head. It's an evasive maneuver, she supposes, and one she is more than equipped to deal with. "And?" The word is cold, like none of this matters to him, even as his voice wavers unmistakably.
(She knows better anyways.)
She chuckles. "And I –" She reaches out and touches his cheek, like he did back in November, starting that cycle of remembering and forgetting and remembering again. "I did forget, for a while. I kept thinking there was something I was missing, but I could never quite remember. And then things started happening like they had that night – we talked about who you deserved, and you kissed me on the forehead, and I – I started to remember. Bits and pieces, but I started."
His expression is curiously blank. She barrels on anyways.
"But the thing is, when you stroked my cheek the other day…" She holds his gaze steadily as her heart rate speeds up, remembering everything much too quickly (and perhaps much too soon), as it seems to happen these days, "I remembered. I remembered everything, Damon. And now I wish I'd never forgotten."
He tilts his head; she closes her eyes.
"You thought you were being selfless," she whispers, because this might be the last time he will ever look at her, "And because you meant to be, it was. But you were selfish, too."
He opens his mouth to say something, probably to contradict her, but she shakes her head.
"What was selfish of you –" She moves her hand from his cheek and entwines her hands with his instead, squeezing his fingers, breathing in that remarkable smell of rain and cinnamon. "You didn't give me a choice," she finishes, smiling slightly. "You don't know what I would have said."
He stares at her warily, hope threatening to spark in those unreadable eyes. "It doesn't matter now."
(He sounds like he's trying to convince himself.)
She shakes her head, the slightest hint of a smile gracing her lips. "It does."
He raises his eyebrows, but he's too antsy to suppress the affection and longing lingering on his face. "Why?"
She takes a deep breath. She's waited so long for this moment. Even when she didn't know what she was waiting for, she waited. Now that she has the chance to make him see, it feels surreal. (Rather like a memory, actually.)
"Say it," she commands.
"No." He glares at her.
"Damon," she breathes, pleadingly. She refuses to look away from him, even when his jaw clenches and he seems on the verge of running away and never looking back. "Damon –" She draws herself closer to him, holding his hands tight by her sides, raising her face to his. "Damon, please."
He stares at her for a long moment, agony shining through those inimitable eyes.
He sighs at last, inhales sharply, his breath catching in his throat. She holds hers.
(She realizes he's as helpless to deny her as she is to forget ever again.)
"I love you, Elena," he murmurs finally, for once holding her gaze as steadily as he did all those months ago.
She closes her eyes. "My God," she lets out, not even recognizing that the words have spilled from her mouth, the tears falling freely now as her heart expands more than she ever thought possible.
His brow furrows in confusion and maybe even worry. "What is it? Are you okay?" He's at her side in barely a moment, his confession already forgotten. He looks at her with the strangest mix of affection, concern, and…love. "I didn't mean to, I didn't think –"
"My God," she repeats, touching his cheek gently. She reaches for him, kisses him on the forehead. She relives the moment, right here. "I've waited so long to hear you say that."
His eyes widen, and he looks like he might protest, might try to stop her from saying what he knows she wants to say, might –
She doesn't let him.
She kisses him. She kisses him, sweet and wonderful and filled with so much anticipation and eagerness that she is afraid she might keel over from the joy of it all. She never knew a memory could be so powerful.
His lips are on hers, and she has never felt less like a shadow. She has never felt more alive.
He pulls back at last, leaning his forehead against hers, holding her closer than she can ever remember him holding her. She thinks she could stay like this forever.
He pulls back at last, leaning his forehead against hers, holding her closer than she can ever remember him holding her. She thinks she could stay like this forever.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, sweeping his finger through the hollow beneath her eyelashes. "I'm so sorry."
She shakes her head. "Don't be," she whispers. "Just promise me I'll always remember."
He nods.
"Oh God," she murmurs, her heart jumbling around in her throat, threatening to overwhelm her with the force of this much belonging. "Damon, I love you."
He kisses her, hard.
"You'll always remember," he promises, and she believes him.
…
Some things you never forget.
fin