A/N: Since I'm literally still crying from that touching finale episode, here's a bit of bittersweet hope. I think we're all so focused on Damon and Elena and that kiss that we forget how much she's lost. She's got to be feeling so hopeless right now. This is an exploration of that.
Also, I haven't posted anything in a long time because I'm working on a 10-parter about Damon and Elena and a road trip. Look for it very, very soon (as in, a couple days from now)!
Title from "Run" by Snow Patrol. Thanks as always to Mountain-Woman. Thanks for reading, enjoy, and please don't favorite without reviewing!
In the night of death, hope sees a star.
- Robert Ingersoll
She staggers to her bed, her eyes blotchy, bleeding the remnants of silken tears. She feels raw, like her skin is stretched too tight over bones, like she was never really real to begin with. She isn't crying, not anymore.
She is drained, used. It's been weeks since she lost every parental figure in her life, weeks since she lost her boyfriend to the most evil vampire in the history of time, weeks since she almost lost the man she still cannot forsake.
It's been weeks since her world tilted on its axis, and still, she cannot seem to stop shaking. She cannot hang up the black dress she wore to the funeral; it lies on the floor, a constant reminder of what she has lost. She cannot do much of anything except stare at her reflection in the mirror and wonder how sorrow became a constant in her life.
She walks over to her open window, clutching John's letter tightly in her tremulous hands. She has reread it countless times since the funeral, and by now the paper is crumpled and streaked with tears. She never particularly liked her father, but now that he is gone, her grief is nearly impossible to dispel, deep and uncontrollable and impenetrable.
Unforgettable.
She stares out into the night, the inky blackness poised to flood her soul. The air is fragrant, beautiful, but she cannot feel it.
(All she can feel is the emptiness threatening to suffocate her.)
"I know you're out there," she whispers after a few minutes, tugging her earrings out like it doesn't hurt at all (like none of this hurts at all). She always knows when he is here. "Just please, stay."
She means it. She doesn't why she needs him here, but something in her is calling for him. She needs him to stay here tonight; his constant presence is a reminder that this, this right here, will never change. If nothing else, she needs that reminder.
(Everything else has been spiraling out of control.)
He stays with her most nights. In the wake of all this uncertainty, he stays.
She stands at her window for another long moment, closing her eyes and breathing in the crisp night air. She lets herself believe he is standing somewhere close to her. Tears slip and fall and break, but she does not waver. She has come too far to waver now.
She opens her eyes at last, and he is there next to her, restless and waiting, his gaze compassionate and brimming with sorrow. She gasps a little, tottering on the heels that were once her mother's. (She doesn't really know why she wore them today.)
A sharp spasm of grief shoots through her veins at the sight of his sad eyes, and she sways, unsure, broken. She has lost everyone she ever looked up to. She has lost…
She chokes on her tears, and he meets her eyes, holding her still, ready to intervene when she can no longer take it.
"It's not fair," she says quietly, at last, stepping out of the shoes because she worries she might fall. "None of this is fair."
He nods his head in agreement. He doesn't say anything.
She bends down, scoops those lovely heels into her hands, and pads over to her closet, her legs aching, tired. She thinks she might keel over. She delicately places the shoes onto the shelf, stroking the leather her mother once touched. Her eyes trace the well-worn soles, moisture creeping beneath her eyelashes.
"My mother loved these shoes," she whispers, the scratchy fabric of her worn sundress tearing into her skin. "She loved them."
She laughs nervously; the sound is fragile. "Jenna used to steal them when she needed to feel powerful," she continues, sitting on the wood floor, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth. "She always said they were there for her like my mom would have been. She said they made her stronger." She laughs again, strained, unnatural. "Isn't that ridiculous?" She heaves a sob, shaking. "Isn't that just the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard?"
He still doesn't say anything, but he moves towards her. She feels him as he approaches, feels the creak of the wood as his heavy black shoes trod along, feels the change in the air as he invades her personal space like he always does (like she wants him to). She doesn't know why he insists on pretending he is still a mindless monster, not when he gives her moments like this.
(Not when he makes her ache in ways she never imagined possible.)
She stands up slowly, turning around and focusing on his pant legs, because his eyes might be her undoing. (He has always been able to see into her, and sometimes that's scary.)
He makes no move to touch her, and she almost wishes he would.
She raises her gaze at last, and she stills, tenses at the heat in his eyes, the indisputable pity. Her body automatically shifts as if to put distance between them, but she fights it, fights the part of her that fears what he can do to her. (She thinks she might need him right now.) She clutches her hands to her chest to give herself protection from his piercing eyes, but she can't resist the urge to give him a watery smile.
"We tried," she murmurs after a while, and it's heartbreaking. "We tried to save everyone. Stefan saved you, but even he…" She shakes her head. She cannot be sad that Stefan saved Damon.
She simply cannot.
Damon nods sadly, gently shrugging her hair off her shoulders; she shivers at the inherently coaxing touch. "We tried," he repeats, his voice bare and solemn and as comforting as he can make it. She wishes he weren't so nice; it's too confusing.
They stand there for a long moment, the soothing night sounds humming insistently around them. She realizes too late that she should feel awkward, but silence is not awkward with him, not these days (she doesn't know what to say anymore, and so she doesn't say anything at all).
She waits, tucked in the cocoon of his love for her (it's not something she can ignore anymore). He clears his throat, as if summoning the courage to say something, and she presses a finger it to his lips.
"No," she whispers, and she doesn't know why every part of her wants to just fall into his arms; she doesn't understand why she wants him and not her boyfriend here. "Just hold me."
The request slips out unbidden, and she bites her lip. Touching him has never been easy, and she is so raw.
(And yet, his touch is the only thing she needs.)
He stretches out his arms, and she crawls into them, trembling as he takes her hand and kisses her knuckles gently, like she is infinitely precious. He cradles her head and holds her close, his fingers skimming comfortingly across her back.
She dives into him, really, clutching him like she is still stuck in that ring of fire, terrified of what would happen next.
(She thinks fretfully that she could stay here forever.)
Abruptly, she twists around in his grip, vulnerability seeping into every crevice of her strong façade.
"Will you unzip me?" She asks softly, and the words are full of so much fear that she feels him kiss her forehead impulsively.
She realizes that she is asking so many things: Will you stay with me? and How am I even still breathing? and Can this ever be enough for you? And she knows that he hears it all, because he always hears what she doesn't say.
He nods. She waits.
His fingers pull her zipper down achingly slowly, careful not to rush or disturb her. "Damon," she breathes, and it's a sound that rolls out of her, soft and hopeful, searching for something in the way he touches her, for affection or hesitation or longing.
Anything.
She feels exposed, the pale curve of her neck bare to him, the unnatural protrusion of her collarbone locked in his gaze, the curve of her hips catalogued and observed almost clinically, as if he is afraid of becoming too attached. But she's not self-conscious; she's not nervous.
She shivers as he touches her, the contact light and brief and not enough. His fingers are sure, steadfast, no clumsiness to be found, and she wishes she didn't hurt so much.
(She wishes she were strong enough to survive this.)
His hands float down her body when he's finished, coming to rest on her waist. He holds her there, just keeps her, lets her relax for the first time in weeks. She closes her eyes and leans against him; he closes his eyes and holds her weight. And there they remain.
She covers his hands with hers, clasping them by her side. "Stay with me?" She asks, and she wants to be brave enough to be alone tonight but she's not sure she ever will be again.
He nods.
And it's like magnetism, really, the way her body gives in to his, twisting again to meet him, the way her arms snake up his chest, the way her hands find some kind of purchase on the hollow beneath his collarbone, the curve of his neck smooth beneath her touch. She shouldn't touch him like this, but she can't help herself.
(She can never help herself around him.)
He comes closer still, holding her face in his hands, his long fingers splayed on her cheek. He looks wild, scared.
Beautiful.
A part of her wants nothing more than to yell at him right now. There's no better adrenaline rush than fighting with him, and she would give anything just to feel alive. (She's felt completely numb since the sacrifice.)
But he's shaking now, his hands trembling, and she cannot make her voice work, anyway. He takes a shuffling, deliberate step forward, his eyes full of pain. She is shocked by how desperately she yearns for his fingers to collide with her face again.
"I need you," she whispers pleadingly, and it's strange, really, how the words are so true and yet so inaccurate at the same time. She'll always need him, but the longing spiraling in her chest is much, much stronger than that.
Surprise bursts into his eyes at her involuntary declaration. "You –"
"I need you," she confesses again, almost shyly. She can't articulate it any better than that. If he asks her how exactly she needs him, she won't be able to answer him.
But he just nods understandingly, reaching out to her with one hand; she takes it gratefully, curling her fingers around his (sometimes the only thing keeping her grounded is the pressure of his fingers). They're silent, simply drinking each other in.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs after a moment, his eyes roaming her face warily, trepidation flooding his expression. "I'm sorry for everything that's happened. You don't deserve this."
Wonder blinks in her eyes, pure, unadulterated wonder. It's the same wonder she feels whenever he pushes her, pushes her until she can't breathe.
She doesn't understand. She just doesn't understand. How can he break her brother's neck and still be here for her like this? How can he force-feed her his blood and still hold her like this? How can he be who is and still love her like this? It doesn't make sense; it can't make sense.
But it does make sense. It's always made sense. He is who he is, and he loves her. That's all there is to it.
(It's enough.)
She narrows the distance between them again and presses her forehead to his, closing her eyes. Her simple sundress hangs loose about her hips, and she should feel uncomfortable, but instead she just feels safe, safe and sad. The cold of his body seeps into her, healing her slowly and painfully.
"I'm sorry, too," she whispers, her voice breaking. "You don't deserve this either."
And he doesn't deserve this. In the midst of all her pain and grief and bewilderment, she can't forget that he's lost Stefan, too. He's lost his brother. She is mourning Jenna and John, yes, but he is mourning his other half. She cannot imagine the depth of his suffering.
He sighs, nodding. They are quiet for a long moment, and she remembers him and her and that bed, and it hurts, hurts because the ache of him almost dying has never quite gone away.
She takes a breath, and it gets stuck in her throat. "You almost died," she murmurs; these are the words she says almost every day, because she needs to check that he's still here (because she needs to reassure herself that he's not going anywhere). "You almost died, Damon."
He nods, touching her cheek tenderly. "But I didn't," he reminds her, his eyes unreadable, and she knows he's remembering, too.
She squeezes her eyes shut tighter still, unable to cope with the memory. "But you didn't," she echoes; these are the words that save her every day, the words that remind her that she did not fight for her life for nothing. She may not have any parents left, and her boyfriend (ex-boyfriend? She's not sure anymore) may have promised a decade of servitude to a sadistic vampire. But she still has Damon. She still has the man in front of her, the man who terrifies her and thrills her in equal measures.
(The man she cares about so much more than she's willing to admit.)
She opens her eyes, needing to see him so she can have tangible proof that he is alive. And there he is: the man she has unresolved feelings for, the man who almost died only a few short weeks ago, the man she cannot live without.
Even now, when she is paralyzed by grief, she is struck dumb by his beauty. She finds herself reaching up to touch his face, to trace his lips and his nose and his mouth. She wants to burrow into his beauty; maybe it will save her.
He doesn't seem fazed by her restless wandering. He seems almost to embrace it, leaning into her and closing his eyes. She spends what feels like hours caressing his skin, until she is sure she has memorized every crevice.
"Dance with me," he breathes suddenly, in the midst of her remonstrations.
She doesn't hesitate; later, that will surprise her, surprise her because she does not think she should be following him blindly when she feels so untethered, so utterly lost (not to mention that it's a strange request in the first place).
But she just lets her hands drop from his face. She just steps away from him, steps out of her dress, kicks it to the side and steps over it. She stands before him in nothing more than her undergarments, but he doesn't even look at the lines of her body.
She holds her breath as he holds her gaze, a sad smile haunting his features. She waits for him to whisper, to murmur, to mumble, anything, but all he does is reach for her, lace his fingers through hers, and draw her closer to him.
This is a dance they have danced countless times. She pulls away, he draws her closer. He pulls away, she draws him closer. The steps are so familiar by now that it is difficult not to give in.
She wills herself to fall into the hold of his arms as usual, but it isn't easy. He is everything she shouldn't want (everything she wants anyways), and that's terrifying. She regrets so much, and she fights to remember much more.
But his eyes plead with her to just let him help her. His gaze is pure, special, warm. And she knows suddenly that she can only recover from the damage wrought by the sacrifice if she has him by her side. She's not quite sure where this realization comes from, but it's overwhelming; she cannot fight it (she doesn't want to fight it).
And so she takes another step forward and falls into his arms.
He simply holds her close for a while, smoothing her hair with one hand and cradling her hip with the other. She understands that he's easing her into it, and she's grateful. Somehow, he always knows exactly how much she can take.
After a few moments, he begins to dance, and she follows (she'll always follow him). They sway back and forth, teetering on the edge of the past. She knows that they need to move past this one last pain, and so she leans into him and buries her face in his chest, saying nothing, letting her silence say it all. She listens to the still of the night and lets him lead her.
They dance by the light of the moon. There is no music, but they do not need music, she realizes. (All she needs is him, anyways.)
They dance for Jules, who only wanted to help one of her own. They dance for John, who gave his life to save his daughter. And they dance for Jenna, who deserved better than to die so futilely.
They dance. It's a strange moment, and one she couldn't explain if pressed. But somehow, it's exactly what she needs.
Tears leak from her haunted eyes, and he kisses her forehead, holding her closer. The moon casts them in a soothing white light, and he touches his cheek to hers, calming her frayed nerves with the lightest of pressures.
It is a fairytale ending to the most horrific of days.
Finally, she is exhausted, and she whispers, her head tucked into the curve of his neck, her breath hot on his skin, "Can we sleep now?"
He nods, his expression almost severe with the force of his emotion. "Okay," he whispers, a single word she feels in every cell of her tired, broken body. "We can sleep now."
She wants to fall into him, fall because he's not supposed to be here for her like this. Stefan should be here comforting her, even if that's not really what bothers her (she doesn't want to want Damon here instead, but she does and she can't deny it).
He tightens his grip on her, his hands caressing the curve of her waist. She is so exposed in so many ways that her naked skin doesn't even register, and she doesn't want him to stop touching her. She needs him tonight. It's irrational, but she learned long ago that grief is irrational.
He lets go of her so he can walk back to the window, carefully untying his shoes and setting them on the floor. She feels such a rush of love and affection for him that she could cry again.
He peels off his shirt, gracefully pulling the fabric off his taut, sculpted chest. Before she can blink and clear herself of the blindingly perfect vision, he is loping over to her, resplendent in his rippling arms and messy hair and probing eyes. He is glorious.
(She doesn't know why she feels so sad.)
He approaches her tentatively, slowly, as if he knows she is tightly wound, ready to spring at any sign of betrayal, any signal that sorrow will overwhelm her once more. He brings his hand up to her face, hesitates, and lets it fall. He doesn't say her name, but his lips form the three syllables.
She nods. After all, they thrive on nonverbal communication.
He takes her cue, of course; he lightly grazes her elbow and guides her to the bed, letting her drift towards him naturally (she's been drifting towards him all along).
She expects this moment to be awkward. The last time she laid on a bed with him, he told her he loved her, and she kissed him. It's not an unpleasant memory, but it does bring up issues that she'd rather not face.
And yet…as they fall gracefully onto her bed, she finds herself nestled into him, as if her body already knows what it's doing. His arms easily lock around her, holding her still, and for the first time since John and Jenna's funeral, she feels like she can breathe.
And she can't help herself; she reaches for the belt buckle on his jeans. She's not entirely sure what she's doing. She just knows she needs more of him.
But his hands stop her, his eyes blank, unreadable. "No," he breathes, looking pained (she doesn't understand how she's hurt him, but that's probably because she's dazed and grieving, and nothing really makes sense to her). "Not sex. Not tonight."
Her cheeks burn. Suddenly she knows exactly what she's done wrong, and she is so very ashamed. What the hell is she doing? How could she be so stupid?
But still, even as his hands wrap around hers in a silent warning, a pleading to stop whatever she's started, she can't escape the heat smoldering in his eyes. She wants him. She wants him for reasons she can't allow herself to analyze, but still, she wants him. It's as basic a desire as the need for food and shelter; it's that inherent.
And so she reaches for his face this time, trying to infuse her touch with as much affection and yearning as she can muster.
"It's not sex," she breathes, tangling her fingers in his silky hair, gliding the pads of her thumbs across his smooth cheeks. "It's more than that between us. Don't you feel it? Don't you feel us? Right here, you and me."
It's the wrong time for this, she knows. But she feels so raw, so vulnerable. She's defenseless against the tide of emotion threatening to consume her, and she can't hold in the words any longer. She needs him to understand. She needs him to believe her when she says that she feels for him in ways she can't explain.
But his jaw clenches, and he shudders. "I feel it," he whispers; she can feel him shaking. "But I need to hold you. That's what I need to do tonight. Okay?"
She curls herself into him almost without having to thinking about it. "Okay," she murmurs, pressing her lips to the hollow beneath his neck. "Okay."
He nods, squeezing her just a little bit tighter. She can feel him close his eyes, and she knows that he'll be asleep soon.
She closes her eyes, too, breathing in his familiar smell. If only for tonight, he offered her comfort. Jenna and John are still dead, and Stefan is still gone. She is still damaged beyond repair; her grief is still hot and unassailable. But if only for tonight, Damon helped her.
If only for tonight, she felt whole.
fin
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