A/N: This break is killing me. So I wrote this ridiculous little oneshot, probably could've been a two parter, but you know me. Lazy and impatient. ;-) This picks up after 2x09, but assumes Rose is not living with the boys. It may assume Rose doesn't exist, I don't really know. At any rate, it's no masterpiece, but I hope you enjoy! And thank you to all who reviewed 50 Days of Not Forgetting. I've been inspired and touched and without them I never would've bothered posting this. So, thanks. Drop me a line if you have a minute - it really is such a lovely and appreciated thing.
Giggling is what wakes him, soft girly laughter drifting up from the first floor. It's followed by a chorus of shushing noises loud enough to raise the dead. Someone bumps into something and the laughter starts anew. He's all for a party, but talking boys with the Mystic Falls cheerleading squad…well, alright, it has a certain appeal, but that's not the point.
The point is, when he gave her that key, it was for emergencies. This isn't Jersey Shore for vampires.
Damon throws back his blankets and stares sulkily at the ceiling, considering all the ways he will kill Caroline for this. Fire, stake, beheading, gagging her to death on vervain? Maybe all of the above. Of course, to kill her, he'll need to break up this little slumber party.
He rolls out of bed, searching the darkness for his phone to check the time. Like it matters. It's late-thirty is what it is. And somebody just turned the stereo on at a volume that could shatter glass and kill kittens.
Club music is pounding through the air, some airhead who's probably one sticky prom-night past virginity bleating on about how to sex your man. Damon resists the urge to cringe and sails down the stairwell without hitting a single step.
He comes around the corner, snatching Caroline by the collar of her shirt until she shrieks.
"At the risk of sounding seriously parental, do you have any idea what time it is?"
She's got an apology ready in her heavily made-up eyes. Before she delivers it, Damon sees Elena in front of the stereo. She stands up, stretching her arms high overhead as she professes her love for this horseshit song.
About six inches of her torso are bared with the move. She's wearing her jeans like a second skin tonight, and her simple black tank-top is too short, too tight, too everything.
"Oooh, look, it's the evil brother!" she says when she sees him. She heads to the liquor cart, grabbing a bottle of his best scotch. "Come on, Damon. We'll play quarters."
In lieu of a response, he bares his teeth at Caroline in something that doesn't even resemble a smile.
"See, I can explain," she whimpers.
"I'd do it fast. I'm inventing ways to kill you right now."
Elena is dancing around the living room, hips writhing back and forth as she sings along, only slightly off- key.
"Okay, it's a really long story," Caroline says.
Damon presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. "Twitter version, Caroline, or so help me I'll find a blender and puree you."
Caroline moves close, using a soft tone. "Fine. Elena's halfway to Crazyland. She wants to send Jeremy to some boarding school and she's looking into covens for Bonnie. She's even trying to talk Jenna into getting her Master's degree…in Pennsylvania."
"Is there a point anywhere in there?"
"She's losing it, okay? She wants to turn herself over to that ooky warlock dude, because he thinks he can reverse the doppelganger thing. She's pushing everyone away so she's the only one in danger."
"Sounds stupid and dangerous," he says, his eyes trained on Elena's ass as she follows the sage advice of Lil' Jon and gets low. Really low.
"Uh, yeah," Caroline says, giving her head a little shake. "So of course, Stefan and her got into it, because he's serious and she's serious and this mess with the doppelgangers is so serious, and seriously? The girl needed a freaking time out."
"So you thought, 'Oh my God, I'll get her drunk! That'll totally fix everything!'"
"Well it was that or admit her to the psych ward. Now, you might want to get her a puke bucket. Tequila is not always Elena's friend. Trust me. I've got to go."
Elena's still singing, arms up in the air. The delicious sliver of her bare back is distracting the hell out of him.
"What?" he asks, finally processing Caroline's words and the fact that she's zipping her coat. "What? No. Hell, no! Take her home with you!"
"Yeah, right, let's take my drunk friend home to Sherriff Mom? Don't think so!" Caroline's phone rings and she pulls it out of her purse with a scowl. "God, I've got to go. She's freaking out. Just go get Stefan."
"Stefan took a little hunting road trip. Thinks he's thinning out the wildlife here too much."
She stops, eyes soft and a smile on her face. "Aw, that's soo nice."
"Cutting your head off in my mind, Caroline," he says through a tight smile.
She sticks out her tongue at him and then slips outside leaving him alone with a drunk and barely dressed girl. One that's played the starring role in most of his dirtier fantasies for the last year.
The music changes to something darker, something that would serve as a nice backdrop to any one of those fantasies. Her body goes still. He can practically hear the gears turning in her head when she turns to look at him, liquor-clouded eyes taking him in.
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and he takes a step back.
This is not good.
"I have an idea," she says, all sex kitten voice to match those killer heels.
"Mine's better. Coffee for you and a cold shower for me," he says, jerking his head towards the kitchen. "Move."
She slinks forward until he can smell her perfume. "I don't want coffee, Damon. I want something else."
"Sure you do. And then halfway through Act II, you'll be puking up your kidneys and sobbing about how you betrayed the only man you've ever loved. I'll pass."
"I don't think so," she says, and then she kisses him.
There's no preamble, no hesitation. Just the hard press of her mouth and the surprise of her fingers tangling in his hair. The not good is edging quickly into damn dangerous. And as much as he'd like to suck those baby soft lips into his mouth and rip that fucking shirt off, this is not Elena.
It feels…God help him, it feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.
He pushes her off by the shoulders, forcing a laugh. "Okay, Elena. You showed me. You're a bad, bad girl. Now, let's find some coffee and call your boyfriend."
"Stefan's not my boyfriend anymore," she says, voice husky as her hands toy with the hem of her shirt. He eyes the outfit again. This isn't Katherine. He wouldn't make that mistake twice. But this isn't Elena either, not really.
"Don't you want me, Damon?" she asks, lifting her shirt higher.
Her voice is strange. Almost too thick. Her words too carefully chosen. As if this is already played out in her mind, planned to the last line.
She peels the shirt over her head, her hair falling around her like a curtain. And then, right there, just before the shirt covers her face, he sees it.
Fear.
She's scared shitless.
And then it all makes sense. Jeremy to boarding school. Bonnie to a coven. Jenna to college. Liquid courage courtesy of Caroline. Next up, Stefan safely out of the way because she slept with his evil older brother.
She planned every damn bit of this.
Fury rushes through him like a train, rattling his bones like a set of tracks. Elena's shirt drops to the ground and she puts on her best come hither look. And fuck it all if she isn't crazy beautiful in that red and black bra that she undoubtedly chose because she thought he'd like it. And fuck it all again, because he does like it.
He's beyond done with this bullshit.
He shakes his head with a growl, then rushes into her, ignoring her little frightened meep as he picks her up off the ground, pulling her legs around his waist and pushing her against a wall. He pins her in a way that will make it crystal clear how much he likes that bra and her body in it. Then he splays his fingers on the backs of her thighs and nuzzles the tender flesh beneath her ear, listening to her pulse race and her breath catch.
"This what you want?" he asks.
She murmurs affirmatively, but her voice cracks. A hundred and fifty odd years as a predator does not a poor observer make. He can smell her fear, can practically taste it when he flicks his tongue into the hollow of her collarbone.
"You want to do it right here, Elena?" he asks, using that low, dirty voice that's talked the pants off of more girls than he can count.
She shakes her head, but she's trembling like a little bunny. He slides his fingers just a little closer to the juncture of her legs and she holds her breath.
He speaks low, making sure every murmured word sends a chill over her body. "Maybe I can tell you every filthy depraved thing I've ever done while we fuck."
She goes very still and stiff beneath him then, making no sound at all. But he goes on, too pissed to stop. "Recount every torn neck, broken body, every unthinkable crime. Will that work, Elena? Will that make me filthy enough for your little plan?"
Quick as you please, he sets her down. Tears are building in her eyes, but he can't look at that. Can't look at her at all.
"Damon, wait," she says, and this is Elena. This tortured, guilty girl. This is the one he loves.
But he still can't look. He has no idea what he'll do if he does.
"No, Elena. I've had enough." He's on the stairs now, climbing them one after the other. "There are ten guest rooms. Pick one and go to bed. If you puke on a carpet, you're cleaning it."
He downs two bags of blood from the cooler in his room and half a bottle of scotch after that. It doesn't even take the edge off. So, he drags his sorry ass into the bathroom, adjusts the faucet and kicks off his boxer shorts.
The water is blistering hot. He lets it spray hard over his head and neck until he feels his anger sliding free.
The bathroom is thick with steam when he hears his bedroom door open. He hears her enter, hears her shuffle across the thick carpet, and then the quiet shift of his mattress as she sits down in the adjoining room.
He takes his time, running shampoo through his hair and rinsing clean before he turns the water off. He dries off without speaking, pulling on the jeans he shucked off earlier and running a hand through his hair.
From the doorway to his bedroom, he spots her narrow shoulders and the back of her hair, a sleek, black ribbon that hangs nearly to her waist.
Then he hears her sniff.
"I'm sorry," she says in greeting.
He's still angry, but seeing her like this dulls the edges. He sighs, rubbing the towel over his hair. "Apology accepted. Go to bed."
"I can't," she says, her voice so quiet she almost breathes it.
"You can and you need to. This isn't going anywhere good, Elena."
She stands up and looks at him and God, it cuts right through him, the sight of her in tears. She's scrubbed the make up from her face leaving her cheeks flushed and her eyes so bright.
"I can't sleep, Damon. I can't even breathe."
He fists his hands so he won't go to her.
"I don't know what's happening to me," she says, so broken, so sad. "I hate what I've become, and I hate what I am, and I hate what it means to the people I love. I'm not even real, Damon. I'm some sort of magical elixir, a cheap copy of an original cure. And the worst thing of all is that you were right. I am like Katherine. If I didn't prove it before, I sure the hell proved it tonight."
He closes the distance between quickly, sitting beside her. He catches her face in his hands, forcing her eyes to his.
"You look at me right now. I'm a dick and that was bullshit. You are nothing like Katherine. You are every good thing that I thought I saw in Katherine and then more. You're funny and sassy and, God, you're strong. Stronger than any seventeen year old girl should ever have to be, and still after all the hell you've lived through your love runs true and deep. Now, you listen to me and listen good, Elena."
She does, her tears flowing hot over his fingers as he continues. He runs his thumbs over her cheeks.
"You are better than Katherine in every possible way. You are the real thing. She is the imitation."
"Damon," she says, tears clouding her eyes. It's tearing him in half seeing her like this, seeing her so broken. "I'm so sorry. Tonight…"
She shudders, as if it's unthinkable.
"It wasn't all that bad," he says, smirking.
She's not biting. "Yes, it was. It was horrible."
"I've done worse," he says, softly.
And then she leans into him, presses her tear streaked face into his bare chest. His eyes close as he breathes her in. When her arms go around his middle, her lets himself touch her, let's his fingers trail the length of her hair.
"I don't hate you," she whispers into his chest. "I want to sometimes. A lot of times. You scare me to death, Damon. And it's not because of what you've done or what you are. I'm scared that if I let myself feel anything for you, anything other than hate, that I'll never come back from it."
He feels her hands trembling at his back. Even that is enough to unravel him.
"Do you…" she trails off, her voice a whisper of air across his chest. "Are you ever scared of anything?"
"Yeah," he says, and when she tips her head up to look at him, he presses a kiss to her forehead. "Being attacked by a really hot drunk girl in my own home. Scary."
He moves to lean back, but she palms his cheeks then. "Wait."
"Elena," he says, his voice a low warning as she pulls him down. She takes her time, looking him over, her eyes straying to his lips, once, twice. Then three times.
"Just once?" She says it like she's asking for his permission. As if he wouldn't happily lop off a finger, or hell, maybe a foot for this.
He nods slowly, looking her over as he moves in. He feels her breath against his lips and time stops. It simply fails to exist as she presses a feathery kiss to his mouth. Even that, the barest pressure of her lips, sends an electric jolt through him.
He could stop right now. He could do the good, right thing and leave things chaste. Leave things safe and neat. Yeah, and pigs could fly out of his ass, too.
She slides her hands into his hair and he gives in. If it's just once, he's going to do it right. He tilts his head to taste her. She moans at the touch of his tongue and the whole game is different then.
He slides his hand to the nape of her neck, urging her into a better position. The kiss goes deep and hungry, his free arm around her back, urging her close, pulling her in until he can feel the push of her breasts against his chest.
God, he could kiss this girl forever. Her little soft sounds are driving him out of his mind. The feel of her, so tiny and warm against him. A hundred and sixty some odd years, and this is the closest to heaven he's ever gotten.
When she pulls free, she's panting, her eyes dark with desire. He closes his, before he takes this somewhere they really can't come back from.
"That…" she says shakily.
"Stop," he says, cutting her off. "If you use the word mistake in the next twenty minutes, I'm going to lose my mind, Elena. I really am."
She takes a long, shaky breath and he looks at her.
"I won't," she says. "Because it wasn't."
He tries to even out his breathing. Tries to steady…everything. Not that there's a hell of a lot of point to it. He's pretty sure some part of him is wrecked forever.
She's gnawing her lip, worry filling her eyes. But she's watching him in a way that makes him wonder if she doesn't want to kiss him again, and God, he hates himself for it, but he's got that shitty fluttering feeling in his chest.
"I'll never let this go, Elena," he says softly, and she meets his eyes, her lips still swollen. "I can't."
"I know."
"I won't tell him," he says darkly. "I know that's what you're worried about."
She doesn't answer, but she cringes a little in admission.
"But I need something from you, too."
"What?" she asks, looking wary.
He thumbs her chin. "I need you to swear you won't pretend it didn't happen."
"Like I could pretend that," she says, with a hollow laugh. Her eyes are dark when she looks at him. "But it doesn't change anything, Damon. Not today."
"Not today," he repeats, and he should stake himself right here and now for the way he turned up the last part of that statement like a question. Admitting hope.
"I don't know, Damon," she says. "It doesn't seem possible."
His chest sinks, a weight dropping through his middle, but then she touches him, her fingers on his face.
"Maybe if things were different," she says, and then he sees her take a steeling breath. He knows this is hard for her.
"Maybe someday they will be," he says, physically unable to keep the words in.
"Maybe," she says, biting her lip. Looking at his. And she smiles a little. "Maybe someday."
"Someday," he says, stealing one more quick kiss and then flopping back on his bed before she even has time to protest. "Yeah, it's always been my favorite day of the week."