Hey Everyone! I know, I know. It's been a really long time and I'm not lying when I say I miss you. A lot. Actually, I miss this entire DE fandom. So many of us have drifted away. But if any of you are still around I managed to write another DE fic (O/S actually, but it's so darn long that I actually consider it a bit of a fic… ficlet maybe?) for the third annual holiday exchange.
This year, I chose to fulfill Laura's (APureHeart) prompt because it was beautiful and she is one of the most incredible and kindest people I have met in this fandom. Plus, it involves military life and since I'm a military wife, the story idea really hit home.
Now Laura, I tried to stick as closely to the prompt as possible, but I must admit, I veered off course in some areas. I really hope you enjoy it anyway.
Major thanks to Kate (This Is My Escape) for prereading this for me and assuring me it wasn't total crap, despite dealing with computer issues. You are amazing.
Prompt: AU/AH. Every year on Christmas Eve since she was a teenager, Elena meets up with the young soldier Damon and spends with him a night filled with romance, giddy feelings and of course, the many wonderful traits of Christmas. But this year, walking to their usual meet, she has a feeling something unexpected is about to happen and she has no idea story of how they met, maybe flashbacks, backgrounds, their current lives, etc. It's all up to you and as you wish to do it, as well as the twist as what expects Elena that year. Fluff, drama, angst - I don't care at all! Surprise me. ;) I look forward to reading!
It starts with a look, the interlocking of two gazes from across the room on a frosty evening.
A pair of cerulean irises cut through the crowd like a knife to find mine. And if I had known then that the drop in my stomach was just the beginning of a string of one agonizing night after another waiting for my beloved, then maybe I'd have been smarter. Maybe I would have walked away right then and there. But probably not.
I have never been one to follow logic, instead choosing the riskier path of following my heart. The best love stories never begin with the cranking of gears inside of someone's head as they rationalize their best action anyway. They start with the flick of a pulse, the ignition of something deep inside that they never knew existed. It's exactly what I feel with him, right from the first look. And it's exactly the reason why I don't hesitate, jumping head first into the single evening that changes my world irrevocably.
The Beginning: Christmas Eve - Four Years Ago
I've just ridden in the car with my best friend Caroline to some silly party she insisted was necessary we attend. That necessity involves a boy, of course. I mean, we're nineteen year old college students – everything important involves a boy. Unfortunately for me, as soon as said boy appeared, my trusty best friend abandoned me, leaving me alone in a crowded room of people I have never met in my life.
As they dance around the room and have a merry time, I'm uncomfortably picking at the carrot sticks and ranch dipping sauce on my plate, willing myself to be the social butterfly I know I'm capable of becoming.
That's when his eyes find mine.
Everything cliché I have read in books suddenly happens at once. My belly does some weird flip-flopping, my heart pounds out Morse code (which I'm assuming translates into 'Please Eat Me Like Delicious Holiday Cake), and my knees go weak. It's not something I'm generally familiar with. Boys are a part of my life, yes, but none have struck me instantly. Not the way this one does.
So I do what any teenage girl does in these situations, I flip my hair over my shoulder and bat those eye lashes of mine, praying to anyone who will listen that I resemble a Victoria Secret model. It's not completely absurd since I have sky-high legs, a trim waistline and chocolate tendrils of hair cascading halfway down my back. Though, if I'm being honest, I'm lacking in the breast department and my demeanor screams anything but sexy. Adorable girl-next-door, perhaps, but definitely not sexy. The modest, plum A-line dress with fold-over neckline, gold buttons and kitten heels I purchased for this evening only accentuates that fact.
I peel my eyes from his for only a second to make sure my dress is hanging properly only to lose him in the process. Disappointment swiftly courses through me, replacing the frantic butterflies in my belly with something heavy. It resembles bricks.
"You might wanna fix this."
The voice is luscious like velvet as it dances along the shell of my ear. Fingers brush against the nape of my neck, along the top of my dress. Then skin is on mine, just slightly above the cotton and then behind it, sending a shiver rippling down my spine.
The contact lasts a second, but the high of it lingers when that same pair of eyes I'd caught before steps from behind me. And if I'd thought he was something special before, he all but has me worshiping at his feet from this distance. He's tall, dark, and wickedly handsome. All defined cheekbones, onyx hair and masculine jawline. But it's his eyes that strike somewhere deep inside of me. They're soft and inviting and remarkable, dark sapphire framing cerulean blue, with traces of cobalt and crystal and sky. It's enough to send any girl into cardiac shock.
Somehow I survive the inevitable hospital visit in order for him to say something. Sadly, I'm too focused on the way his lips move to hear a damn thing he's speaking.
Shaking my head to clear the haze he's put me under, I ask, "What?"
He chuckles, as thought my idiocracy is the most adorable thing he's witnessed. "Your tag was showing."
Heat surfaces beneath my cheeks, which I'm sure now resemble the same pink as a freshly picked strawberry. My hands go to cover my lips in embarrassment, which he misinterprets as distress.
"Don't worry. I didn't rip it off, just tucked it back under." His reassuring smile resembles what I imagine a sunrise over the ocean to look like. It's warm and inviting - a visual I could lose myself in.
Sadly, even that isn't enough to distract me from the humiliating experience we just shared or the motive behind my fashion mess he's probably formulated in his head. "I'm not wearing the dress and returning it, if that's what you're insinuating," I defend.
"Right. Besides, I wasn't judging you if you are," he replies, throwing his eyebrows and hands towards the sky.
"I'm not. And sure you weren't." Silence settles between us then. My narrowed eyes search his for accusations while he waits patiently. When I come up empty handed, he shoots me a smirk.
"Told you," he mutters smugly, offering out his hand. "I'm Damon."
It's formal, but the opportunity for more contact has my hand leaping out to meet his in a shake. The skin on his palms and fingers is rough, as though he uses them often. I'm not a sexual creature by nature, but the thought has some pretty intense imagery popping into my head.
"Elena."
My eyes sweep over his figure, drinking him in like a tall glass of water after I just hiked through the Sahara. He does make my mouth feel dry. Swallowing hard, I ask, "I take it that you're from around here?"
He shrugs uncommitally. "Depends on the time of year; but yeah, you could say that. But you're not. I'd remember a face like yours."
I fight the urge to blush under his compliment when he adds, "So what brings you all of the way out here to bumfuck, also considered by many as Mystic Falls, Elena?"
"A friend." I search the sea of people for familiar blond hair, but come up empty. "Somehow she's mysteriously disappeared on me."
"Yeah, that tends to happen when my friends are around," he replies, lifting his lips into a grin – one that's surprisingly sexy and completely adorable all at once. "Guess it's a good thing I showed up then."
Lifting one perfectly plucked brow into the air, I ask, "Is it?"
"Absolutely."
His answer and the wink that follows have my toes curling in delight. "You know, you're kind of full of yourself, Damon," I joke.
"Nah," he dismisses easily, throwing his hands into his pockets. "I'm just charismatic." It's hard to deny that the action has him looking slightly more approachable, slightly more on my level, and significantly even more appealing.
I can't resist the laugh that blasts through my teeth, but once it's subsided, I continue to throw out my best cheeky banter, as though I'm not already putty in the palm of his gorgeously calloused hand. "So that's what you're calling this act you're doing?"
His eyes narrow as he reads me, or studies me – it could be either one. It stretches into silence, as I wait or cling to his next words, before his features relax. "I like you, you know how to laugh." Then he changes tactics. "By the way, your dress, the one you have no intention of returning, is exceptional."
"Really?" I question skeptically, biting back my giggle at his new approach. It's a peculiar thing to compliment. Most men go straight for the eyes, the figure, the face, but the dress? Not so much.
Catching the disappointment as it flashes across my face, he immediately corrects himself. "The rest of you is too. I just figured it's best to at least pretend that I'm a gentleman."
I narrow my eyes playfully. "So you're not?" The frisky demeanor is an illusion. In reality, I have no experience with bad boys, my heart often bypassing them for the less threatening options. You know the ones – sandy blonde hair, plaid shirts, boot legged jeans, and southern manners. With his raven hair, startling blue eyes, black boots and dark-wash jeans, he falls under a completely different category.
"Depends on who you ask."
Crossing my arms defiantly over my chest, I offer him an enticing view of my cleavage. What little bit I have of it, anyway. "I'm asking you."
"With you, I can be." To my surprise, he passes my test and emphasizes that truth by keeping his topaz eyes locked right onto my coffee brown ones. The tone of his words emphasizes it as well.
"Good." I breathe a sigh of relief, finally feeling comfortable in my own skin under his gorgeous, unwavering gaze. "Because I'm a good girl, Damon."
"Good," he replies, lifting the side of his lips into a lopsided grin. "Because I've been looking for one of those to spend my night with."
It's an invitation, a really attractive one that only an idiot would pass up. And I'm no idiot.
"Looks like you found her."
. . .
As promised, he's the perfect gentleman all evening. We dance, we eat, we drink, we laugh, we talk. He asks me surface questions and I answer, asking him the same in return. Along the way, we uncover our similar pasts, our lack of parents and siblings, our similar interests, and mutual appreciation for deep novels and hysterical comedies.
Small touches are shared: gentle grazes along the arms, entwined fingers during slow dances, lingering hands on each other waists, and traces of finger tips along the backs of necks. Each touch brings a new rush of excitement, a promise of mutual attraction and an opportunity at the end of the evening I can't refuse. But I try really hard to.
"My place isn't too far from here." His hand rests on the small of my back as he leans in to whisper the words. They drip like warm honey.
But despite what my body insists, it's not a smart option. Sure, I've spent a few hours with the guy, getting to know him, and he's pretty darn great, but even under his charming spell, I'm not an idiot.
"I told you before; I'm not that type of girl." And it's the truth. I've had exactly two sexual partners, both of which were long term boyfriends whom I thought I was in love with. I'm not the one-night-stand type.
Damon pulls back just enough so his face rests inches from mine. His lips hover just beyond my reach and that's where my eyes settle. In that moment, I want nothing more than to lean forward and press my lips against his, tasting all he has to offer. The thought has my tongue slipping out to glide along my own lips, dampening them in preparation.
That's when I feel fingertips ghosting the base of my chin, diverting my eyes up to meet his. They're boring into me, willing me to understand the truth in his words. Then he declares, "I'm not asking you to be. I just want a little company tonight."
With him looking at me that way, I feel incapable of resisting him anything. However, I still need to be completely sure. "You promise?"
"I do."
. . .
Caroline's all too eager to lose me for the evening, opting to spend the night with her guy as well. Just in case, we all exchange contact information. Though, I'm sure no calls will be made.
Despite what Damon suggested, the drive back to his place is quite the trek, totaling thirty eight minutes from the dance hall we'd spent the evening. When we pull up to a tiny cottage, I'm shocked to find myself in the middle of nowhere. My head spins terrifying realities of where I've found myself spending the evening, but almost as if he senses my anxiety, he reaches over to give my hand a reassuring squeeze.
"It's cheaper to live out here," he explains, pulling his car into park. "Plus I'm rarely in town."
"So you weren't kidding when you said no judgment about the tag earlier," I muse, offering him a sideways grin. "Cheapskate."
"Nope," he replies, popping the p. "And there's nothing wrong with being thrifty. I'm not ashamed."
He throws me the panty-dropping smile of his and I'm a pool of swirling nerves. "You shouldn't be. But like you, I don't judge."
"Good." He turns off the car. "Otherwise I might have had to kill you, and since we're in the middle of nowhere, it would have been far too easy."
I laugh, feeling completely at ease. It's ironic, considering his words. However, the ease doesn't last long.
Without the hum of the engine, I'm suddenly aware of the miniscule amount of space we've found ourselves in, and the fact that we're alone. I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the frigid temperature swirling around the car. I'm simultaneously doubting my choice and resisting the urge to straddle him in the passenger's seat. It's a perplexing battle of emotions occurring inside of me.
But before I'm offered ample time to stress myself out, Damon unlocks the doors and pulls my jacket hood over my head. "It's freezing. C'mon, let's get inside and get the fireplace going before we freeze to death."
He reaches over to throw open my door and we both exit the car, slamming our doors shut before running towards the cabin. Tiny puffs of condensation escape my mouth and my body shakes from the cold as Damon fumbles with his keys, trying to find the right one. He's biting the inside of his right cheek in determination and before I know what's happening, my hands latch onto the sides of his face. I pull him into me, melding my lips with his, gently. I still feel it throughout my entire body.
After a simple second, we each pull back to study the others reaction. My nerves are alight like the Christmas tree they had on display in the hall we just left, but I do my best to conceal my school-girl glee from my expression. The left side of his mouth clips upward, but he remains silent, returning his attention back to his keys after he finds whatever he's looking for on my face.
My brows dip in confusion. I expected some reaction from him, for sure. At the very least, a thank you. I mean, it's the polite response to a kiss. But nothing? It's perplexing. And also disappointing.
He inserts the key and turns the knob, pushing open the door so we can both step inside. Heat seeps through my layers the instant I'm through the threshold, which has everything to do with Damon's lips as they once again adhere themselves to mine. Kicking the door closed with his boot, his hands wrap around my waist.
I see stars, tiny bursts of light behind my eyelids when I open my mouth and allow him entry. He's gentle at first, exploring me with his tongue as he guides us to the wall. I stumble backwards, careful not to break this perfect fusion of ours.
I've experienced many kisses in my life. I mean, not too many. I'm not a make-out whore or anything. But as my back touches the wall, and one of his hands lands on my waist and the other the side of my neck, I feel fire and ice and tied together and completely undone all at the same time. It's a startling sensation, one I've never reached before this moment, and it has me pulling him closer.
I barely know him, but it's as though our bodies have been stealing intimate moments their entire life. My head tilts to the side and his follows suit, twisting just perfectly to deepen the kiss. My back arches off the wall against his and his hand lifts to hold me in place. I breathe him in; he releases enough of himself for me to take.
It's a synchronized dance, one that doesn't halt when his leg shifts between mine, pushing them apart. My hands lift to thread through his hair, urging him on, insisting it's okay. Then it's clashing of wills, of dominance, and tongues and lip biting, as I surrender control. One kiss bleeds into two, bleeds into three, bleeds into a hundred, as we each get lost in the other.
I don't only feel the connection in the base of my belly as blood centralizes, but also deep in my bones. It should frighten me, but it doesn't. It just makes me crave more. I want his hands on me, all over me. The smell of him lingers in my lungs, the taste of him sits deep in my throat, the feel of him is engrained in my hands, and the very essence of him is over-riding each and every one of my senses.
It's then that he pulls back. His lower half still pins me to the wall, but it's not enough. I want all of him back on me. Pronto.
"This isn't what you wanted," he pants, pressing his forehead to mine. He closes his eyes as if the action pains him, which I'm sure it does. There's evidence of that pressing against my front.
That evidence fuels my next move. Gripping the collar of his coat in the palm of my hand, I whisper, "It is now," and pull him back to me. I press my lips into his, tracing my tongue along the inside of his mouth, savoring the kiss.
When I pull back for a breath, he takes the opportunity to break away once more. "I won't do it, Elena, as much as I fucking want to." His eyes latch onto mine, and even in the dark, it's obvious they're shaded with lust. I don't need to see mine to understand they mimic his, but that changes as soon as he speaks his next statement.
"You made me promise."
Rationality works its way through the cloud of lust residing in my head as I pull my lips into a frown. "I thought chivalry was dead."
Damon places a small kiss on the corner of my frown and whispers, "Not with me, it's not," and then steps away. He flicks on the light, the beam stretching until it illuminates us both, and just like that, the moment deflates. He removes his coat as though nothing just happened, but as he does, I'm once again reminded of the physical form that was just pressed against mine. I could have had it, almost did, if I wasn't so damn virtuous.
Following his lead, I strip myself of my outer layers, leaving only the dress he insisted was extraordinary. "Most guys wouldn't have stopped, you know?"
"Yeah," he mutters in response. It sounds almost like a personal kick in his own ass. "But I like to think I'm not most guys."
"You're not." I saunter my way to take a seat on the couch and remind him, "You're a gentleman."
He smiles. It's then I realize that I want to see that smile every day. The thought comes swiftly, and I push it back down.
"It's a small place you've got here." At least smaller than most that I've seen. I live in a dorm room, so I can't say much, but it's only a room. This is his house. From what I see, it's consisted of only a tiny kitchen, attached living space with a single couch, fireplace and television, and an adjoining bedroom with one bath.
He looks around, as though it's a palace. "I guess when my parents passed away, I didn't see the need for a big house. This is all I need. Nothing kitschy, just the basics. Plus, no one bothers me out here."
"I get it." The similarity in our pasts has my heart tugging in my chest and I hear all of the words he's not speaking aloud. When my parents passed, I couldn't stay in our house any longer either. It held too many memories. Pleasure moments constantly hid around each corner, making it impossible not to sell the place and move on. I'd moved to college. Damon had simply moved here.
"You know, I told you that I'm in the writing program at Whitemore University, but I still have no clue what you do for a living," I mention as he places wood into the fireplace. "Or how old you are."
His back is to me as he strikes a foot-long match, but I don't need the visual of his face to pick up on the teasing nature of his next statement. "Better make a habit of asking about the latter before you suck their face and decide to spend the night. Otherwise, you might get yourself in trouble."
I gasp in mock offense, throwing my head back in a giggle when he turns around and winks. "Thankfully, you didn't with me. I'm 21."
"Only two years older than me," I respond, pleased with the small difference. "And what do you do?"
"I'm a soldier," he answers, matter of fact. "In the army."
It's an easy delivery, but the answer comes as quite the shock. I mean, the bulging biceps and toned stomach should have been a dead giveaway, but he hadn't mentioned it once the entire evening. Normally, it's something a girl picks up on, or a man bleeds out.
"Really?" I question skeptically as he makes his way to take a seat next to me on the couch. The fire is already alive, flickering in the hearth. "Why haven't you said anything until now?"
"Because I figured you knew." His shoulder works through the motion of a shrug. "We were at an army gala, after all. About 60% of the attendees were from my platoon."
My cheeks blaze in embarrassment again under such a silly lack of observation. But in my defense, everyone was in casual clothes, and despite the haircuts, there were no clear giveaways. Besides, Caroline should have told me.
"I had no idea," I answer sheepishly.
Sensing my discomfort, he pulls me into his side and teases, "Clearly."
We laugh together, the sounds meshing into something melodic. I like the sound. It feels natural as a background noise.
Nuzzling further into his side, I lean my head onto his shoulder and observe, "You know, that speaks volumes about the type of man you are."
"Nah. You've got me all wrong. I'm just on my best behavior right now." His right hand slips around my waist. "But it does mean I can't take you out next week like I really want to."
"Why is that? I certainly wouldn't turn you down. Not after that." My stomach muscles clench at the delicious thought of me pressed against the wall, our tongues swirling in unison, my lips smashed against his.
He chuckles. I ache.
"Because I'm on holiday leave," he answers softly. "I ship back out on Friday."
I feel something within me crack, a disappointing fissure form deep in the caverns of my chest.
"To where?"
"Afghanistan."
His answer has oxygen gushing from my lungs as I pull back and release a heavy sigh. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn't that. Afghanistan. As in – across the freaking world. As in – a single step from danger at all times.
"We're on holiday leave," he explains, taking my hand into his. "Told to spend it with our families."
"But you no longer have one." I observe sadly, softly.
He shrugs, doing his best to appear nonchalant about his next words. "That's why I spent it with you."
Despite his attempts, I see the vulnerability swimming in his blue eyes. I lift my hand to cradle the side of his face, insinuating it's okay. That whatever lies beneath the surface, threatening to be exposed, is in safe hands. "I'm glad you did."
"I'm sorry I didn't say something," he offers, lacing his fingers through a lock of my hair to twirl it down to the tip. "But unlike a lot of enlisted idiots, I don't do it for the recognition. I do it cause supporting my country is my duty. That's why I didn't bring it up"
I get it. I do, but… "You probably still should have said something before..." The words are mere breaths of air, tiny gushes of disappointment falling from my mouth, before I cut myself off.
"Before what?"
"I don't know," I respond, motioning my hand between the two of us. "This."
"Oh." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You feel it too, then?"
"I do." How could I not? I felt it the moment our eyes locked from across the room at the gala. It was the moment I knew that this world shrunk down to the size of just him and me.
"I really am sorry." His words are laced in sorrow, but his eyes hold the most regret. They still shine brighter than most stars.
"Me too," I reply, knowing that tomorrow brought a goodbye, but understanding that still left tonight. And I wasn't about to lose the only minutes I had with him. Leaning towards him, I narrow my eyes seductively and gaze at him through my lashes. "You know I'm still going to kiss you again, right?"
His response is immediate, the smirk already settled onto his lips as I approach. "I won't stop you."
. . .
A car horn breaks through the otherwise silent dawn, pulling me from my slumber. Damon's arms are wrapped around my waist, pulling me against his chest, and his legs are tangled with mine. It's a glorious position. We didn't sleep together, at least not in that sense. We just talked all night, baked horrible tasting cookies, exchanged stories, kissed in between them, watched the fire, and stole moments that I wish could continue into everyday life. I think we might have finally drifted to sleep sometime around four. It was a night from a movie, really; not one I thought could exist in real life. But it did. Damon had made it a reality.
The car horn blasts again, awakening me completely. It's Caroline. Of course it is. The pick-up was arranged last night before we each headed off to our separate destinations. My best friend has simply come to end the night. But even though light is creeping through the shades, I don't want to face the reality that it's over – the reality that this is the last moment I will share with Damon. It feels as though he just captured me under his gaze for the first time merely minutes prior.
Sheets rustle as he stirs. His eyes blink open. Their piercing blue is enough to drown in, suck me under, hold me captive and never let me go. The tempting idea to never leave this bed hits me as I gaze at those eyes, at the reminder of what I'm about to give up. Thinking about it only makes my chest sting. Thankfully, he doesn't leave me to linger in my own sadness for very long. He pulls me down to him, placing a delicate kiss onto my lips and says, "Merry Christmas, beautiful. I love my present."
"Merry Christmas," I reply, giggling into him as his morning scruff tickles my chin. The happiness lasts only a second before reality dawns again. "Caroline's here."
He nods. "I hear that."
"I wonder why she didn't call first."
"We don't get much service out here. She probably tried."
I pull back, positioning my lips into a frown, as I proclaim, "I don't want to leave."
He lifts his finger to trace the shape of my lips. "I don't want you to either." There's a struggle present in the irises I've come to admire after a single evening. I watch it take place, wondering what his next words will be because I'm failing to muster up any of my own.
His eyes finally settle before he leans in for another soft kiss. The action has my insides igniting, awakening. It's magical.
Then he says, "But I'd be an asshole to ask you for anything else."
If I wasn't absolutely certain he wanted the same thing, I wouldn't have opened my mouth. And maybe it would have been smarter to keep it shut. But sometimes people come into your life and they refuse to let go. Or vice versa. For us, it's both. Of that I'm certain.
So I smile at him, leaning into his thumb as it traces the shape of my jaw. "You don't have to ask. I want your address. I want to write to you while you're away."
His smile is enough to melt even the frozen snow that now covers the ground outside. But because he's a gentleman, he asks, "You sure about that?"
I refuse to waste a moment considering the endless nights of worrying, of pining, and of loneliness that are guaranteed to follow. Loving a solider isn't easy. But despite it all, I've never been more sure about anything in my life.
"Absolutely."
Christmas Eve - Three Years Ago
Deciding it best to forgo the gala this year, my footsteps are quick and assured when I approach Damon's door. Considering we haven't seen each other in a year, I should be nervous, but I'm not. We've written letters nearly every day, talked whenever he was able and shared more than I've shared with anyone, including Caroline.
He's a magnificent soul, one I haven't regretted including in my life a single day since last Christmas. That includes the nights I cried myself to sleep over missing him and the ones I met every hour of the evening with wide, panicked eyes, terrified something had happened to him on a mission. It's what I'd signed up for. And this moment was the one we both had been waiting for.
Before my knuckles hit the door, he opens it and I nearly cry from excitement. There's anticipation painted across his features, blinding me in the masterpiece that is Damon. I've dreamed about him every night, clutched his letters tightly between my tiny fingers and re-envisioned his face in my mind. My version doesn't come close.
There's electricity in the air, sparking everything. I can feel it on every surface of my skin.
It doesn't take long before he's in motion, sweeping me into his arms and nuzzling his nose into my hair. "You have no clue how much I've missed you," he whispers. It holds the degree of awe I currently have surging through my system.
He smells exactly as I remember, like sweat, gunpowder, and fresh rain. I breath him in, let his scent envelope me completely, as I cling to his corded muscles. I never want to let go. It's been too long and this moment feels too good.
"I think I do," I murmur, right before his lips dust mine.
Then all talking ceases. He kisses me delicately at first, re-exploring my mouth, every cavern, as his hands familiarize themselves with the planes and mountains of my body. I've regretted taking the high road last Christmas, foregoing the chance to have him completely. This time, we aren't wasting a second. There's a whole evening available for more talking once we're finished.
My fingers twine in his hair, pulling his head back, pushing him further down the back of my throat and urging for more. It's all the motivation he needs before his hands, the ones that were previously so delicate on my curves, now reach down to yank my shirt over my head. I repeat the action on him.
We break from each other just long enough for him to discard both articles somewhere on the floor before he lifts me into the air, re-adhering our lips. His fingertips dig into my back, pushing the soft swells of my breast against his hard chest. I'd chosen to forgo wearing a bra, for this very reason. It's been a year and I'm ready to feel his skin on mine, every surface, every crevice.
Air pulls along my back as Damon maneuvers his way throughout the cabin. I'm not sure where we're headed, but I pray it's someplace close. There's only so many seconds I'm willing to be patient.
His lips swell around mine, his tongue twirling and making my head spin when my back lands on microfiber – the couch. I breathe a sigh of relief as his fingers trail down my waist and land on the button of my skinny jeans. He's skilled in this department, because they're unfastened and being peeled down my legs before I can blink.
However, when I go to reach for his, he grabs my hands, pinning them on either side of my body against the couch.
"Not yet. I've been dying to taste you for months."
His voice is low, husky, and it has my insides clenching viciously. I've waited a year for this, experienced 365 days of foreplay, but he wants to drag it out for another undeclared amount of time? My head is already slashing violently from left to right and my mouth just parts to speak protests when I feel his warm tongue on the fabric of my lacy boy-shorts. Then all thoughts stop circling in my head. And all I'm capable of is feeling.
He swirls his tongue around my bundle of nerves, drags it up and down the fabric to create a delicious friction, when I release a moan into the air. It's primal and needy which has him smirking up at me from between my thighs. My fingers are gripping onto the couch, making my knuckles white, but I want to grab him when he pulls away just slightly, leaving me throbbing with need. His fingers wrap about the flimsy fabric to pull it down my legs, and then it's just him on me, and oh dear god does it feel wonderful.
My eyes roll back into my head and I'm practically panting when he inserts a single digit into my warm entrance and flicks his tongue over my clit. It's a dangerous combo. My hips buck against him as he inserts a second finger, urging him on, begging him to glide them faster. Another moan falls from my lips. A third. A fourth. Until the sounds fill the room and I'm so lost in the bliss of it that I'm stumbling right upon that very edge I've waited so long to reach. I hadn't wanted to reach it on my own, but I'm so close, a few more licks, a few more slips of him along my g-spot, that I'm incapable of resisting its temptation.
But he knows. Somehow he knows. The heat of his tongue leaves my clit, and his fingers pull out of my wet entrance. I'm panting, my hips lifting for more, when he purrs, "You're delectable, but I've waited too long."
I pout at him, curling my fingers around his belt to pull him into me. His lips come to rest right along mine as he purrs, "Call me selfish, but we're gonna do this together."
My fingers fumble with his belt and button of his jeans, but somehow I find both and undo them, tugging the material down as quickly as I can. "Sounds perfect."
The bulge in his boxer briefs has my eyes widening, but when he lowers them and frees his erection, it's hard to swallow. He's huge, and I'm not talking 'average' large. I'm talking, 'split me wide open' large. I'm uncertain whether I'm more excited or nervous. Noting my apprehension, he kisses me again, biting my lower lip between his teeth, and assuring, "I promise to take it easy."
Lowering one hand so his thumb can spiral against my clit, I breathe of sigh of pleasure, the anxious coil within me unwinding. His other hand reaches for a condom and he rips it open with his teeth. My mouth lifts to meet his as he slides it on, and before I'm prepared, I feel him at the edge of my entrance.
Despite what I previously thought, I'm slick and eager for him. His eyes rest before mine, his breathe mingling with my own, as he waits for my permission.
"Do it," I breathe into him.
And he does. He pushes slowly as I adjust to his size, taking him inch by inch. When he's finally settled, I sigh. Not a relieving sigh. It's one of pure delight. He pulls out, slowly, sinks back in, and the delight transitions into ecstasy. I'm saturated in it. It seeps from my smile.
He fits me perfectly, filling me and stroking places deep within that I never realized existed.
"You're fucking perfect," he pants, leaning back to watch me as I grind against him. We fuse and break apart, again and again, setting a steady rhythm when I'm finally stretched. God, he fills me in every way.
My pulse pounds in my ears, my heart beating frantically, my hunger for him only increasing with each motion of our hips. "Faster." I demand, craving more of him, deeper.
Picking up his pace, his fingertips grip onto my waist, and he pounds into me. Flesh against flesh. I'm unbreakable. I hear the words he's whispered to me so many times over the past year, naughty words, descriptive words, of what he intended to do to me once I was finally in his arms. They're playing out now, mixing with relief as the concern for his life - that I've mentally held onto so tightly - seeps from me. With his taught muscles in my palms, and him nestled inside of me, I know he's safe. And I know he's all mine.
He growls, something guttural and raw when I spiral my hips in an upward motion. It edges me forward, towards the edge I've been so delicately teetering since we started this wickedly seductive dance. Then we shift. I draw in a breath as I'm positioned on top of his lap, a leg on either side of his waist, and his cock burrowed so deep inside of me that my eyes roll back into my head.
His lips fasten themselves to my neck, as one of his hands cradles my hip and the other on my breast so his thumb can pass over my hardened peak. It spikes a shiver down my spine. Then we're in motion again.
His words, their diction which I have memorized so completely, are finally accompanied by something physical, something other than the beat of my own heart in response. It's no longer just soothing words through a long distance phone line. It's actions - brushing fingertips, colliding lips, and synchronized pieces of ourselves – instead of just empty airwaves.
When he thrusts into me, holding his hand behind my head to keep my lips pressed tightly against his, I don't just hear 'I want you' or 'I need you', I feel it. When my fingertips scrape the back of his shoulders, urging him on, begging him to reach deeper, he doesn't just hear 'You mean the world to me', he believes it.
It's phenomenal. We are phenomenal.
And when we crash over the edge, we do it together, falling back onto the couch in a heap of tangled limbs, satisfied libidos, and gasping breaths.
I've never been happier.
. . .
We spend the rest of the evening the same way we spent the year prior: talking, laughing, baking cookies, nestling by the fire, and sharing stories. Only difference is the added dispersed moments we spend between the sheets. It's a much appreciated addition.
Damon's just pulled the sugar cookies from his oven, while I twist the pendant necklace he gave me as a present between my fingers. I can't stop looking at it. "This is beautiful, totally beats the Band of Brothers DVD set I got you."
He chuckles, setting the tray of cookies onto the countertop. "You're the only present I need."
From my post on his kitchen countertop, I swing my legs back and forth, smiling like a ridiculous school girl. "And you're definitely worth waiting a year for."
A smirk tilts his lips in response to my word. "Tell me something I don't know." It's accompanied by a wink that trembles through every satisfied muscle of my body.
He then takes two steps and positions himself between my legs. The oven mitts still cover his hand, but he wraps then behind my waist anyway. "I thought about you. Damn near every day. No scratch that, I did think you about you every day. You know that right?"
He's told me every time we've spoken, written it in every letter. "I do."
"Good."
Wrapping my hand around the back of his neck, I pull him into me, still craving the taste of his lips. It's possible I'll never be satisfied. His tongue curls into my mouth and I relish the feel of his strong arms around me, cherishing me, caring for me. I'll crave this most come tomorrow evening.
"How long until we can decorate the cookies?" I ask when we finally pull apart.
"Give them a half hour to cool. Which means we have some free time…"
"Damon," I protest, giggling as his tongue glides along the skin of my neck. The lust in the room is palpable, but for the moment, I'm enjoying the conversation.
"Fine." He sighs, but it's playful.
My legs are still wrapped around the back of his waist, keeping him with me. "You like my cookie cutter choices?"
Twisting his head to glance back at the tray, he takes in the tank, rifle, and grenade shapes. The smile on his face melts my heart. "Hell yeah," he says, turning back around, "but we could have stuck to the traditional trees and stars."
"Yeah, but this is who you are and I wanted to support that."
His topaz irises are bright as they pierce right through me. "I appreciate it. But it's not all I am."
Of course it's true. But over the past year, I'd learned that being a soldier was more to him than just a job. It was a lifestyle, a state of mind. He had other hobbies, and he had other interests, but none of them shadowed this basic part of him. It's one of the pieces that made him uniquely him. Plus, it was sexy as hell.
"But it's the root of you."
His head cocks to the side, appreciation lights his features. "How do you know me so well?"
"You never shut up," I tease, tapping him on the nose and giggling when he removes the mitts, dipping his fingers into the most sensitive portion of my sides.
When his tickling finally ceases and I'm capable of breathing again, he rests his face back in front of mine. "Okay then, let's talk about you. You graduate in May, so what are your plans afterward?"
"I'm not sure, honestly." It's a lie. I've thought about my future endlessly, mapping out every path I could take and always settling on ones that can include Damon. Sure, we'd only spent a total of 24 hours together, but we'd had a year of communication. It was enough time to realize that he was what I wanted, no matter the cost.
"You could always stay here," he suggests. "I won't be here, but the silence would help with your writing."
It's hard to pretend his offer isn't an enticing one. I consider the option and the future that would eventually entail, but there's still a very important fragment of the equation that needs to be filled.
I don't have the courage to just blatantly ask him how long he's intends to stay in the army or if he plans on making this a lifetime career. So I settle for something a little more discreet. "It's a tempting offer, but without you, I'm not sure I'd handle the social separation well."
"Understandable." It's all he gives me.
Deciding to throw on my big girl panties, I muster up a little courage and question, "Just out of curiosity, how many years do you have left?"
"I just re-enlisted for three more."
"Just?"
"Yesterday. Before I came back here."
I've always assured myself that I could handle this life, that I was 100% fine with living this way, but his answer has the air gushing from my lungs as if I've been sucker punched. And yeah, in a way, I have been. I've known his service was important for him, expected our happy ending to lay somewhere in the distant future, but knowing he's flat out chosen to push it further away without consulting me, feels like a knife twisting in my gut.
"So you would have been finished? Yesterday?"
"Yeah," he shrugs innocently, ignorant to the turmoil twisting violently in my head, "But there's something important that our platoon needs to take care of when we get back from leave. And I couldn't bail."
"Why?" I question, wishing the word didn't sound as broken as it did.
"Because they asked me to re-enlist," he replies. It's impossible to miss the defenses rising in his voice. "The guys, we're a unit, a family. Our mission is important and I can't let them down."
What about letting me down lands in the back of my throat, but I resist, opting for an easier, "So you couldn't re-enlist for a week or long enough to help them in that mission?" I do my best to keep my voice from rising like his. This is exactly the type of moment I'd wanted to avoid with him, it was why I'd tried so hard to resist feeding my curiosity and asking him about his time. But now that I know, it feels like he's chosen his job and the men it includes over me.
"Elena, it doesn't work that way." In a reassuring gesture, Damon's hand reaches out to cup the side of my cheek. It's warm and comforting, but there's splinters forming in my heart. I can't understand how it's so easy to show affection, to touch me like I'm his most cherished possession, to tell me I'm his world, when in reality, I come second to something much more important. And apparently always will.
It's a selfish thought. I knew what I was signing up for. This life he leads matters, I support him in that, but it doesn't make the reality of what he's saying any less disheartening.
"Are you okay?" His words are smooth, enveloping me in something that resembles love, but it can't be. If it was, he would have given me the choice to be a part of his future. If asked, I'd have probably said to extend his time because it's not about that, it's about meaning enough to factor in. And that speaks volumes, ultimately showcasing where I stand and where he does.
"Elena, are you okay?" he repeats, when I say nothing in response.
No. I'm not okay.
I can't admit that although I'm only twenty years old, my feelings for him have evolved into something much greater over the past year. That through letters and ten minute phone calls, through the simple sound of his voice and promise of eventually, my heart has shifted to create a place for him to stay. Hoping he'd claim it forever.
Not when it's so easy for him to give it up.
I can't be angry at him for choosing his career. Clarifications about what we represent for the other have never been established. We've never spoken of fidelity or guidelines, promised futures and white picket fences. It's an illusion I've built in my head all on my own. I just expected him to have the same foundation and design in mind.
Turns out I'm wrong.
I cling to the blue of his eyes, that bright glaze that never fails to hold me hostage, and internally I'm whispering goodbye, because I'm already too far in. I feel too much for him when he's only able to offer so little. I wish it was enough, but it's not. I wish I could be one of those girls that didn't need to be first, but apparently I am.
So I nod my head and lie. "Yes."
He doesn't know it, but when I leave him the following morning, I tell myself I'm taking my heart and walking away. It's the only way to protect it.
Christmas Eve - Two Years Ago
My barriers are up when I approach his door. Light shines from every window, smoke billows from his chimney, and from the outside, everything looks the same. But it's completely different. The man inside is not my boyfriend, he is not my lover, and I no longer have the privilege of holding him in my arms like he is the solution to every one of my problems.
There's someone else waiting for me at home who holds those positions in my life now. Damon knows of him, understands that distance can be a severing aspect to any relationship, but we've kept in touch anyway. Different words are spoken now when we rarely talk on the phone and letters have ceased all together. Maybe they're too romantic, I'm really not sure. All I know is that just because my heart can't endure an actual relationship with Damon, doesn't mean I can cut him out of my life completely.
When my knuckles rasp on his door, I take a preparatory breathe to slow down my racing heart. It's beating wildly, the sound of it echoing against the forest surrounding Damon's cabin. I'm not sure if it's from anxiety, excitement or both. He doesn't know I'm coming this year, but I couldn't stay away. This meeting of ours has somehow become one - if not the - most important tradition in my life.
It's simply not Christmas Eve without Damon. I pretend to be ignorant on why that is.
When the doors open, light creeps from the entrance, surrounding Damon and making him appear more ethereal than I remembered. My breath hitches in my throat.
With wide eyes, and a slackened jaw, he breathes, "Elena." I'm unsure if it's a question or a statement.
The sound of my name on his lips is intoxicating and I want to drown in it. I exhale, begging my heart to slow down before he hears it and misconstrues the reasoning behind my visit. He doesn't need to know that all I am is skin and bones, my soul already leaving my body to be with his on its own accord. It's clear now that this was a bad idea. My heart never stood a chance at resistance when it came to him.
His hand doesn't leave the door; in fact, I think his grip tightens on it, making his knuckles white. "What are you doing here?"
I'm here because we're friends, we share the same past, and the last thing I want is for him to be alone on Christmas Eve. I pretend I don't hear the other reasons sounding in my head, the ones that insist I'm here because of him and the memory I can't shake of him burrowed inside of me, his arms wrapped fiercely around my back like I'm the only thing that matters to him in the world.
"It's tradition," I offer lamely because I'm certainly not about to mention the reasons I won't acknowledge myself and I won't dare mention the others. He'd view my intentions as pity, not understanding.
Neither of us speaks. The silence stretches uncomfortably as I stand freezing in his doorway, biting the inside of my cheek. He glares at me through narrowed eyes, taking every inch of my figure in. I'm desperate to know what he's thinking.
"I didn't know you were coming," he finally says.
"Is it okay that I did?"
More silence, more glaring, but this time, I can see the motion behind his eyes. Gears are cranking inside of his head, formulating a correct answer to my question. I'm terrified of both at this point.
"Yeah. Come on in."
I breach the threshold of his cabin, entering a place that holds images of some of my favorite moments. They slam me from every side, but I stand strong.
"How's Elijah?" he asks. Disdain drips from the words despite his attempts to mask it.
He takes my coat and hangs it on the coat rack. Turning to him, I come within inches of his face, willing my eyes to bore into his. The electricity crackles between us, same as it always has, but I pretend it doesn't exist. "Please, Damon. Let's not talk about him. Tonight is ours; it's never been his."
His eyes fall to my mouth, focusing on my bottom lip as I capture it between my teeth. My chest rises and falls and he watches that too. Lust pools over the cerulean blue I still can't remove from my dreams, shading them into sapphire. Pretty sure my heart is begging to leave my chest and rekindle its position next to his because the longing is un-freaking bearable.
When he's satisfied with the moment, his lips quirk into a smirk and he steps away towards the kitchen.
I breathe. I hadn't realized I'd been holding it in until it's released and the smell of cookies attacks my nostrils with the next gush of air that races towards my lungs. The sentimentality has my eyes stinging.
"Fine. How's work?" he offers.
The space between us now is a relief. It's one thing to be there for a friend, but it's something else entirely to act out scenarios with your ex-lover that have haunted you relentlessly when you have someone else. I throw on my armor, push back the liquid that was just forming in my eyes and will myself to remain strong.
"It's good," I respond, focusing my attention on my position at The Richmond Times. "As you know, I've been editing everyone's work, learning the rounds, but I think they might publish one of my articles next week."
"That's good." He lifts his eyes from the countertop and focuses them onto mine. "I really am happy for you."
His sincerity flows through me like warm lava, thawing my muscles and heart. "Thank you. How about you?"
"Same old, same old. Work's fine." The words are sharp. He twists his shoulders, shielding me from the ache in his eyes. If I didn't know him so well, I might have mistaken its source as something else, perhaps even me, but I'm not the reason it's there. At least not right now.
I take the six steps to the other side of the cabin and reach out for him, cupping his shoulder and directing his shadowed face back towards me. He tries to pull away from me, but I won't let him. "You're hurting and I'm here. Talk to me. What happened?"
His eyes are focused on the floor, not on mine and despite all rational thoughts forming in my head, my fingers rise to the side of his defined cheek. I can breathe him in, feel the pain emanating from him in waves, when he finally glances up.
"We lost someone last week."
His words are soft, sad, and they break my heart, more than the feelings I still hold for him and more than the empty future we share.
Holding onto the pain can destroy someone. And I don't want that for him. I know the toll it can take on a soul. So does he.
So I curl my fingers around his forearm and guide him to the couch. The heat blasts us from the front as we both take a seat. Then I offer, "Why don't you tell me about it." Because that's just the sort of thing a friend does.
. . .
It's late in the evening; the discomfort from the first hours has transpired into the atmosphere we're both familiar with. We're sitting on the couch, eating cookies, and laughing at the joke he just told.
It gets real quiet then, the only sound in the room is the snap of a twig in the fireplace and our synchronized breathing.
"I want to kick this kid Elijah in the teeth. You should know that." His words are soft, but the truth behind them rings loud and clear.
I sigh, unable to face him. "He's not a bad guy."
"But he's not me." Each piece of that sentence breaks my heart and I'm still too terrified to look over at him. So I remain silent, let his worlds swirl around me as I watch the fire.
The silence stretches around us.
"Why did it happen, Elena?" Damon asks, finally breaking it. "And give it to me straight. Don't feed me bullshit about distance or that you couldn't take missing me, because I know that's a lie. You're stronger than most chicks and we were capable. We could have made it work."
I sigh, building my walls up brick by brick to prepare myself for the conversation that's incredibly more arduous than the silence we were just in. Then I turn to face him. "I was okay with waiting, Damon. But I wasn't prepared to wait for you forever."
"I wasn't asking you to."
"You didn't ask me at all," the words struggle to get out, but once they do, the weight on my chest alleviates slightly.
"Is that what you wanted?"
I shouldn't do it, but I can't help it. I lift my hand to his cheek, trace the lines and shapes I've come to appreciate over the past two years, willing myself from going further. My eyes close, making sure I'm capable of looking away from him. I shouldn't feel this way still, not when I own the rights to someone else's heart. But I do. Something inside of me insists I always will.
"Yes," I breathe. "All I wanted was to be factored into your life."
"You were. You knew I thought about you every damn day."
I want to ask him if he still does, but that's not fair. To either of us.
"Yeah. But that was the present. I needed you to think about me somehow wrapped into every day of your future life."
Recognition dawns on him then, his face falling at his mistake. I've waited months for this moment, for him to finally understand, but I gain no satisfaction in it. Not like I thought I would. Because I belong to someone else now and that recognition means nothing for our futures.
"Is it still there for you?" he asks, catching me by surprise.
"What?"
"You know what."
Of course I do. I could feign ignorance, but he's too good at reading me. He'd spot the lie in a heartbeat.
"Yes." I reply, gaining so much satisfaction in the arch of his lips at that single word that I'm ashamed of myself.
So I clarify. "I'm okay with this being your life, Damon. But I'm not okay with it being mine."
Somewhere deep down in the darkest recesses of my chest lies the truth – that even now I'm okay with this life. I keep it hidden because it pains me to acknowledge it. And I keep it from him so that he doesn't have to choose between me and the life he lives. It's not a choice he can make when I remove myself from his options.
"Then why are you here?" His question is direct, same as our sight-line. I can feel it, his fingers curling around my heart as it rests in the center of his palm.
"Because we're friends."
"That's it? You sure about that?"
No. We've never been just friends. But I will not jeopardize my integrity and cheat on my boyfriend, even if every fiber of my body is begging me to.
"Tonight, yes." It's my answer to both.
. . .
"I love you."
We're lying in Damon's bed. There should be a solid foot separating us, but after five minutes, we both somehow drifted towards each other. We haven't overstepped lines until just now, when he spoke three words he can never take back.
Releasing a sigh, I let my head rest on his chest, listening to his heart beat – for me. It's a selfish move, but I'm incapable of resisting. Each pound rings in my ears, vibrates through my body, an accentuation of how he feels, how I wish I could still let myself feel. I'd let him go to protect my heart, but there's something in this moment, what I'm putting us both through, that feels much worse than waiting a multitude of years to obtain Damon's time. To call him mine.
A single tear trails down my cheek and onto the cotton of his shirt. Its warmth lingers on my skin like Damon's spoken words do in my heart. I want to shake him, wish it was easier, but somehow know it's impossible.
"I'm sorry," is what I finally whisper into the dark night. It's all I can offer at the moment, although I want to offer him every piece of me. The way I did once before. We were happier then, before I knew he'd choose his country over me and I chose another heart that didn't fit over time.
"I know," is all he says. It's clean and simple, unlike the mess we've found ourselves in.
Snow tumbles through the sky; it's visible through the windows in Damon's room and for a while we just watch it, together. When time has passed and I'm sure he's asleep, I let my eyes drift close.
It's when I hear his words.
"I would have signed the papers and gotten out if you'd asked me to."
Regret trickles into my veins and threatens to breach the rims of my eyes, but I keep them locked tight. Because in this moment, I am weak. And I can't face him, knowing we'd still be together if I'd simply opened my mouth and done the very thing I'd asked him to do – given him a choice in our future.
So I steady my breathing, taking in big gulps of air. I let them fill my lungs, replacing the emptiness inside of me as I pretend to sleep.
It's the last words spoken that night.
. . .
The following morning, I leave without waking him. Facing him in the broad daylight would be too difficult. I'm unsure I'd be able to walk away, remain as strong as I had the night before without the cloak of darkness shadowing his splendor.
When I get home, the first thing I do is break up with Elijah. Merry Christmas to me.
Christmas Eve – One Year Ago
The lights are glowing from every window of the cabin, welcoming me home. This time, I don't even knock. I throw myself through the door and into Damon's awaiting arms. He catches me with ease, fisting his fingers into locks of my hair and guides my mouth to his. I don't need guiding. I'm a compass and he's my North, I'll always find my way back to him.
Kissing him this year feels like a sigh, a release of pent up energy from another year of waiting before the next wave surges from within. It's a dangerous, delicious cycle we've developed, but I understand now that it's a cycle I'm forever locked in. My heart would have it no other way.
I waited a month after I left last year, giving him his space, until I could no longer handle the separation. It didn't matter how much distance (physical and emotional) we put between us, I still feared for his life, still ached for his heart. It was obvious Damon was the other half of me, the only piece that clicked perfectly into place. It only made sense that we be together. Whether it was through phone calls and letters, or in person. I didn't care at this point. As long as I could call him mine.
Which I do now. Frequently.
I repeat the word close to thirty times when we tumble onto his couch and make love.
. . .
"I could get used to this," Damon murmurs into my hair. It's a sweaty disheveled mess, thanks to his twisting and turning and brilliant positions during our last romp between his sheets.
I scoff, pulling back so I can level him with a glare as I bite into the last bit of my sugar cookie. "Don't get my hopes up." It's playful, of course. I assured him when we decided to make this relationship official that I would never ask him to choose between me and his profession. I'm happy to be a part of his life, any way that I can be.
His hands grab ahold of each side of my waist, reconfiguring our positions until he's resting above me. His face looks down, excitement twinkling in those beautiful eyes of his. "What if I want you to?"
"Then I'd say you're evil," I reply, poking my nose against his.
I giggle, but he remains in place, lips in a straight line. "I mean it, Elena." Something in his demeanor shifts; he's serious. "This time, next year, I'll be out."
I capture the words that just fell from his lips, absorbing their meaning. When a smile slowly stretches over my lips, he mimics the action.
"I'm choosing you," he proclaims.
Excitement is swimming through my veins, threatening to over-rule every rational portion of my brain. But I hold on just long enough to say, "You don't have to." And I mean it.
I can write anywhere, follow him from different cities, or wait in them while he's overseas. I'll stay with him this way forever; if serving his country makes him happy then I'll take it. No matter the dangers. No matter the distance. No matter the heartache. Because all that matters to me anymore is being with him, and making him happy. It's what makes me happy.
But apparently the same stands true for him too because he assures me, "I want to."
The grin I sport is so large I fear it's going to crack my face wide open. My insides feel like jello and I'm uncertain it's fair for someone to be this content.
"I love you." Truer words have never left my lips. "And this present of yours."
"I'm glad, since the plane landed late and I hate to bust my ass getting here. Didn't leave much time to get you a real gift." Shooting me a wink, he adds, "I'll make up for it later."
I laugh, pulling him against me. "I'm sure you will. And I do. It's better than any gift I could ever give you."
"Like I've said before, Elena, you are the only present I ever need. That beats mine, every time." His dedication has shivers trailing down my spine, goosebumps rising on my skin, and a mega-watt smile pulling on my lips.
He kisses me fervently, pulling back to ask, "Next year, can you meet me here on December 23rd?"
"Why then?"
"It's when I'm officially finished with my time and I'll be home." It's one of the most delightful sentences I've ever heard.
"Okay then. I'll meet you here."
December 23rd – Present Day:
It's the beginning of the rest of our lives. My heart is racing, but this time, I know the reason behind its accelerated pounding.
It's pure excitement. To finally have my man in my arms, to never saying goodbye again, to waking up each and every day with the sun shining through the window onto his face as it rests beside mine.
I've waited four years for this day. I've never been more ready for anything, ever.
Wading through a fresh foot of snow, snowflakes attack my face as I run to Damon's door. When I reach the front porch, I notice the lights are off. It's odd but not entirely un-nerving. I knock, three times, and wait for a response, only to come up empty handed. When silence meets me on the other side after another round of knocks, I make my way towards the back of his cabin. His Jeep is nowhere to be found, which settles my nerves a bit.
Clearly, he just ran to the store to get cookie dough or milk or eggs or something else we need to make this Christmas Eve as traditional as ones from the past. Or maybe he's gone out to get an tree since I'll finally be staying for the actual holiday instead of just its eve. I repeat the rationalizations in my head when I reach under one of his potted plants in the back and grab his spare key.
When I twist it in the front lock and open the door, it's crystal clear that no one has been here for weeks, months maybe. There are layers of dust on the side table next to the door, no fire or wood in the heart of the fireplace, and the refrigerator is unplugged.
Thankfully the lights still work. I flip on the switch and close the door, stepping into the cabin to inspect it further. That's when my eyes land on the white envelope resting on the kitchen counter. My name is scrawled in Damon's handwriting across the front and my hands shake when I lift it to rip open the back.
A life insurance form from the United States Government, authorized in the amount of $250,000 falls from the packing before I can get the letter out. Curiously, I look at it, noticing my name in the beneficiary spot. No. Not a fucking chance.
My heart races, no longer from excitement, but from nerves. Blood is pumping towards my head, making everything red, as my pulse pounds in my ears.
No.
No.
No.
Scurrying as fast as I can, I open the letter, written in scratchy handwritten I have come to recognize as Damon's from the hundreds of letters he's written me over the years.
The only portion I make it through is the first two lines.
My Dearest Elena,
I hope you never have to read this letter. But if you are, I am so incredibly sorry.
I crumble like a paper bag.
Christmas Eve – Present Day:
I've heard of agony. I've heard of longing, and of heartbreak, and of losing yourself. But I never knew any of those could fail in comparison to the emotional depths of what I feel right now.
I'm hopeless.
There's a winter storm raging outside, rivaling the one happening inside of my chest, but I wouldn't know the full extent of it. I haven't left Damon's house, haven't been able to pick myself up from his kitchen floor for a solid 24 hours even though my throat is swollen shut from the sobs, my eyes burn from the tears I've shed and ran out of, and my stomach aches from the dry heaving I've done. There's nothing in it, I haven't eaten a single thing, but still, I have the urge to throw up.
It might have something to with the dizziness, the speed in which the world keeps spinning around me. I'm incapable of stopping it, and yet, incapable of moving myself.
Damon's letter is clutched between my fingers, creased, and blotted, and tattered by every emotion it's suffered. I've saved so many of them, each one mapping out the evolution of our relationship, but this marks the conclusion of it. Long before it's time. I've read it a hundred times by now, at least, hoping the words will somehow change, that they won't dictate the very terms of his money being transferred over to me because he's no longer alive to claim it.
I don't want his money, this cabin, and I certainly don't want more sentimental words about how his world pretty much started and ended with me. Because nothing means anything without him.
The wind howls against the window, and the floor creaks beneath me. It's daylight outside, but all I see is darkness. And frankly, I'm not ready to leave it. So I slide back onto the floor, let my face rest against the cool wooden floorboards. It matches my insides, the cold avalanche of misery I'm powerless against. Then I close my eyes and beg to fall asleep so I can retreat to nothing. If only for a little while.
. . .
I wake again when it's evening. The only light still on is the one right inside of the door. Without a fire, the inside of the cabin feels hollow, unkind. For a minute I forget where I am, that I'm here without the presence of the man I love before I fall again, pummeling into dark recesses I never knew existed. The sounds that fill the cabin sound awful and rabid, certainly not human. Then again, I no longer feel human, just an empty shell of the person I once was.
Desperate for something to cling onto, I lift the paper in my hand. I wipe the haziness from my eyes with the back of my forearm and read one of the clearer lines on Damon's letter. It also happens to be the most heart-rending.
In the darkest places I went, you are the reason I knew the world was still beautiful. Carry me with you like I did you.
His poetic words assault me from the page. The salty tears well in the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill down my cheeks. It's another torrential downpour, I can feel it. I should get up, at least to go to the bathroom or replenish the water in my body, but I can't bring myself to do so.
So I focus on breathing, on surviving each minute. It's easier said than done. Tomorrow, I'll try harder. Tonight is just too damn hard.
With my knees lifted to my chest, I eventually drift back to sleep.
. . .
The floor is where he finds me, curled together, making it easier for him to wrap me up. He says my name, whispers it against the skin of my cheek. It soothes my bones and fills the holes in my heart.
A few seconds pass where I'm sure he's a figment of my imagination. I have evidence of his death in my hands. So surely, this is what it feels like when all of the feelings bottled inside just go away.
"I'm sorry I'm late."
His soft, melodic voice is what flips the switch, draining all of the despair from my body and replacing it with life. I blink, just to make sure he won't disappear. Once. Twice. He's still there.
My heart pumps, surging purpose through my veins and thrusting my arms forward. They wrap around his torso, cling to him like adhesive tape. I breathe him in, soak in the astonishing musk I thought was forever ripped from my life.
Tears tumble down my cheeks. I was certain I'd cried them all, but warm liquid finds it way over the rims of my eyes and on my face. They're completely different tears this time.
Damon pulls back, just far enough to let me study his face as he wipes the liquid off of mine with the pads of his thumb. I memorize it this time, assure myself that it is forever engrained on the back of my eyelids. I'm never losing this sight again. Hell, I may never leave his side again.
"It's okay." He soothes.
"It will be." It comes out as sort of a half laugh, half sob. "Where were you, Damon?"
"My flight was delayed by the storm and then when I was finally able to land, the roads were closed." He leans forward, places a soft kiss against my forehead. I relish in his touch. "I drove anyway, but it took forever."
Removing my hands from the back of his camouflage jacket, I try to flick some of the tension from them. He takes the opportunity to lift me from the floor, placing me on the counter.
"You should have called," I say. The words aren't accusatory, just words. There's no way in hell I'm capable of being angry with him at the moment. All I feel is relief, I'm consumed by it.
"I did, about a hundred damn times. But it kept going straight to voicemail. Service sucks out here."
He hands me a glass of water, which I sip tentatively. My stomach is still a mess, but now the aches have been replaced by an all-familiar frenzied flapping of wings. "I was terrified. I found your letter and I thought after all of these years of waiting and hoping you were safe, that fate was an awful bastard and decided to…" I can't even finish the sentence, it's too cruel, the memory of me wrecked on the floor too fresh.
"I know," he whispers, the typical marvel of his face shadowed in guilt and grief. "I'm so sorry, babe. I got here as soon as I could."
"It's not your fault," I assure him, desperate to remove that look from his features. "I'm just happy you're safe and here."
Damon's fingers thread through my hair and I lean into his touch. He scoffs. "Of course I am. We have a tradition that I couldn't break." I follow his eyes as they glance at the clock across the room, only to notice it's 12:08am. Releasing a sigh, he threads his fingers through my hair. "Which fuck, I still did. Sorry I couldn't make it for Christmas Eve."
"I don't care," I assure, smiling at him as he brushes a few ribbons of hair behind my ear. "You walking through that door is the best present I could have ever asked for."
"I still say you are." He leans in, brushing his lips against mine. The current from his touch, the one I crave when he's not around, flows through me, rejuvenating everything.
"Never again having to say goodbye is," I correct.
"We can agree on that one. I'm sorry to say that you're stuck with me for life because, Elena Gilbert, I am never leaving you again."
Looking at him still in his uniform, his duffle bag lying by the door, I'm suddenly aware of its truth. No more helpless nights, no more clutching pillows, no more threatening situations and no more glancing up at the sky to feel closer to him. I'm finally obtaining a form of happiness I've been reaching for my entire life. I consider the things this man has given up for me, the life he has given up for me. And I'm awed. Realizing how much we've both earned this is humbling and I mentally promise to make his choice worthwhile, every day of our lives.
"I'm counting on it."
The smirk resting on his mouth has a wicked result on my insides. "Good because there's a box I have for you in my pocket, but we'll get to that later tonight."
He shrugs as though his words hold no significance, but I feel the weight of them instantly. Cherish it. Revel in it.
"You promise?" I question, doing a terrible job of shielding the excitement radiating from me. "Because I already have my answer."
"Absolutely." His smirk increases, vanishing only when he lowers his lips and pushes them into mine. They fuse together, the way they were always meant to. "Merry Christmas, Elena."
"Yes, it is. Finally," I reply, when we separate and he slides slightly down my legs. "Merry Christmas, Damon."
"And to many more in the future," he says, slipping a box into the air and popping the top. Nestled inside is a modest diamond ring, princess cut to perfection. It fits me to a T. When my eyes become wide as saucers and my hands go to cover my gasping mouth, he shrugs. "I realized I'm tired of waiting."
I look from the ring and into the piercing blue eyes that captured my heart from across a room of people four years ago and never let it go. At one point, I tried, and other points, we fumbled. But ultimately, we hung on.
"Me too."
I nod like an idiot, frantic little jerks of my head, before he slips the ring on without hesitation. All the while, I watch him, the smile on my lips incapable of being removed. Then I pull him into me, sealing our fate, a promise that from here on out we choose each other. It's the life we always wanted. The one we waited four years for.
If any of you made it through that thing, THANK YOU.
Honestly, when I chose this prompt and even when I started writing it, I'd intended on ending this tragically, with Damon's death. Not because I'm an evil biatch who gains satisfaction in your agony, but because it's something I've never done before. (Spoiler Alert: All of my stories tend to have happy endings.) But when I got to the end of this thing, I realized why that was. I LIKE happy endings. I adore them, cherish them. So I couldn't do it, hence the last bit. Maybe it would have been better and held more impact with Damon's death, but this is more me. And I hope y'all (especially you, Laura) enjoyed it. Since I missed Christmas, I'm wish everyone a Happy New Years!
Please Read and Review. :)
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