A/N: Lately all I've been able to think about is these two. I'll be sitting in class, listening to my teacher drone on about integrals and derivatives, and I'll just be daydreaming about possible scenarios where Damon and Elena get together. So then, of course, I have to write it down. It's wreaking havoc on my grades, but the upside is, you get random one-shots out of it!

(On that note, I have three other one-shots and maybe even a chapter story in the works…be excited!)

So without further ado…

Enjoy, and please don't favorite without reviewing!

I think I'll be brave, starting with you.
- Brave by Tawgs Salter

He comes to her on a nondescript day, when there are flowers blooming on the trees and no clouds in sight. Elijah's deal has worked exactly as he said it would, and the only pressing matter is the werewolves in the town. The full moon is weeks away, though, so even that danger seems far away. It's one of those days when the air feels ripe with possibilities, even the ones that have no business imagining themselves into reality.

Even the ones that only one of those involved can admit.

He knocks on her door instead of just sneaking in her window like he usually does. It's the second sign that this visit will surprise her, that it won't be like his others. The first is the fact that he comes during the day as opposed to the night, which he seems to be fond of (something about the fitting metaphor for his eternal existence).

She barrels down the stairs, haphazardly pulling a brush through her completely unmanageable hair. "Coming!" She hollers, trying her best to disguise her irritation. She was leisurely reading when she heard the knock. She hates being interrupted when she's reading.

She throws open the door without much regard to the possible danger. One of the benefits of having vampires as her prime menace is that her safety in her own house is pretty much guaranteed. Unless she invites someone in, they can't get in, no matter what.

Of course, her reasoning is rather flawed – not to mention unimportant – because the vampire on her doorstep is one who practically lives in her house, and she in his.

Damon.

Her face breaks into a wide smile. "Damon!" She exclaims eagerly, unable to control the excitement and happiness that floods her voice. It's an irrational response, and also the most natural one she musters these days. She's always happy to see him, even when he's being his usual infuriating self and trying to foil all her brilliant plans. Which is often.

He smiles weakly, obviously a bit confused and maybe put off by her enthusiasm. She understands, of course; her grin at the sight of him still isn't enough.

It'll probably never be enough.

Her brow furrows unhappily. Things have been good between them lately. She thinks maybe she's finally forgiven him, and he's been perfect, really, the greatest version of himself she knows: spitting out snarky comebacks like he was born to; defusing any and all tension between her and Stefan, expertly hiding how much it hurts him; going after Jules with a fiery vengeance that plainly reveals his pain over Rose's death. But especially, most importantly, she thinks, he hasn't pushed her. He knows where they stand, and he's left it alone, despite the snippets of memories that have begun to come back to her.

To put it bluntly: she doesn't know why he's here, but she's glad he is.

"Can I come in?" He asks gently, after an awkward, albeit charged, silence. He sounds so unsure of himself that she can only nod dumbly, stupefied by the uselessness of such a question. Of course he can come in.

And not just because she granted him access more than a year ago.

He hesitates, teetering on the edge of something they might not ever be ready for. But he must decide his purpose here is worth the inevitable fall-out, because he walks slowly through the doorway, his gaze holding with hers. She feels inexplicably, ferociously frozen. Literally. She finds she can't move.

He moves deliberately, pausing by Jenna's favorite antique table. He cocks his head, intense concentration blazing in his eyes. She cocks her head, too, mirroring his movements in that instinctive way they have, puzzled by the action. He's standing in the middle of the living room, body angled toward the stairs. She would think he's just performing his usual security routine, except it's different from the way he checks for intruders; pure, naked curiosity settles in his eyes. It's almost personal.

Oh.

Suddenly, it hits her. She feels a hot wave of stupidity wash over her. God, it's so obvious. This makes all the sense in the world. She can't believe she didn't recognize the enormity of this situation.

He's checking for other people in the house, yes. But he's listening for heartbeats: Jeremy, Jenna, Alaric, or even Bonnie. He's checking for her family and friends. He's checking to make sure no one else is here. To make sure no one hears them.

Because he has something to say.

She swallows thickly, blood rushing to her cheeks. Pretty much nothing Damon says requires privacy. In fact, she's almost positive most of his comments are meant for an audience. So this…this must be important. It must have the potential to change things, to cripple their carefully constructed foundation.

So of course, she already knows what he's going to say.

And she should stop him. She should tell him to walk right out the door and leave her alone. She should grumble and groan and gripe at him, tell him not to go there. Really, she should tell him not to complicate things between them. Not when they've accomplished so much together in so little time.

But she's tired of fighting him. In her mind, she unequivocally casts him as the Bad Brother, but her heart knows better. There is no black and white, only grey. He may be wicked, and he may be evil. But there is more good in him than anyone but her will ever know – more good in him than Stefan, maybe. She's afraid that if she denies the strength of their connection one more time, just one more time, that good will be gone forever.

And no matter what happens, no matter what he says, no matter what he does, she simply can't have that. When she catches glimpses of his humanity, she feels like she has stared directly at the sun. She cannot look away; she does not want to. It is far, far too beautiful.

Too precious.

And so she'll let him say what he came here to say. She doesn't think she can physically stop him anyways. Her mouth isn't working. She feels like she's permanently rooted to the spot. To him.

And really, she surprises herself. She wants to hear those three words, the three words she longs for sometimes. She needs to hear them.

He needs to say them.

So she uncrosses her arms from her chest, looks at him with fire, the fire she only lets burn for him, anyways. She tries to make her face open, real, vulnerable. Trusting. She's aware that he's going to need some serious encouragement if he's going to go through with this. Surely he's been holding this all inside for a long time now; this can't be easy for him.

Finally, he shifts slightly to face her, remonstrations complete. He takes in her splayed hands at her sides, her wide, doe-like eyes, the slight hint of a smile playing about her lips. He must realize that she's not going to resist the declaration that's sure to come; his shoulders drop the slightest bit, the tightening around his eyes relaxing. She realizes he expected a fight, and she's glad she's not giving him one. They haven't fought in so long.

They've finally found peace with each other.

"How are you?" He asks at last, uncomfortably, roughly, edging just an inch closer to her. The words are so stilted, so unlike his usual smooth deliveries, that she can't help but laugh outright.

He glares at her, some sort of hurt lurking in that inimitable blue, and she sobers immediately. "Sorry," she mutters, chagrined, shrugging one tan shoulder meaningfully. "It's just…" She takes a purposeful step towards him, feeling like she's going to ignite under the heat of his gaze. "That's not really what you came here to say." She lets a beat of silence pass. "Is it?"

He's clearly shocked by her refusal to shy away from this; he raises his eyebrows, taking a shuffling step towards her. She waits.

He just shakes his head. Because there's no point in denying his purpose. She's not in any danger, not right now anyways. And there is too much determination in his eyes for the casual visits that have become routine over the past few weeks. This is something different, and they both know it.

She knows it, even if she's tried to ignore it.

And she sees it, really, the moment he decides he's going to be honest. The moment he decides to be brave. His eyes become a little more blue and his smirk becomes a little more pronounced, and he moves closer still, gaze unwavering, searching.

"I don't know," he whispers, surprising her with the force of his resolve, jumping right into it as if there's no point in lying anymore. "But I can't hide from you anymore. Hell, I don't want to hide. You make me feel –"

"Make you feel what?" She prods, interested despite herself. She should be bothered by this conversation, but all she can think of is the fact that he's here. He's here. After all this time, after everything that's happened, he's still here.

With her.

His eyes are full of wonder. He doesn't hesitate this time. "You make me feel human."

And without warning, she starts to cry. Of all the things he could have said, this is what might break her the most – break her into the pieces he always, always puts back together. Because he revels in his undead life, and the admission that she makes him feel otherwise must cost him. She wants to hold him.

He chuckles at the myriad of emotions rippling through her face, emotions she can't control. "Never thought I'd say that," he murmurs, only a little embarrassed. "And trust me, I still love being a vampire – eternal superiority and all that. But I –"

He can't finish, and she doesn't think she wants him to. She softens instead.

"I don't know what to say," she admits, flailing with the pain of so much honesty. She knows what she could say; she could tell him she has never been more touched. She could tell him he makes her feel that way, too, even if it doesn't quite translate. She could tell him, she could tell him, she could tell him…but the words die on her lips. Even now, even when he's completely bare for her, she doesn't have the courage.

He smiles, bittersweet. "Well, that's the beauty of something like this," he assures her, coming just the slightest bit closer, his hands ghosting across her face, the touch simple and pure. "You don't have to say anything. Nothing at all."

It's like poison, or maybe potion; she can't tell. Because his fingers linger on her cheeks, and he kisses her forehead. And it feels like a moment that stretches longer and longer, stretches deeper, too, if only she would let it.

"I don't know what I'm asking you for," he murmurs, eyes troubled, conflicted, like they only are when he can't reel in his emotions, can't conceal how much he cares (for her). "I just know I'm asking you."

She bites her lip. She's lost.

"Asking me what?" she pushes, breathless with the weight of his words. She knows she shouldn't be indulging him like this, shouldn't be inching ever so slightly closer to him. But a raging curiosity – and something else, something that is making her heart rattle incessantly in her chest – forces her on, pulls her in his direction.

As always.

He smiles again, pure, wonderful. "I don't know," he says truthfully, his eyebrows knitted together. The vulnerability in his eyes is utterly endearing, and also completely disturbing. He is really only ever vulnerable with her.

It's a sobering thought. Here he is, pouring out his heart to her, uninhibited, uncensored. And she is just standing there, dumbfounded, shocked, unmoving.

Cold.

And she knows exactly why. She heaves an inward sigh. Of course she knew this was coming, and she's been preparing herself for this onslaught of emotion. Or, rather, she's been trying to block the possible emotions out. She doesn't want to feel everything his words will make her feel, if she gives them the release they've been craving: happy, relieved, excited, right. She just can't do it.

But she falters when he finally notices her numbness. His eyes harden, and he takes a subtle step away. "Oh," he says, mostly to himself, and she would smile at how nervous he suddenly seems, except the sight breaks her, somehow. "Okay, I understand. I shouldn't have done this, I didn't think –"

He keeps blabbering, if blabbering was something Damon Salvatore did. His eyes dart about the room, as if planning his escape, and his hands curl into hard, tight fists. She watches him with fondness, the way his raven hair is sticking up haphazardly, the grimace flitting across his face. It's a fondness that often overtakes her in his presence.

She watches him, and she starts to feel.

It takes a while. Slowly, slowly, as if her real emotions are testing the deep, seemingly impenetrable waters of her façade, her sense of love for him – it's undeniable, and his eyes are just too blue – begins to flood her body. She trembles. She's spent so long repressing these feelings, refusing to believe that her attachment to him even exists. She's had good reason to, of course.

He's sadistic; he's cruel; he has no regard for humanity, or human life for that matter; she's in love with his brother; he's still in love with Katherine.

But now, when she realizes that he is honestly asking her if they will ever have a future together, she can't suppress all the thoughts she has about him when she lets her guard down, even the slightest bit. She can't force herself to push him away for the sake of doing the right thing.

The thought makes her heart skip a beat. It's not entirely unpleasant.

His eyes trace the curve of her eyebrows, his lower lip quivering. She feels old. So very, very old.

"I love you, you know," he confesses casually, like it should be obvious.

And it is obvious. It has been obvious for a long, long time.

The words wash over her like a beam of golden light. And although this moment is monumental, a turning point in their relationship, it feels like the words have always hovered in her mind, a beacon, the constant she depends on. The knowledge is a part of her.

(He is a part of her, too).

"I know," she whispers at last. She's resigned to this now. She knows she'll end the night in his arms. Only one problem remains: she doesn't know how she feels about that.

But she holds his gaze, determined not to look away. It feels important, somehow. He was brave enough to confess an emotion he believes she doesn't reciprocate. Surely she can be brave enough to give him the honesty he has always deserved?

His eyes are soft. He waits. It feels like they've been waiting forever.

And then, the words she never believed could be true spring from her mouth.

"I love you."

And God does she mean it.

She loves Stefan, of course. Maybe she always will. But that doesn't change the fact that she loves Damon, too. She loves them both. It's not always going to be Stefan, not anymore. It's Damon, and Stefan, and all these emotions she can't muddle through. All these things she can't hold inside.

If he's shocked by her completely voluntary admission, he doesn't show it. His eyes just blaze, warm and liquid, and he closes the distance between them once again. His fingers find her chin, and he tilts her face upward, his gaze lingering on the angelic bow of her lips.

"That's okay, you know," he whispers, his voice low and sincere. His hand cups her chin almost protectively, his sweet breath wafting over her. "You don't have to feel guilty about it."

She refuses to move away, but she grimaces slightly. She hates that he knows her so well. She supposes, though, that it was always inevitable.

She shakes her head. "But I do feel guilty," she stresses, leaning into him a little, as if his very aura is pulling her in, keeping her where she is (as if she could ever leave). "I've felt guilty about this for so long."

His eyes widen. She grins sheepishly. She guesses he knew how she felt, but he didn't know that the realization has been preying on her mind for weeks now. She didn't come to this conclusion lightly. It's not like him just waltzing into her room and proclaiming his love for her changed her mind. No. His declaration just opened the dam, letting loose the water she's not strong enough to hold back anymore.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, ferocious, devastating. She knows exactly what he's apologizing for. She wishes she didn't, but she does.

Her heart contracts. She shakes her head, pain resonating in the tilt of her neck. "No," she promises, and she's surprised by how vehemently she says it, as if nothing matters more than making sure he believes her. "It's not your fault."

Not all her problems are his fault.

He seems hesitant to accept her easy disregard of his blame in her guilt; his eyes dart about her face, as if searching for confirmation. With a sigh, she lets her hands drift up to his face, lost in his worry. Her fingers stroke his skin, soothing, gentle, like they were when he discovered Katherine wasn't in the tomb. "I don't regret it," she says softly (she could never regret it). "It's just hard."

He nods, his fingers dancing along her neck. There's such wonder in his touch, as if he can't quite believe that his hands are caressing her skin, can't quite believe that she's not pushing him away. "I understand," he murmurs, and she knows he does, because he loves Stefan just as much as she does, "And I'm sorry."

She starts to shake her head again, starts to say that she doesn't want him to apologize. But his fingers delicately draw her lips together, and he kisses her forehead, light, affectionate. "I'm sorry to tell you this now, when you have so much on your mind," he clarifies, biting his bottom lip, uncharacteristically nervous. "I'm sorry to burden you with this. I just couldn't wait any longer. And it's not because Klaus is after you. It's not because you look like Katherine. I just…I love you. It's the only way I know how to say it."

She smiles, her eyes watering slightly. She has cried so much lately, mostly out of fear and regret. But this feels different.

"It's enough," she manages to whisper. And it is enough. It's more than enough.

He pulls back, a certain, unmistakable joy spreading into his eyes. "I know it's horrible timing," he assures her, and she feels every inch of her collapse, mold herself to this new understanding, "And I'm not asking you for anything, I promise. We can carry on exactly as we did before. I just needed you to know. What with everything that's going on, I wanted you to know, so that no matter what happens next, you'll always know how much I care about you."

Her breath catches in her throat as she stares at him, perfect lips curved in a real, soaring smile. It's such a selfless thing for him to do. He has been so selfless lately, really.

She nods slightly, barely able to resist crushing her lips to his. "I know," she tells him, feeling so acutely that when this is all over, she'll be his, as surely as he has always been hers. "Thank you."

She means it.

He smiles. She falls.

She will admit that she loves his smirk – it's sexy and hysterical and infuriating and so inherently Damon that she can't help but be a little addicted to it. But his smile is pleasant – lovely, even – in a very different way; it seeps into her, submerging in her core, reverberating from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She feels that smile in every pore of her body. She feels him.

"You know I'll always protect you," he tells her, smiling that blinding smile. It's a promise he makes with such fierce tenderness that she sways on her feet. He means it in so many ways, in every way possible, and she loves him for it.

And she decides not to think about anything else but this moment. She doesn't think about the status of their relationship-that-isn't-a-relationship. She doesn't worry about Stefan's possible heartache, about Bonnie's indignant disdain, about Caroline's upturned nose and Jeremy's disapproval. She doesn't think about anyone else but him, because he is what she wants.

It's all that seems to matter right now.

So she leans further into him, her fingers sliding down his face, lingering on his neck. It's almost too intimate, really, but she feels something in her heart expand, and she knows it's right.

And without further deliberation, she wraps her arms around him and hugs him.

She rests her full weight on him, and he takes it gladly; he takes all of her, every angry word and caustic glare, gladly. His arms snake to hold her close, and he cradles her head to his chest, his lips on her hair. He doesn't say anything, and she realizes how wholly, how fully she doesn't need him to. They've said everything that matters.

She breathes in his familiar scent of pine needles and mint, and she lets him hold her. She trusts him with the weight of this moment, trusts him with her tears and her hope. She trusts him with her heart.

She has always trusted him. And now, she lets herself feel.

fin

Please let me know what you think!

And I have exciting news: Fairytale87, author of the phenomenal Unholiest of Tortures,and I have decided to form a joint account, where we'll post stories we write together! We're currently in the process of writing an incredibly epic one-shot, and an even epic-er chapter story! Check us out at fairyromanticTVD :)