Disclaimer: Ummhmm, no, this doesn't belong to me. I promise. I don't even like these characters (uhhuh, that one was a lie). Enjoy this one; it's weird and possibly wonderful.

Elena had been here, in his room, more than once, when he had been feeling extra welcoming – which, in true Damon fashion, meant that he was feeling just a tiny bit welcoming at all. She stood in the doorway awkwardly as he looked up from the book he was reading – another rare occurrence – and waited for him to notice her.

He had noticed her immediately, her scent, her slow grace, the sound of her breathing and the quiet stillness she held that directly opposed his natural... enthusiasm... and fitted almost impeccably into her solid, enticing, incredible relationship with Stefan.

"What?" He asked, raising an eyebrow and frowning slightly as her heartbeat quickened. She had not expected his swift response, and she had jolted as he smirked at her sudden fright. "Sorry." His lips moved before he could consider the words, and her answering smile was one he had not quite expected.

"No, no!" She said, raising a hand. She had always waited, outside his room, to be invited in. Offering him the same courtesy as the one he was forced to live with was one thing she felt right. She felt better for it; he felt a little bit more welcome – just a little – though it was enough for him to glance up in her direction and nod. "I didn't expect you to be busy."

"Would you like to come in?" Again, he spoke without realising, and, ducking his head, acquiesced to her silent request to join him on the bed. She crossed the room, removed her shoes and drew her knees up to her chest, looking at the various objects on his mantelpiece, waiting for the elder Salvatore to begin the conversation which always, always ended the same way.

'What are you looking at?'

'Those... things.' She would wave her hand, almost waiving a right to ask the next question, 'Where did you get them all?'

'Places.' He would shrug, not looking at the items, pretending they were invisible, or, perhaps, hoping they were no longer there. As though this were a scene they had practised, being acted upon a stage, Elena would glance up, at the ceiling, then at Damon, and back to the assorted items on the mantelpiece. She would rise and then, as she touched the first item, a small, black wristband, fastened at both ends with a piece of steel or silver, Elena was never enlightened, Damon would appear at her shoulder and pull her away. 'I'd like you to leave, Elena.'

It was never a command, it was never a question. A simple statement that she always heeded, watching for his reaction as she took her silent steps away from him, rubbing her bare feet on the carpet because she had forgotten to return to the bed and pick up her small, light slip-ons. There would be silence for the longest time, she would most likely return to Stefan, and Damon would most likely return to whatever he had been doing in the moments before Elena had disturbed him.

It was either that, or he would leave to find his latest victim. Elena never waited, Elena never knew.

"Well, aren't you going to start staring at my fireplace, Elena?" Her thoughts of those conversations – if one could call them that – were shattered by Damon's voice. "It's been ten minutes, I'm getting antsy."

"Very funny," She whispered, hating raising her voice in his room. It felt... almost sacrilegious. As though somebody else belonged there, sitting on the bed with him, not her. Not Elena.

"What's wrong?"

"I just..." She glanced at him; he had, as per usual, one eyebrow raised and a small crease in his forehead as he waited, patiently for her to speak. Unlike him, she mused as she considered telling him the truth, then decided against it. "It's nothing."

"Said the hypochondriac. Two days later, he was dead." Damon laughed at his own joke – another unusual point of the conversation, and relaxed against his pillows. "Come on, Elena, I know it's something, otherwise you wouldn't have lied. That's like the first rule of being a woman, isn't it? If it's something, 'it's nothing'?" He mimicked her quietly, and she let out a harsh bark of laughter, enjoying this conversation, even though really, this had not been her aim.

"Fine." She hmph'ed and he rolled his eyes. "I was asking Stefan about what you guys did between... Katherine," She paused to see him stiffen, then lean back against his pillows again, trying not to show off his discomfort before she could begin to say another word. "And coming here..."

"Not a lot." He was short with her, not facing her, but staring at the window with a small frown on his face. "... well, there was a lot that Stefan did, but there was nothing," He stopped and Elena saw his eyes flicker over to the mantelpiece, straight to the thick, leather bracelet he was so defensive of, before he spoke again. "Nothing, particularly interesting about my side."

She sighed and shrugged at his attempt at indifference, her lips curving into a slight smile as she realised that his reaction was certainly not one of apathy.

"And I would appreciate it if we didn't have the same scene as usual, Elena." He muttered suddenly, in such a tone that she probably should have nodded and left the room. Feeling particularly impetuous, she disregarded him entirely and rose to pick up the band again. "I. Said. No!"

In a blink, he had his hand tight around her wrist, gripping her so hard that she let out a quiet whimper and tried to step back. With eyes darker than polished ebony, he hissed the words again, and her fingers released the leather strap, hearing it to fall to the floor with a quiet noise. Her voice would not come to her as he released her in turn and crouched to the floor, cradling the band in his fingers and murmuring in Italian.

"Mi dispiace, mi... mi dispiace," The words became a chant and Elena blinked, almost transfixed at his frozen form, holding his hands together as though he were cradling a child. He wanted... he needed to apologise, but for what, she did not know.

"Damon?" She tried his name; he merely glanced up at her and demanded she leave immediately. In Italian. She stared straight back at him, repeating his name in almost a growl.

"You don't touch my things." He growled, this time in perfectly understandable English, and she flinched. She did not mean for their conversation to go that way, and she wanted him to know that, but his words were more frightening than any silence she had ever experienced. "Leave, Elena."

"What?" Surely he wasn't serious? "Damon, I-I'm sorry-"

"No, Elena, you're going to leave," He said furiously, "Whatever happened between Francesca and-" He stopped and shook his head. "Elena, please."

There was silence as Elena crossed the room, once again not thinking about her shoes, which lay on the floor beside Damon's bed, forgotten in anger and confusion. Damon waited until she was gone; he waited for solitude to replace the bracelet on the mantelpiece. He did not wait to cry.

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