Funny story. Stefan and Damon's father had been vamped. He had come to Fell's Church. And daddy dearest had made it very clear that he was visiting Stefan.
Elena thought of herself as a good friend so she'd been letting Damon stay at her house for the last few nights, and the next week, while their father was in town. She saw him crack his back and she eyed the offending chair.
"That must be hurting your back." She stated, working up to her suggestion.
"Vampire." He shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal, but she could tell it was hurting him.
"Still…"
"Elena," he said as she dropped off, "I'm not exiling you to the chair."
"You wouldn't be exiling me, genius. We'd share."
He stood up slowly and walked over to the bed, lying down. "Graci," he whispered in his native tongue. He said something in Italian that she couldn't have repeated, even if she weren't afraid of butchering the beautiful words. "Means, goodnight beautiful girl." He translated before she could ask. She was going to tell him he couldn't say things like that when she was with his brother but by the time she had formulated a legit argument, he was asleep. She cuddled into him and, asleep or not, he threw an arm around her waist.
"What is going on here?" Stefan asked dangerously.
"Damon's been staying here the past few nights."
"Why?" He hissed. Why? He had seen the whole 'Ah, Damon. I'm here to visit Stefan' scene and he wanted to know why Damon was here?
"Your father made it perfectly clear that Damon wasn't welcome. Where would you have him go?" She raised her eyebrows defiantly.
"But you're sharing a bed."
"I didn't want him sleeping in the chair and he refused to kick me out of my bed, so we compromised, get off my back!"
"Belissima Elena?" Damon muttered, "Go back to bed, will you?" he said with a trace of that Italian accent he had never lost, the one Stefan had long forgotten. Damon insisted on using Italian on several occasions. First, when he was being romantic or sweet. Second, when he didn't want her to understand what he was saying. Third, when he was cursing and ranting—because a lady shouldn't hear such words as he would use when he lapsed into Italian. She loved the sound of his voice when he spoke Italian, because she didn't have to understand the words to know what he was saying. And, even if it was coming from Damon, in a foreign language, at the oddest times, it was still nice to hear them. Stefan's eyes watched as she laid back down next to Damon, and grabbed his arm, bringing it around her again. Purely out of spite. Because she was mad at Stefan. Not because it made her feel safer. Not because it was comfortable. Certainly not because she liked it. She was just mad at Stefan. Yes, she knew, she was a terrible, horrible liar. Even to herself.
"Elena," he raised his voice slightly.
"Stefan," she answered quietly but venomously, "quit with the heart attack, quit being jealous, and please quit this room!"
Stefan was gone.
Damon muttered something in Italian. Talking in his sleep she supposed.