Tonight I'll have a look and try to find my face again

Buried beneath this house my spirit screams and dies again

Outback a monster wears a coat of Persian leather

Behind the TV screen I've fallen to my knees

I said you got my where you want me again and I can't turn away

I'm hangin' by a thread and I'm feeling' like a fool

I'm stuck here in between the shadows of my yesterday

I wanna get away, I need to get away

Damon's breathing hitched as Elena leaned forward again, lips pressed against his in need. He pulled back slightly, making her face fall in disppointment. "W-what about Stefan?" he asked, his breathing levelling out. He was so close to falling over the edge again, and he definitely didn't like falling into a dark abyss, like he had before. Hopefully Elena wouldn't bring that up. He brought up his composure like a brick wall between them, sealing off his soul again, making a flash of rage go through her eyes.

"What about Stefan?" she asked, running her index finger down his chest, making him shudder in desire. She smiled when she saw the reluctance leave his eyes, the acceptance replacing it. He smirked, then flipped her over, baring his fangs and letting the blood drain out of the veins around his eyes. He snarled, and her desire faded, replaced by fear.

"What the hell, Katherine?" he snarled, pressing her deeper into the couch cushions. "I know it's you, so stop playing around with me!" What'd this bitch want? To mess with his mind some more? She'd seen him vulnerable before, she'd taken care of him, and for what? To torment him with her lies?

"Ow—Damon, it's Elena, it's not Katherine! Please, Damon, you're hurting me," she whispered, tears starting to flow down her cheeks. Almost immediately, his heart tore in two, the veins refilling and his vision dimming again. Maybe he'd already fallen again and he just hadn't noticed it. He breathed out shakily, releasing her and collapsing on the couch arm, hand over his eyes, fingers rubbing his temples. She sat up slowly, reaching over to him, grabbing his hand and making him look at her. He didn't resist. He'd do anything for her. "Damon, it's okay. Stefan doesn't have to know. Tonight it's about you—whatever you want."

Slowly he leaned forward, grabbing her behind the neck and pulling her close, tucking her head into his neck. His arms were tight around her, and he was almost startled at how good hugging somebody felt. He hadn't embraced anybody since—well, since Katherine. He whispered in her ear "Don't do something you'll regret later. No regrets if you go through with this. Promise me."

"I promise," she said, without hesitating. Her arms slowly unwound from his body, sliding up to his face, looking him in the eye. "Tell me if I'm hurting you."

"Hurt me? Darling, I'm a vampire."

"You know that's not what I mean." He did. Suddenly serious, he nodded, waiting for her to make the first move. She slowly leaned forward, pressing her lips against his again and moving slowly, sliding her hands down to the hem of his shirt. She slid it up over his head slowly, breaking the kiss for only an instant before she came back, sliding off her jacket and shivering. Damon realized that the front door was still open, and he flitted away, closing and locking it, then coming back, all within the time it took for her to realize he was gone. Their lips smashed together greedily, sparks running through Damon, like he'd stuck his finger in a light socket. Her breathing was accelerating as she slid off her tank top, laying him down slowly and straddling him, never once breaking contact of their lips. He opened his eyes, breaking the kiss, and she sighed.

"You're sure about this?" he asked, slightly breathless.

"Yes, Damon," she said, smiling slightly above him. He could feel her hair tickling his bare shoulders, and he shuddered.

"Don't do this because you feel sorry for me."

"I'm not."

He breathed deeply, rolling her over and sitting on top of her, kissing her breathless.

When Elena woke up the next morning, she smiled, rolling over and slinging an arm around—air. Where was Damon? And how did she get into his bedroom? And how the hell was his bedroom clean, after all that wreckage it had experienced the night before? She groaned, sitting up and feeling fabric shift around her. How the fuck had she gotten dressed? Damon, her mind said to her, and she smiled, getting out of bed and walking downstairs, smelling the whiskey before she even reached the bottom step. But there was more than the whiskey smell—there was also… Pancakes? Maple syrup? Why were those smells in the house, when the inhabitants didn't even eat?

She rounded the corner, stepping into the kitchen and almost laughing when she saw Damon flipping a pancake like he'd been doing it forever. There were already about four on a plate, and this appeared to be the last one, and the others were covered in powdered sugar, maple syrup, strawberries, and whipped cream. Her stomach growled, and he turned around, catching the pancake even though it was out of his range of sight. He kept flipping it, catching it every time, showing off. There was also ham with maple syrup off to the side, and orange juice, and basically any breakfast material she could think of. "My God Damon, is the entire army coming over?" Because surely this wasn't for her.

"This's for you and Ric. He usually comes and raids our fridge in the morning, so I figured why not?"

"I didn't know you could cook," she said, smiling, accepting the seat he pulled out for her.

"Since the 1890's, darling," he said, smiling, mixing up what seemed like pancake batter expertly, with one hand, never once disturbing the bowl. She widened her eyes.

"Impressive," she said, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "You should teach me how to do that someday."

"Sure."

"So… About last night…"

He sighed, setting down the spoon. "Please don't tell me you regret it," he said. "Just don't." His back was turned to her, and she got up, walking over to him and resting her chin on his broad shoulder, one hand around his waist and the other between his shoulderblades.

"I was going to say I enjoyed it," she said, sincerely. He looked at her, surprised, his ice blue eyes widening and making her giggle. "What, you expected me to be a bitch about it? Now, Mr. Salvatore," she said, turning him around, "I think you'd know me better than that."

"Let's stick with Damon, shall we?" he said, smiling, not returning the affection. "By the way," he said, whispering, "Ric's car just pulled up, so you might want to let go." She did, albeit relucantly, sitting in her chair and smiling broadly. The front door opened, and Ric walked in, his boots sounding throughout the entire house.

"What smells like pancakes?" he asked, walking into the kitchen. "Oh. That's what smells like pancakes."

"Good morning, Alaric," Elena said, already loading her plate. "Help yourself." Damon had disappeared as soon as the door had opened, and now he walked in the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at Ric, carrying a glass of scotch in his hand, twirling the amber liquid. His signature eye tricks followed.

"Hello, Ric," he said, downing the glass. "Here to raid the house again? Maybe I should get a restraining order." Alaric rolled his eyes, grabbing a fork and stabbing it into his pancakes, like he wished it was Damon. Elena giggled, having to hold in her mouthful of orange juice that she'd just taken. It was amazing how open Damon was with her, and how concealed and cut off he was with everyone else. It almost scared her. But then she remembered that no one else knew about his breakdown last night, or what had followed after. She didn't regret it—she'd been telling the truth to him. No more lies. She'd lied to him one too many times. But did she love him? The answer to that was no. And he understood that, she felt.

It was still Stefan, and she knew he'd understand. Hell, he was the one that had told her to do it. Not that she followed him blindly, and it wasn't that she wanted to cheat on him, but he said that as long as she loved him, she could do whatever she wanted with anyone, because he realized she couldn't be satisfied by him alone. God, she loved him so much. Shoving these mushy thoughts away, she went to her now-mushy pancakes, eating the rest and leaning back.

Best. Breakfast. Ever.

Damon flitted up the stairs, closing his door and leaning against it. Sliding down, he put his elbows on his knees, his head on his right hand, swirling his bottle of vodka around. Taking a deep—and sometimes unnecessary—breath, he closed his eyes, trying not to think about her. He failed, and thoughts of her flashed through his mind anyway. Her skin, her eyes, her beautiful hair… "Katherine," he whispered, and flinched. He was thinking about Elena. Why would he say Katherine's cursed name? That backstabbing bitch had done nothing but hurt him, physically and emotionally. Standing, he felt his rage again, the need to destroy things. His eyes were sharpening, and the bright light outside was blinding. Focusing on his bloodflow, he imagined it slowing gradually, then stopping altogether. His heart beat dully once before it halted its beating. Opening his searing eyes, he blinked, readjusting to the morning light filtering in through the curtains. He went over and pulled the black-out curtains shut, plunging his room into darkness.

A knock on his door was heard, and he went over, seeing Elena at the door. She was raising her hand to knock again, and was looking out of place among the ancient relics in the mansion. "Why hello Elena," he said, smirking and widening his eyes, lowering them to normal capacity a second after. That was what she called his "eye tricks" and he was remembered by them, was also prided by them. The first thing girls noticed were his eyes. Whereas the first thing girls noticed with Stefan was his broodiness and his "need for help".

Damon mentally rolled his eyes, inviting her in. "How did your room get to clean so fast?" she asked quietly, like she didn't want him to hear. He did anyway, though, his hearing enhanced now that he didn't have to hear his heartbeat at the forefront of his mind all the time. The heartbeat was actually a charade, to make humans more trustworthy. It was actually unnecessary, as was breathing. Except, when they were blending in with humans, they had to have their hearts beating, had to have air. The only way they'd be able to tell they were vampires were if they caught them flitting or drinking blood, which was alright by him.

"Vampires don't need sleep," he said, swirling the liquid in his glass again and drinking it in one swig, setting down his glass and flitting over to Elena, and taking her in his arms. She gasped, then giggled, stroking his chest in a devilish way. "I was cleaning last night while you were in Dreamland."

"Well, Mr. Salvatore," she said, grinning, then cut off when her phone rang. "Excuse me." She dettached herself from him, then walked over to the doorway, hand over her other ear. Damon turned around, ready to take a swig of vodka, when out of nowhere, a vampire was in front of him, driving a stake through his heart. He gasped, unable to move, feeling the worst pain he'd ever felt in his long, long life. He knew it was in his heart—he could feel his skin shriveling, could feel himself fading.

But, wait—Elena was there, pulling the stake out, allowing him to breathe again. Coughing, he felt his skin to back to normal, could feel the wound sealing up. He was gasping, shaking, coughing, sweating. His throat was constricting, and he couldn't get enough air… Stop beating, he willed his heart, and it responded, thudding dully before stopping. Now that he didn't need air, he sat up, recovering and probing his chest. Apparently the vampire had horrible aim or very bad knowledge of anatomy, because the stake had missed. It was almost a whole two centimeteres away from his heart, and that was a long distance if you were aiming to kill. He looked at Elena, who was holding his wrist in confusion, most likely looking for a pulse.

"We can shut off our hearts," he explained, drawing in unnecessary air to speak. "That is, if we've had enough blood. Otherwise they're not beating, whether we want them to or not." Closing his eyes, he concentrated, trying to get his heart to beat. It didn't respond, staying still in his chest. "Like right now, I need blood." He stood shakily, feeling his limbs weak and clumsy from the blood loss and vervaine—wait. Vervaine? He hadn't been injected with vervaine recently, unless… The stake was dipped in it before he was stabbed. "We need to get to your house. Fast." Because that vampire was likely to come back, since he'd had a failsafe. Vervaine would make Damon weaker, not as fast, not as ready to fight back. It must've been a lot of vervaine, too, because it'd taken an entire syringe when he'd been taken hostage by werewolves.

"Blood first or car first?" Elena said, and he held up two fingers, finding himself getting woozy, unable to speak. He picked Elena up—she'd gotten very heavy suddenly—and flitted downstairs, out the door, and into the car, with the girl still on his lap. She crawled off, finding her keys in her purse; he'd been smart enough to put it in the car last night, in case something like this happened.

"Call Alaric," he whispered, closing the door and fading…

When he woke up, he was on Elena's couch, glass of scotch next to his head and bag of blood following suit. Downing the scotch, he ripped open the bag, feeling ravenous, and downed it, wishing for another when Jeremy walked downstairs, tossing it to him. "Thanks," he said, before ripping it open and drinking it without breath. "Do you guys stock up or…?"

"Yeah," Jeremy said, gesturing to a deep freeze Damon hadn't noticed before. Though, admittedly, the cold blood he'd received tasted horrible, it was better than nothing. Swallowing, he tried to stand, swaying and landing right back where he had been. Immediately, Jeremy called up the stairs for Elena, who came crashing down, nearly tripping a few times. Alaric was coming out of the kitchen—he'd been hiding behind the counter, probably raiding the fridge—and all of them looked worried. But what surprised him most was when there was a slight gust of wind and Stefan was there, brows furrowed as usual and looking sober.

Damon tried to focus on any of them, but he couldn't. His vision was too dim, too blurred, too faulty. There was a horrible taste in his mouth, like rust turned to liquid form. His abdomen felt empty, like blood hunger but very mild, easy to ignore. Finally his vision settled, and he looked at Stefan, clenching his jaw at the sense of danger that suddenly enveloped him. "There's someone here," he said, standing again and managing to stay on his feet. Stefan shoved him down, too fast to see, which amazed Damon. He landed with a thump, and he snarled, willing the veins around his eyes to shrink and his vision to enhance. It didn't happen, and he probed his teeth, feeling them dull and useless.

"Something's wrong," he said, but it sounded like a mumble. His eyes wanted to fall shut, but he didn't let them, forcing them open.

"I'll take him to my room," Elena said, and Stefan looked at her, almost seeming to say "Are you sure?" She nodded, and Stefan picked Damon up, bridal style, flitting up the stairs and making Damon feel sick. Next thing he knew, Stefan was gone, Elena by his side. She was looking deep into his eyes, leaning over him. He noticed her necklace was gone. "Try to compel me."

"What?"

"Do it, Damon."

He probed for her mind, feeling… Nothing. The only thoughts he could feel were his own. He tried harder. Still nothing. "I can't," he admitted, sagging in defeat. He'd come to the same conclusion he thought she had.

"You're human."

Yep. Same conclusion.

"It might only be temporary, made to keep you weak. Whoever did this wants you dead, Damon," Stefan said, and Damon rolled his eyes, picking at his salad that he'd prepared. He didn't like eating; it wasn't a reflex he'd had in over a hundred years. It was like asking a human to drink blood like a vampire. "Do you feel any stronger than you did earlier?"

"Yeah. But whoever did this is gonna get their heart ripped out," he said, smirking to himself and taking a bite. It tasted strange; ranch dressing definitely wasn't his favorite. The lettuce was okay, as was the tomato, but the ranch made it taste… Fake. "I can't eat this," he said, scowling and standing, pacing around the Gilberts' living room. He focused slowly on his pulse, which he could keep track of again, and imagined it slowing. Instead of the gradual feeling of release, his chest tightened, and he gasped.

Stefan stood next to him, slamming him against the wall gently—well, gently enough as to not damage the wall, but it wasn't so gentle on his body—and getting in his face. "Stop trying to stop your heart," he snarled, releasing him. Damon, instead of landing on his feet, fell to the floor, his head aching. His vision was slightly blurry, but settling again. "Eat the salad. You need sustenance."

"Ooh. Big words. Thanks for the concussion, by the way," he said, standing and pacing again, probing for vulnerable minds. There weren't any—everyone here was protected against compulsion, which sucked for him, because he wanted to see if he got that ability back as well. He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair and imagining the blood around his eyes fleeing to his retinas, enhancing his vision. It worked, but instead of everything being bright it just looked normal—well, vampire normal, anyway. After a minute his eyes started hurting, and he let the blood recede, sighing at the blurry, incomplete vision humans had.

"I see you're hungry," Stefan said, gesturing to the salad. "And don't lie about it, either; your eyes tell a different story."

"I can do that at will," Damon said, seeming to surprise Stefan.

"Prove it."

Damon focused, making the blood rush up even though it hurt. After thirty seconds he let it go, staggering a little. God, humans were so weak. "Ow," he said, rubbing his eyes and his temples, which were throbbing. He stumbled to the couch, closing his eyes and scrunching up his forehead. Soon, he felt his mind wandering, falling into sleep.

He welcomed it with open arms.