A/N: Expanded Damon POV from 3.1, "The Birthday." I'd intended for this to be a sudsy, fun little fic, but it refused to cooperate. Thanks to CreepingMuse for being so generous with her time and reminding me it's better to let stories be what they want to be.

Bursting Bubbles

I love waking up to a view, and let me tell you, Andie Starr naked in my bed is quite the uncomplicated sight. There is nothing more deliciously distracting than legs like hers, whether they're wrapped around my hips or over my shoulders or folded underneath her while she's down on her knees or spread and limp because I just fucked her senseless. Even now, standing in those heels in that tight skirt while she puts on make-up she doesn't need in my bathroom... Yeah, there is nothing confusing or conflicted about Andie's legs. And even though I can't see it, I know she's wearing my bite mark this morning under that skirt. God, I love the femoral artery – It's really hard to not drain her dry from there, with her blood racing so I don't even have to suck, my fingers deep in her pussy, those legs pressed against my face, her screaming my name. It takes a lot of effort to not kill a long-term distraction, and I should get more credit for showing excessive amounts of control instead of getting shit about how she's my fake, compelled girlfriend.

Cheers to me.

In a burst of optimism, I ordered a case of champagne from the year Elena was born, which made for quite the liquor store bill, and this from someone accustomed to drinking expensive booze. I don't like champagne, 1992 wasn't the best year for it, bubbles are so frivolous and festive, and you have to drink too much of it to feel the buzz. But it's Elena's 18th birthday, and despite all that's going so proverbial hell-in-a-hand-basket wrong, I feel like being grateful to the universe today.

"We are out of champagne," I say as I pour a final swallow into my glass.

"No," Andie corrects as she puts on her make-up. "You are out of champagne. I don't drink in the morning." Of course not. She's a professional, that Andie Starr.

"Well, would you be a dear and..."

"I think you can get it yourself," she interrupts. "I'm not your slave."

Oh, it'd be so easy to turn her into one, if I were so inclined. But Andie... well... there's more to us than that. She's everything I appreciate in a woman: smart, snappy, feisty, gorgeous, confident, assertive, fun, legs from here to Sunday. I love that she's actually a woman, a fully grown woman, which is a nice change considering I spend most of my time with melodramatic teenagers and all their angst and indecision. Me and Ric, the world's worst babysitting duo, trapped in high school hell.

And the truth is, I don't compel Andie much. Contrary to popular opinion, puppets don't amuse me. They have their uses, sure, at the right time and place, but they're boring and predictable. I just did the usual: "Don't tell anyone I'm a vampire," "Don't be afraid," "Hide the bite marks." Come on, the scarf is jaunty as all hell. It suits her. But that's not so much compulsion, really. Yeah, Andie's something, without any of the complications or confusion or conflicted feelings that seem to define my other relationships.

I'm considering splashing some bubbles her way, not enough to ruin all her efforts to get ready, just enough to tempt her into being the tiniest bit late for work, when I hear Elena's car pull into the drive.

Fuck.

She's not supposed to be here for a couple more hours to get ready for the party. Caroline insisted we have one even though no one wants to. Sure Caroline, a party will make Elena forget about Stefan, and just what I want is a house full of horny teenagers dry-humping all over my stuff.

But if Elena's here already, that means Liz went behind my back despite our little chat. Again. Which means Elena's not thinking about how miraculous it is that she lived to see her 18th birthday, a not-so-small a gift courtesy of Uncle-Daddy John. I won't pretend I'm sorry to see that asshole gone, but I was surprised when he traded his life for hers. But I bet she's not thinking about that, or any of the other miseries she survived to get to see this day. Nope, I'd wager the rest of that champagne she's hot-to-trot with another lead, which means instead of enjoying my bubbles, I have to haul ass to cover up a gruesome crime scene and then lie to her about it. Goddammit, Liz. Am I the only person alive who can say no to Elena Gilbert?

It's her fucking birthday.

I stand up, water splashing, and let Andie pretend like she's annoyed while she enjoys the view of me wearing nothing but bubbles in the mirror. It's hard to lie to a vampire, what with my ability to hear the way her heart rate increases, the way she sucks in her breath, smell the glorious scent of her arousal. Yeah. Pretend away. Like we both don't know perfectly well how hot I am.

It's not cocky if it's true.

"You're dripping a little," Andie says as I walk out of my bedroom, not bothering with a towel.

"Uh-huh," I agree. The sound of Andie laughing, with all the implied sexy simplicity, follows me down the hall and downstairs.

What is it with Elena and not knocking? Yes, technically the house still belongs to her, fat lot of good that does us since she died and no longer keeps out other vampires, and she has a key. But still. When Elena barges in, which she does all the time, all I can see how she sees me. Her eyes aren't windows – they're mirrors. And that fucking terrifies me.

But if I'm really good, I can get her to laugh. God, I love her laugh. And when she laughs, she forgets, just for a moment, how everything's gone to shit. When she laughs, she makes me forget too. What Stefan gave up to save me. That he left her, his shot at a second chance, in my care even though he knows I love her too. Maybe only because he knows I love her too. That he chose me over her, over himself. That we've spent our un-dead lives fighting and tormenting and threatening to kill each other, but when push came to fucking shove, he picked me.

So yeah. I live for when she laughs, which is why I'm standing here in my front entryway wearing bubbles. To make her laugh. Or, failing that, maybe just to scare her away because she's forever too close and too far away, all at the same time. I don't fucking know. I don't have any answers. Like her, I'm just holding onto the fragile hope that Stefan's salvageable, that for all the bodies I've covered up in the past two months, he's not completely lost.

"Morning," I say, hands on my hips so my best assets are front and center.

"Hey, I was going to..."

She doesn't laugh. She is open-mouthed, wide-eyed staring before she turns around, her heart pounding, her breath caught somewhere in her chest before whooshing out all at once.

"You heard me," she accuses, her angry voice deflecting from the fact that she obviously appreciates a nice view in a morning too. "You knew I was here."

"You should learn to knock," I say. "What if I was... indecent?"

She tosses me the blanket she likes, the soft red one. She turns around, but her hand is covering her eyes, as if just keeping them closed would be too much for her. But no laugh. She is all business this morning, with her little slip of paper from Liz in the pocket of her shorts.

"Memphis," she says, still not looking at me.

"Another dead end, you mean," I say. Whether or not it's a good tip, it's still a dead end. Elena keeps saying all she wants is a sign that Klaus hasn't killed Stefan. Yeah, I've seen the signs: severed heads and arms and legs ripped from their sockets and then smashed back together in a grotesque display of guilt. Trust me, Elena, you don't want a sign –

"You don't know that," she insists.

"You're right, Elena. This could be the one. After almost two months, this could be the clue that tells us Stefan is alive and well and living in Graceland."

"It's a new lead, Damon. We haven't had one in a while..."

Oh, Elena. It's your birthday. Take a break. I need a break. I'm only one person, and not a person used to being counted on. Which is why I need quite possibly the world's most perfect distraction. Andie doesn't depend on me. I don't have to lie to Andie about where I've been or what I'm doing. Andie doesn't expect me to wake up with her in the morning and pretend like I didn't sleep with her all night. Nope. Andie is the only simple thing I've got going right now. She's perfectly fine not hearing from me for a couple of days, and then I'll show up to the studio, unannounced and uninvited, and fuck her on the news desk, her skirt pushed up around her hips and me still fully clothed. Or mornings like this, too few and far between, when I get to be her trusty alarm clock and wake her up starting with her toes, just little licks and sucks and nibbles with dull teeth, and work my way up. By the time I'm at the backs of her knees, completely overlooked and under-appreciated by most people, she's not laughing and swatting me away and begging for just five more minutes. Oh, she's begging, but not for more sleep. Her fingers are in my hair and she's yanking and trying to get me to hurry. But I like to settle myself in, get nice and comfortable. I fucking need it, and Andie lets me distract myself as often as I want without explanations or apologies or guilt.

Simple. Everything Elena isn't.

"There's coffee," I say after I snatch back her precious little scrap of Stefan news and call her bluff on going to investigate herself. Even she's not that self-destructive. Leave the stupidity and life-risking and body-burning to me. "Be down in a minute."

"Damon," she starts up the stairs after me.

"Going to help me rinse off?" I interrupt, standing so close to her that the softness of her top brushes against my bare chest. Yeah, I make her nervous, which I really need sometimes. For her to get embarrassed and skittish and run away, clutching her offended virtue and covering her scandalized, little-girl eyes.

Her in my room is bad on so many levels. The last time she was in here, she told me she liked me just the way I was. She promised me that I wouldn't die alone. She kissed me. None of which we've ever talked about. An entire summer spent together, and we've gone out of our way to avoid my room and the things that happened in there, and that's just one more thing we pretend doesn't happen. And Andie's in my bathroom getting ready for work. My sheets reek of sex and are stained with blood. There's no reason for Elena to be uncomfortable about such practicalities of two grown-ups who are... whatever Andie and I are. Andie is kind to Elena, but Elena is always awkward and tense around Andie, even without evidence of last night's sexcapades in full view. And my crime-scene-central is hidden in here.

"Moved onto Tennessee," I tell Andie when I pin the new lead onto the map on my closet door.

"Really?" she says. "That Florida victim had family in Tennessee."

Andie kisses me goodbye and promises to text me an address. Thank Christ people talk to reporters because compulsion doesn't work over the phone. She has saved me so much time and effort and miles on the Camaro. She really is the most fucking perfect distraction.

I dial Ric: "Field trip. You're driving. Pick me up in 30 minutes."

Ric gets all protective with Elena, scowling at me and muttering warnings under his breath that only I can hear, which is rich given that he seems fine with her being in love with Stefan, who's off earning his decapitation merit badge at Klaus' exclusive summer camp. The whole paternal thing is actually really good for him even though it pisses me off, but I'd never say that because he and I don't fuck with each other's heads like that.

When Jeremy's working the night shift at the Grille, which means Ric is drinking at the bar, waiting for them to close so he can bring Jeremy safely home, Elena falls asleep over here. We watch movies or play cards and eat popcorn and pretend like nothing's wrong. She wears Stefan's shirts those nights, unbuttoned over her little tank tops, her hands lost in too-long sleeves. Even though I live alone in a house full of bedrooms, she sleeps on the sofa, which means I do too. I understand why Ric keeps sleeping on their couch when he could have a comfortable bed upstairs. Not that I tell him that, but I really do get it. Sometimes just admitting there's an empty bed is more than a person can bear.

She'll wake up suddenly, heart pounding and gasping for air and trying to run from her nightmares. Except you can't run from yourself. Trust me, I've tried. Elena doesn't say anything when I spoon her against me on the sofa, fully clothed and still wearing my boots. She nuzzles into my chest while I stroke her hair and hum the songs my mother used to sing to me when I was a little boy. I soothe her back to sleep, and I hold her for the rest of the night, scaring away the bad dreams, only easing her back onto the pillows as she's starting to wake up in the morning. She opens her eyes to find me sprawled in a chair with an open book or in the kitchen brewing coffee.

We pretend like it doesn't matter. Like it never happened.

She's not even halfway through her first mug of coffee when I'm back downstairs, rinsed and dressed with my hair only a little bit wet. "Breakfast," I say as I pull out pans and open the fridge. It's not a question. She's too thin, doesn't eat enough, doesn't sleep enough. And yes, I cook. It seems like all I've done this summer. Ric is fine with take-out every night, but there are only so many options in Mystic Falls. It gets old. How often can you eat Chinese or pizza or cold burgers Jeremy brings home from the Grille? Jeremy should've asked for a job in the kitchen, maybe learn some skills along with the horror of earning minimum wage. Elena tried at first, but good Christ. She's just as likely to chop her fingers as anything else. I like that she "helps," which mostly means she's leaning against the counter and standing in the way. Fine by me. Sometimes, when I can tell she's having a rough day, I let her do the onions, even though she leaves them in big fucking chunks. It gives her an excuse to cry a little, and I pretend like yes, indeed, what a strangely strong onion.

I slice a banana and toss some blueberries into Greek yogurt because I'm all about balanced diets and moderation these days and slide it over to her while the water boils for her egg. She doesn't even blink, just picks up the spoon and takes my fixing her breakfast for granted, that's how often it happens. Look at me: Damon, the domesticated vampire. Who'd have thought I had it in me? Not me, that's for sure.

Andie says love changes us, that I've changed because of Elena. I don't know about that. But god, that first night I slipped into Elena's room, breathing in her scent and looking at all her girly things... Just a couple hours before, in her kitchen, she shocked the shit out of me, and I'm not easily surprised because I've pretty much seen it all. Yeah, the resemblance to Katherine was freaky as fuck, but that night, she was the first person, ever, to acknowledge that I'd lost Katherine too. Not just Stefan. Me. Here was this girl, this little girl who still slept with a stuffed bear for fuck's sake, and she didn't care that she didn't know me and I'd done nothing but make her uncomfortable and jealous and Stefan grouchy, and she truly felt for me because I loved someone who was gone. Who does that? Who feels that much for strangers? Who is this girl?

It's still confusing. And despite the fact that technically and legally Elena is now an adult, she really is just a girl who likes her eggs poached with buttered toast cut into tiny strips, which she systematically dips into the yolk. She's so used to being loved and cared for that she can't even cook her own eggs, and now I'm the only one who's here to make them for her.

"Mmmmm," she murmurs, taking a bite. "Perfect. I don't know how you do that, with the swirling water. My mom used a special pan." She's completely ignoring the fact that ten minutes ago, she saw me wearing my birthday suit.

"Years of practice," I say.

I open a second bottle of chilled champagne and pour two glasses. I decide it's better not to tell her it's her very own glass of birthday frivolity, since I was forbidden to buy her anything, and neither of us is feeling festive. "It's not a cake," I apologize. "But Caroline would kill me if you made your wish without her presiding over it."

I pretend I don't know what her birthday wish is. All she wants is what she can't have. Join the crowd, Elena. Welcome to adulthood, where, if you're lucky enough to know what you want, you get to live with the fact that you're never going to get what your heart most desires.

Yeah, I should've gone with bourbon because champagne doesn't even begin to take the edge off of the fact that I'm not doing a damn thing but trying not to burst all her hopeful little girl bubbles.

I gently clink my glass against hers. "Happy birthday, Elena."

Author's Post Script: Yes, gentle (and astute) readers, in my version of events, Stefan knicks Damon's birthday champagne to "celebrate" Elena's barfed deer blood hunting expedition in 4.2, "The Memorial." According to my web research (and hey, if it's on the internet, it has to be true, right?), 1992 wasn't the best year for champagne, but even still, a bottle will run you $300 and up. Not something to just have laying around, even in a house filled with undisclosed treasures like the Salvatore Boarding House. And with all the events that precede it's appearance in S4, I can't see Stefan wandering over to the liquor store and special-ordering a bottle. Since Damon in the bathtub on Elena's birthday is the only other time in recent events we've seen champagne (with the exception of the blood-spiked, spelled champagne at the Mikealson Ball), I decided to have Damon be the one to buy it. Please feel free to share a better theory if you don't like mine.