As the morning sun climbed in the sky, Damon sat on the sofa at the boarding house, facing a fading fire. Empty glass decanters lay scattered and empty on every surface and on the floor. He held a tumbler in his hand and nursed the last few drops of bourbon left. He'd been up all night, not that it mattered. Sleep was just a way to pass the time.
What am I still doing in this shit town? He chastised himself silently. You've let yourself be emasculated, brought down to Stefan's level. Uck. Stefan.
For the umpteenth time since he'd been lectured by Saint Stefan, he recounted to himself all of the indignities he's suffered since following him back to Mystic Falls. He'd been publicly humiliated when it was revealed that Katherine was never in the tomb. He'd been made to answer for his kills, for the people he'd turned. For fuck's sake, I'm a vampire. I can't be made to apologize for eating or for playing with my food. This town is so boring, even as filled with ghosts as it is. It's boring, and fuck knows it's hard enough to stay amused for one hundred sixty five years and counting without spending them all here.
Of all of the indignities he'd been subjected to, Isobel had heaped the worst on him last night. It's my own fault. I showed her all my cards when I tried to warn her off. How stupid am I – how stupid does Elena make me – that I mentioned her by name to Isobel? That's just the sort of tell that I use to get inside someone's head, to make them do what I want. I hardly ever need to use compulsion, and I manage to get most vampires to do my bidding too, just by finding those sweet spots. How could I give my own away like that?
Now, Isobel had put his only shame out there. Damon's exploits with Caroline, with Matt's mother, with any number of willing and unwilling girls – hey, even some boys – brought him no shame. But this, this was too much. To have Isobel tell Stefan, tell Elena that he was in love with her, it was too much to bear. He held his own when Stefan came home and gave his jealous boyfriend lecture, but only because Stefan was revealing his own, all too tempting sweet spot – he was afraid that Damon could make Elena love him.
This, too, was replayed again and again in Damon's mind, turned over and examined from every angle all night as he drank enough to kill ten Dylan Thomases. He knew that Elena appreciated his looks. He'd seen her looking. Hey, who wouldn't? Even in life, female attention had been easy to get and hard to avoid. School girls giggled, his mother's friends lingered unnecessarily to be alone in the room with him, the pastor's wife had said some unchristian things. All women looked. He'd been around long enough not to confuse a look with emotion or even with an intention to act.
They'd had fun in Atlanta together. That trip was the first time in a very long time that the boredom had ceased for Damon. He drank and drank, but his vampire metabolism burned off the alcohol too quickly for it to shut off his mind as it obsessed over little things he'd let pass before. Twice, twice he knew for sure he had aroused something in her. The first time was when he'd put her vervain necklace back on for her a few months back. She'd come over to dare him to compel her to tell the truth, but he needed no compulsion to trust her. When he'd brushed her hair aside and reached his hands around her neck to fasten the gasp, his vampiric hearing had not missed the way her breath caught for just an instant. For most humans, this could be a sign of fear, but he smelled no fear on her then. The second time was at that dance for the Miss Mystic Falls competition. As they'd moved together without touching, doing that dance from his youth, he'd been amused by all of the signs of her ripeness. He'd heard her heartbeat quicken, felt her body temperature rise, even smelled just a hint of the musk of feminine arousal. When he'd stepped forward to finally take her in his arms, he'd heard the way her breath stopped.
But that was lust. Lust was easy. Lust was animal. Damon knew he could get a physical response from Elena, from any woman, from most boys. The power to command physical response, to send blood pumping and juices flowing, was fun and useful to have, but Damon knew that lust meant nothing. It was no different from the mouth watering and the stomach growling in front of a steak or a slice of chocolate cake. The body hungers.
Elena's lust meant nothing. It meant nothing to Damon to get her blood pumping and juices flowing if it were Stefan who got to ride that warm body and lap up those rich juices. Elena would not be swayed to infidelity by arousal. As much as her face said otherwise, she was not Katherine. Elena would not surrender to her animal nature for nothing but carnal pleasure. Damon knew that, and surely Stefan was not so stupid to think otherwise. So, if Stefan was so obviously pathetically jealous and fearful of Damon, it was because Stefan thought Elena might have more than lust for Damon. Stefan must think that Elena loves Damon, too.
Enough! Enough! I won't be this pathetic, mooning creature! I'll leave that to Stefan! Damon's contemplative reverie was broken by a rush of anger. Enough with these Pierce bitches – Katherine, Isobel, Elena – castrating me with their manipulations! Enough!
Damon threw a crystal decanter, faster than a major league fastball, at the doorframe, just as the door opened and Elena walked in.