The night it happens, the night Damon indulges her, he's drunk by the time they get to Mystic Grill because it's killing him how excited Elena is.
She's putting rollers in her hair and dancing around in the skimpiest red dress he's ever seen her wear. Elena as a vampire is still sweet, still lovely, but all of her inhibitions are gone. Some of the things she'd done in bed with him he would have never imagined she'd do. Once he had asked her if she had ever done anything like that with Stefan, and when she had only winked at him, he'd wanted to find his brother in whatever town he was brooding in and rip his head from his shoulders. Now, what Elena was asking of him was near cruelty, but of course, she didn't think of it that way because he indulged her so quickly, with only a moment's hesitation.
She's pouting at him as he's drinking. "Don't you think this will be fun, baby?"
And her calling him baby is only loosening the knot in his stomach ever so slightly, so he throws back another Scotch and water, minus the water. "Sure. I think it'll be a blast."
She's there, then, snaking around him like a belly dancer, and the sight of her moving like that makes him instantly hard in spite of the gnawing in his gut. "Thank you for doing this for me. I've always wanted to," she whispers, and kisses him hard on the mouth, and he can taste sweet mint and the couple of tequila shots she's thrown back and suddenly he wants her so bad he can barely stand it. He places one big hand on her hipbone, pulling her against him, but she darts away from him, moving almost bonelessly, laughing at him.
"Not yet! Save that for later," she laughs, and goes into the bathroom to finish her makeup.
As she goes away he watches her ass bouncing in the red fabric that barely covers her, in fact doesn't quite cover her, because he can see the edge of the lacy white boyshorts she's wearing just underneath the hem, and he wants to go after her, edge his thigh between her knees to spread her legs, rip her panties off and fuck her over the bathroom counter so that he can see her half made up face in the mirror, see her lipstick red mouth open and panting, but he knows she wouldn't like it, knows that would ruin all her plans, and the thought of said plans makes him toss back another scotch before she comes out in her sky high heels and red dress, her face made up just enough to make her stunning rather than just naturally beautiful. She smells like coconut and mint leaves and Damon thought no man in the world had a snowball's chance in hell of resisting her tonight.
That thought makes him want another scotch, but she's pulling his hand, leading him out the door and into the limo she's been specific about renting. He knows he's already had too much to drink when he doesn't quite remember getting to the bar, only remembers Elena nibbling at his ear, kissing his neck. He's not seen her so worked up in the whole three months they've been living together, and something about it makes him make a beeline to the bar when they get there. He orders Elena a shot of tequila and himself a double scotch, and before he can even get the drinks back to the table, Elena is chatting up a couple of boys at the pool table. Damon throws back the scotch and then, after a moment's hesitation, the tequila, also. He's sure she'll have no problem getting drinks tonight.
He sits at the table and watches Elena bending over the pool table to make a shot, watches the two boys watching the way her skirt rode up over her ample hips and ass, and suddenly he wants to vomit, and he's not sure if it's from the alcohol or the jealousy that flipping his stomach.
Before he knows what he's doing, he's standing behind Elena, molding his body to hers and speaking directly in her ear. "You're holding the stick all wrong, sweetheart. Let me show you."
And for an instant, Elena goes limp and lets him bend her over, position her hands, but then suddenly the pool stick is between them and her brown eyes are flashing at him. She's pretending to be angry but Damon knows her well enough to know she's laughing inside, and so he goes off to the table after hailing the waitress for another set of drinks, a martini for Elena, this time. He finds a bit of satisfaction in the fact that Elena moves on from those two boys, the ones who have started averting their gazes from her because Damon Salvatore is no one they'd want to piss off, but soon she's at the bar. She's twisted toward an older and more handsome fellow, and as she laughs and flirts and places her hand on the man's knee, Damon wants to put the little swords speared through the olives in Elena's martini through his eyeballs.
Instead, he throws back another double scotch, and his head feels delightfully light by the time Elena invites him and the handsome stranger into the limo.
Elena glamours the man, but only a little. He's smitten by her so it doesn't take much. In the limo, she swings her legs over the man's (his name is Steve or Greg or something equally douchey) and rests her back against Damon. Damon's glad of this because she can't see the way Damon holds his face in his hands, and she's not paying enough attention to feel his harsh, short breaths. Damon is trying his best to reign in the monster, but it's all he can do not to rip the man's head off his shoulders as he sees him place a hand high up on Elena's long, tanned thigh.
Just as he's about to tell Elena he isn't sure if he can do this, they are home and he's following Elena inside and she, wonderful girl, makes him a much needed double scotch without even a hint of water. Doing this sober, Damon thought as Elena coaxed the stranger into the master bedroom, would be completely impossible.
He stands outside the bedroom a moment, bracing his hand on the doorframe because the scotch had made him unsteady, and he felt as if his entire body was vibrating. Of all the things Damon had done in his life for women (and he wasn't ashamed to say there were quite a few), he felt as if this was the absolute hardest, but making Elena happy had become his new goal in life sometime ago.
He takes in a deep breath and walked into the bedroom. Although he'd been attempting to prepare himself for weeks, he is still unprepared for the scene ahead of him.
Elena has shed her skimpy red dress and it lies on the floor like a snake skin. She is lying horizontally across the big bed, near the edge, and although if she'd been alone her feet would be dangling instead they are hooked around the stranger's broad shoulders, and he is face deep in that heavenly place Damon had spent hours and hours exploring.
Damon had been in his fair share of threesomes and orgies of all shapes and sizes, in several countries and with several combinations of gender, but watching Elena's face contort and her pink tongue coming out to wet her lips made his head ache with a black rage that was only dulled slightly by the alcohol.
She sees him in the doorway, smiles at him and beckons him over with one finger, and like a man underwater Damon walks to her. When he gets closer, he notices the fang marks on the man's neck, the slow trickle of blood. Damon gets on the bed and kisses Elena, cupping one of her breasts and tugging the nipple ever so slightly, just the way she liked. She moans into his mouth and Damon thinks for the first time that night that maybe this would be all right.
Then he feels Elena shift on the bed and hears her gasp. He lifts his head and moves away from her as the stranger lifts Elena's legs and slides his cock into her. Later, Damon would think that maybe it wasn't that action in itself, maybe it hadn't been the stranger but maybe it had been Elena's "oh" of surprise and pleasure, maybe it had been the way she tilted her hips up to help him angle inside of her.
At the time, he doesn't think, just feels rage boil through him like lit fire, and the monster comes.
Damon had never been a ripper, like Stefan. Damon had always been a swift, silent killer, draining his victims or snapping their necks, saving them the pain and horror of an animalistic, bloodlust kill. Now, Damon moves like a panther, sinking his fangs deep and almost ripping the stranger's throat out. Blood spurts over Elena and the white sheets, and Elena's screaming finally brings Damon back to himself.
She had scrambled back across the bed, holding the bloody sheets to her, but when he looks at her, she screams again and threw the sheets in a ball at him, running out of the bedroom into the guest room and slamming the door.
He doesn't go after her right away, but looks down at the poor stranger bleeding to death on his bedroom floor. Guilt washing over him, he leans down and snaps the stranger's neck, ending his gurgling and bleeding.
He takes off his bloody shirt, washes his face, trying to sober up somewhat and think of what he would say to Elena. He feels guilt, but it was far away. He felt as he always did after a kill - businesslike. Now there was how to clean up, how to dispose of the body. He dispose of the body, makes a note to himself to call the housecleaner in the morning. Damon had been a killer for far too many years to begin mourning over it right away.
What he does mourn, when he knocks on the guest bedroom's door, is the fear in Elena's trembling voice. "Go away!"
He rests his forehead against the cold wood. "Please, Elena. Please, let me in." He waits for a moment, and then says, "I love you."
After a moment that seems to Damon like an hour, she opens the door a crack. Her hair is wet; she obviously showered while he was out, but tear tracks streak down her face. "Why did you do that?" She asks, her voice weak and petulant.
Damon heaved a heavy sigh. "Can I come in?"
She moves aside and opens the door wide reluctantly, sitting down on the bed with her legs crossed. He comes toward her and she winces away from him and it broke his heart, her fear of him, and suddenly, he knew it wasn't rage that had made him kill that man. It hadn't been anger or jealousy that had prompted the monster at all. It had been how much it hurt. The pain had been burning in his chest, in his gut, all night, and the way Elena had arched up, the way she hadn't even been looking at Damon, had speared right through him. Because, deep down, Damon doesn't feel as if Elena chose him. He isn't sure that she ever would have, had she not become a vampire. Even if she had been awake when Stefan had entered the hospital room, he isn't sure that she would have chosen him.
He doesn't know how to say this to her, so he sits on the edge of the bed, a clear distance away from her, and he looks at her even though he wishes he didn't have to, because he doesn't want to see the fear and sorrow in her face. He doesn't want to see that she thinks he's a monster, but most of all, he doesn't want her to see that he's still human, that she can hurt him, that she did hurt him.
Before he can speak, before he can tell her anything, she furrows her brow at the look on his face and she moves toward him, crawling into his arms just as she had at the hospital, and she looks into his eyes and anything he has planned to say, any wall he has planned on putting up, is destroyed.
He feels the tears welling behind his eyes and he hears himself say hoarsely, "I'm sorry for what I did, Elena. I'm sorry for what I am. But more than anything else, I'm yours."
"Of course you are," she croons, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck, "and I'm yours."
And Damon buries his face in her hair and even while she's in his arms, even while she's whispering comforts in his ear, he doesn't believe it, not for one second.