A/N: Hello dearies! You guys all rock. Like, even better than Tom Cruise in Rock of Ages, rock. Yep.

Beta'd with love and grace and a brilliant magical wand for fixing my glaring problems by Trogdor19.


Chapter 9: The Words We Don't Say

I head into the kitchen where Elena has been holed up all morning. Baking cookies. I don't know what inspired the sudden need for her to get in touch with her inner Betty Crocker, but I'm not complaining. Girl can burn a boiled egg and heaven forbid I let her touch anything resembling poultry, but Mama Gilbert was apparently a master cookie maker and passed that on to her daughter. Score for me.

I stop behind her and rest my chin on her shoulder, reaching for a cooling snickerdoodle when she slaps my hand.

"Stop it," she mutters and goes back to spooning out more dough on a baking sheet.

"Hungry," I whine and she scoffs.

"I'm pretty sure you already had your breakfast and your lunch, and you can wait."

I huff a laugh and shift my lips to the exact spot on her shoulder that my teeth were in this morning, kissing her gently even though the tiny openings have healed. I only gave her enough blood for them to close because I don't want her to be sore, and I haven't exactly been using the same vein every time.

And drinking from her is fucking amazing, but this morning when I looked at her and she had different marks on her neck, breast and inner thigh, I put my foot down on the vamp blood refusal. I'm still using blood bags and I won't stomach her resembling some sick sort of chew toy or looking like my personal vending machine. I can't.

She was predictably pissed off when I said I wouldn't bite her again until she let me heal her, but compromise is supposed to be part of the deal. She sees it more like losing, but whatever. She can bitch as much as she wants as long as she's not in pain and her skin is smooth and perfect. It's not like she's in any danger of turning. I'm the biggest gunslinger in these parts and I'm certainly not going to kill her.

I don't think she even realized the lack of vampires down here until I reminded her that not everyone is rocking protective jewelry, and Florida is not exactly lacking on sunshine. And she calmed down for a while, until she realized that she never invited me into the house.

I was halfway through folding a pile of laundry in the bedroom when she screamed, and I couldn't find her fast enough. Her being on edge sets me on edge, and even though I knew she was probably fine, I think I scared her even more when I blurred into the kitchen and grabbed her by the shoulders, demanding that she tell me what happened.

Her face was as white as the flour on her hands when she whispered that she never invited me in. That anyone could get to her at any time. And apart from being considerably offended that she didn't think I would protect her, mostly I was just relieved that she wasn't hurt.

After I got over my stroke I offered to switch the house reservation to her name if it would make her feel better, but explained the only reason it wasn't like that already was because she had nothing to worry about. And she thought about it for a few minutes, but finally said that she trusted me and if she was freaking out over nothing, then she'd let it go. One short apologetic kiss for scaring me, and then back to baking she went.

I don't want to say it, but if she's going to be this antsy every time I give her my blood, I may have to stop drinking from her altogether. Which would really suck, but it's not worth her stress and subsequently mine. And there's always going to be a certain level of anxiety for both of us as long as she's got a ticking clock on her lifespan. She's come too close, too many times, to being encased in a coffin while her brother reads a eulogy over her body for anyone to forget that she always seems to be on the verge of being killed by one thing or another. Hello one wary, suspicious life.

Every stranger is a threat.

Every corner is a trap.

But when vampire blood comes into the mix? We head from DEFCON 3 to a blaring Condition 1 because to Elena, the only thing worse than death is becoming immortal. It may be different in the future if it ever becomes her choice to turn, but everything in me screams that it never will be. That's just not who she is. And as much as I love her and don't want to lose her, she's not ready to make that kind of commitment to me and I get that. I do. At least I know she cares about me and I still have her smiles and her whispers, her kisses and her eyes. She can take all the time she needs to decide what she wants for the future.

And she's relaxed now as I stand behind her with my hands on her hips and chin on her shoulder, watching as she sprinkles cinnamon and sugar over the rows of dolloped dough she's getting ready to put in the oven.

"Come on," I purr. "Just one? I'll be good…"

"No way," she laughs. "You get all crazy when you have too much sugar, and I saw what you put in your coffee earlier."

"I was sleepy. Someone kept me up all night."

She dusts her hands off and turns to face me, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms. "If anyone was kept awake last night, it was me, Mister 'The moon is too bright, let's have sex.'"

I snort because I totally said that to her, and I still got laid. I swear I don't know why she puts up with me.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," she grins.

"I don't recall hearing you complain about it. Especially not when you turned over and did that thing with your leg. What did you call that?"

"Damon!" she screeches and shoves at my shoulder.

"They teach you that at summer camp?" I whisper and lean forward to brush my lips against hers, and she tastes like Christmas. In the summer.

My hands slide from her hips down to her ass and I squeeze greedily, and she jerks her head back.

"I said no cookies," she reprimands and I narrow my eyes at her.

Talk about bullshit. I'm a smoking hot 170 year old vampire and I can't kiss my way into a snickerdoodle before noon?

"Don't look at me like that. Yes, you're gorgeous, but I'm not going to fall for it. Go walk down to the tennis courts and give the old ladies a group heart attack if you need an emergency ego boost."

"You know what?" I snap playfully. "Maybe I will. At least they appreciate the goods and old women always have amazing cookies." I cock an eyebrow at her and she sticks her tongue out at me before I turn, heading back toward the living room and my book.

"Wear the blue shirt, it brings out your eyes!" she calls after me and I scoff, changing directions when the doorbell rings.

"Don't have to, looks like they're coming to me instead. You blew it, Gilbert," I call back before opening the front door.

And there's nobody there. Hmm.

I glance down and startle because there's a fucking kid on my welcome mat. Probably ten years old but looks more like six, a dirt brown vest and puke green sash with buttons and patches sewn onto it that probably say something like Number One at Having Dirty Hands and Master at Being Sticky.

But fuck me running if she doesn't have big brown doe eyes and chocolate hair all the way down her back. There's a tiny little cart stopped beside her with a purple ribbon wound all over the handle, and it's stacked with boxes of overpriced, mass produced baked goods.

I raise an eyebrow because I don't do interacting with anyone under the legal driving age, and she blushes.

Jesus Christ, is there some sort of injection I can take to make me immune to that? Because as soon as those cheeks turn pink I find myself listening as she rattles on about some trip to go over the rainbow, and to get there she needs me to buy eight seahorses and a unicorn and teach a puppy how to do the jitterbug and I'm busting out my wallet.

I wonder if God invented brown eyes with flushed cheeks just to make me broke.

She skips off happily with half her stock depleted, now resting in my sucker hands, and I shut the door and head into the kitchen.

I don't pause when I find Elena standing by the counter with her heart hammering away and brandishing a knife like it's the only thing between her and a grave, and I stroll over to the trashcan and throw away fifty bucks worth of mortification. She still hasn't moved when I stop in front of her and take the knife, laying it on the counter far, far away from her trembling hands. I snag a snickerdoodle, and softly kiss her on the cheek.

"Yours are better," I tell her and pop it into my mouth, flashing her a quick smile before going back to the living room.

I flop down on the couch and stretch out, opening my book and listening to her take unsteady breaths, trying to calm down. She's safe and somewhere inside of her she knows that, but she's spent too much time being afraid the last year. She's tough as all hell but she has a tendency to adjust her level of fear based on how seriously I treat a situation, and if I go in there and coddle her, it's not going to do anything but make her feel like she just escaped a brush with death. The more blasé I am, the faster she's going to relax.

Although I'm about ten seconds from throwing that knowledge out the window if she doesn't get under control, and quick.

I'm just starting to close my book when I hear her take a step, and then another, and I re-open my book and turn the page. She doesn't say anything when she comes into the living room, but she kneels between my legs on the sofa, ducking under my book so she can snuggle on my chest with my arms now around her. I wind one of my legs over both of hers, and she sniffles.

"What are you reading?" she asks softly, her voice shaky.

"The crazy ramblings of a man that thought he was a genius, but probably just needed a lot of therapy," I tell her, tossing my copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra* on the coffee table so I can hug her more securely.

Her body spasms under a single, silent laugh. "First Girl Scout cookies, and now you're reading Dr. Seuss? You going to open a day care next?"

"Too late. Bought the one on Maple Street in Mystic Falls."

She scoots up closer and buries her face in my neck, her hands gripping me tightly. "You're so mean to me," she whispers.

One of my hands leaves her back to thread into her hair, massaging her scalp. Her pulse slowly evens out and quietly, I breathe, "I know."


I sigh at the moon that is mocking me and I roll onto my side so I'm facing her back, my hand sliding under the comforter so I can lightly run a knuckle down her spine, and she flinches away from my touch. I pull my hand back and tuck it under my head with a frown.

What the hell is this?

After the Girl Scout debacle a couple of days ago, she cried for about ten minutes. I think she was just overwhelmed after getting so cozy in our little escape from her battle ravaged life. But she eventually settled and we took a nap on the couch, afterwards going right back to our regularly scheduled flirting and teasing like nothing ever happened.

And today was a good day. She laughed all morning and we spent the afternoon messing around and swimming in the ocean, followed by a long bubble bath and then out to dinner. We came home and shared a bottle of wine, slow danced on the beach. We had incredible sex, and now…this.

I wait another few minutes while confusion brews into anger, just opening my mouth to ask her what her problem is when her voice stops me.

Quiet and timid, disappointingly dejected, she asks, "Why don't you ever tell me you love me?"

I swallow tightly as ire fades from my body, replaced by the sour twang of guilt. I slide closer to her so I can feel the heat of her skin against my chest, scooping her hair back and tucking it behind her ear. She doesn't move away, but she doesn't respond to me either when I rest my arm over her waist, my palm on her stomach.

I drop a kiss to her shoulder, and still nothing.

I take a deep breath. "Do you think I don't?" I say softly and she barely shrugs. I sigh and shake my head. "You know better than that, Elena."

"Then why don't you say it?" she whispers, and in the silent darkness of the night, her words seem to echo around me while I try to figure out how to explain this to her.

If I were to say those words again and she says them back, I'll wonder if it was from the pressure of returning it, or whether she really does mean them. I know she cares, and for now, that's enough.

"That should be obvious," I mumble into her shoulder and she turns her head to peek at me, her brows knitted together. She rolls over to face me and she looks heartbroken, but I don't understand why. None of this should be news to her.

Her tiny palm reaches up to cradle my cheek, her thumb sweeping over my skin when she quietly says, "Is that what you think?"

What, that even though we've come a long way from her hating me to being friends, sleeping together and now trying something more, that she's still not sure whether she's in love with me? I absolutely think that.

My fingertip traces a line from her temple to her jaw. This whole conversation is so incredibly dangerous for me. And I know I should tell her that it's fine, to stop there and then go to sleep before I have to hear the words that I know will crush me.

But for some reason, I ask, "What should I think?"

She blushes and looks down, and hope flutters in my chest, but I don't let it show.

"Not that," she mutters, a shy smile curving her lips.

I bite the inside of my cheeks. I think she's saying it, but I can't afford to be wrong. My brain is screaming to be patient, to let her declare it when she's ready, and however she wants. I won't take this from her. But my heart wants to hear it, know it, so much.

We're quiet for a while, lightly feeling each other as I brush her hair back and her fingertips draw random lines on my chest. I scoot down so I can see her eyes, and they're calm and unguarded, so bright and open and I can't not ask.

"Do you?" I ask softly and she smiles, biting her lip as her cheeks flush, and then she nods.

I swallow thickly and give her half a smile, because there's only so much I can make myself hold back.

I shouldn't say anything else. I can live on that smile and that nod for the next hundred years and that should be enough because it's more than I ever thought I'd get from her. But I am a study in masochism and selfishness, because my stupid mouth grins and says, "Tell me."

"You first," she whispers back and I chuckle.

"Oh no, I went first a long time ago."

"Damon, that's not fair," she pouts and I laugh again.

I can't believe that we're having this conversation at three A.M., naked in our dark bedroom. I actually can't quite trust that we're having this conversation at all, but of all the places I expected, somehow this never made the list.

I lean closer so my lips brush hers, and her heart is pounding. Her eyelashes flutter closed, and I breathe, "Tough."

Her eyes open and narrow at me, and I kiss her once anyways just to rile her up more before I roll onto my back, stretching out comfortably with a hand casually pillowing my head. I study the ceiling while watching her out of the corner of my eye, and her mouth is glaring at me but her gaze is sweet, her emotions trapped by a body locked in stubbornness.

She finally picks one over the other when she scoots closer so she's pressed against me, her hand finding mine by my hip and our fingers tangling together. I stay perfectly still when she leans down so her warm breath is bouncing over my neck, and she pauses for a long time before very, very quietly, she whispers it in my ear.

And I know they're just words, that they shouldn't be my entire world and make me want to do crazy, impulsive things for her, but I can't help it. Somewhere in me is still the sucker of a human that was blindly romantic to a fault, who wanted to find a woman like her to take care of and to worship, and she knows exactly how to find him in me.

I give myself one second to really smile as I squeeze her hand, my cool smirk back in place when she tilts back to look at me.

"Your turn," she teases and I cock an eyebrow at her.

"No thanks," I shrug. "I'm good."

Her mouth gapes and I gasp in fake shock, before she purses her lips against a laugh that I know is dying to come out.

"You are such an ass!" she says before flopping onto her back beside me, arms tightly crossed.

I roll on top of her and now I really am smiling, because this is too much fun. "Yep, and you love me for it."

She scowls and looks away, pretending to ignore me when I kiss her cheek because that always, always softens her up. And true to form she peeks at me before giving up and facing me completely, her hands gripping my shoulders and shaking them in frustration.

"You can't even say it once?"

"I have said it." I kiss her pouted lips, but she doesn't kiss me back. I wasn't really expecting any different.

She bites her bottom lip as she scrutinizes me. "You do, right? Love me?"

She's being ridiculous. If there is one blind truth that everyone we've ever met knows, it's that I'm in love with her. I pinch two fingers together where she can see, leaving barely a quarter of an inch between them and wrinkling my nose.

She glares and bats my hand away. "I take it all back," she says grumpily. "I hate you."

"How much?" I grin.

"So much."

"Aww," I croon and she rolls her eyes at me. "Softy."

She shoves me onto my back and grabs her pillow as she settles astride me, swatting me with it as I chuckle and block through her half-hearted assault. Her voice is a string of "Why do I even bother?" and "You are so mean!" and "See if I ever tell you I love you again…" all separated by frustrated growls that may be the cutest thing I've ever heard from her.

She finally finishes and tosses the pillow down with a huff, and I hug my arms around her so she's effectively trapped.

"Let me go, jerk. I'm going to sleep."

"Nope," I smile and flare my eyes. "You're all mine now. And you wanna know why?"

"Hell no."

"Well," I say dramatically, "if you're going to be like that, then fine."

I unlock my hands from behind her back and lace them behind my head, and she scowls at me for a moment before leaning down and placing one super short kiss on my lips. She immediately rolls off and settles herself under the comforter, punching her pillow with her back to me.

"Night, Elena," I say cheerfully, and she petulantly mumbles the same in return before yanking at her pillow again.

I let her toss and kick at the sheets for a good three minutes before finally moving so I'm behind her, sliding an arm under her neck. I wrap it back around her chest, my other arm draped over her stomach and pulling her hips against mine. I stroke her skin lovingly with my thumbs, kissing her shoulder and neck, and her hands move to cover mine.

I thread my fingers through Elena's and grip them tightly, resting my cheek over hers so she can feel my smile. I bring our joined hands up from her hip, supporting them in front of us, and my right hand joins them so I'm cradling her palm snugly between mine. Slow and tender, I caress the back of her hand, feeling the softness of her skin and the gentle rise of her knuckles. I run my fingertips up to her nails and lose myself in how smooth they are, in their graceful slope from being shaped naturally.

The pads of my fingertips settle between hers, and carefully, my right hand begins to move.

I trail down the inside of her fingers until I'm stroking and dancing over the whole area of her palm. And when I need more I slide my hand against the entirety of hers, feeling how small it is in comparison and how easily it shifts and molds to accommodate mine. How absolutely precious she is.

Elena turns fractionally toward me and I guide her onto her side so we're facing, her leg drawing up over my hip so we're wrapped in each other. I cradle her face, sweeping my thumb over her lips and allowing how much I care about her to be read in every facet of my expression. She's so beautiful and I lean close enough to brush my lips against hers, just the faintest tickle before the pressure builds and I know the exact firmness of her mouth, where the line that guards her breath matches my own and it's a seamless fit.

I softly whisper the words into her mouth and she gasps, as though she's sealing them somewhere inside of her, where she can protect them. And when I pull away to see her eyes, there is no joking, no games, no sarcasm or fear or hesitancy or any of the other things we've ever let in our way.

It's simply trust.

A genuine understanding that everything we feel, we're feeling it together. That no one will ever understand the depth of our connection, how much more it is, because they couldn't. It is a secret that only we know, and as scary as it is to be this vulnerable, to open yourself so wholly to another person, there's comfort in us doing it together.

And we know: nothing will be the same after this because these words aren't just a declaration.

They are a vow.


* Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche


A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, I really am having way too much fun with this story! And we still have a few more chapters to go and an epilogue that I've been dying to post for FOREVER, so don't forget to click those buttons, because these characters do some wonky, cute stuff when allowed to roam wild and free.

In other exciting news, Unthinkable is now on Kindle Worlds on Amazon by me (!) C. L. Marlene. And honestly, it would mean so much to me for those of you who read that story to possibly go rate it and/or leave a review on Amazon. You don't have to purchase the book to comment or rate it, but it makes all the difference when new readers are seeing it for the first time to hear what others thought. And because I HATE that I'm even asking this of you guys, I'm going to figure out a way to make it up to y'all. Maybe an early posting of chapter 10. Possibly writing an AU/AH (*cough*) that will commence as soon as this story marks completion. Maybe the first chapter of the AU/AH will go up before the epilogue for this one. Maybe all of the above. We'll see ;)

Love you all, and thanks so much for your support. See you soon!

-Goldnox