When he walks through the entryway of his home, the silence throws him. Typically, when he arrives home it's already 5 or 6 o'clock and the kids are running around like lunatics while Elena is cursing in the kitchen, trying her hardest to prepare a decent nutritious dinner for them. He chuckles at the thought of her latest attempt at sneaking veggies into their hamburger patties. By the time the prep work was over, she had more carrot shavings on her shirt than in the dish and Grays still managed to shove her plate onto the floor.
When he enters the kitchen, he finds it in just as big of a wreck as he suspected. He might not have the luxury of being a germaphobe anymore, but he still cringes at the sight of his home. Oatmeal is splattered across the counter in what can only be his picky three-year-old's handiwork. Muddy footprints encircle the island, the lightbulb above the breakfast nook is flickering, and there's a trail of ants descending into the pile of dirty dishes that barely fits within the confines of the sink basin. He sighs, and just as he's about to queeze his eyes shut in frustration, he catches a glimpse of a note on the counter, written in Elena's classic hurried script.
Love you, babe. We'll do something special soon, I promise. Just the two of us. Happy Valentine's Day!
It's all he can do not to burst into tears. This woman. He will never get over this woman—the woman who undoubtedly wiped their daughter's oatmeal-covered face and changed her clothes before sending her to daycare, forgetting all about the splatter on the counter, the woman who told her twin boys for the thousandth time to take their shoes off at the door only to find them tossing a ball around the island in muddy sneakers, the woman who wondered on her way out the door whether or not her deadbeat of a husband was ever going to wise up and rise to the occasion, hoping he would, but knowing, believing, she'd enter the house to the same mess she left it in.
Not today, she wouldn't. His heart begins to swell with affection as he rummages through the junk drawer for a spare lightbulb and runs a basin full of warm soapy water for the dishes. No one in their right mind would call his current situation "romantic," but he is bound and determined to show Elena he's in it for the long haul.
When she arrives at home, she flies through the door like a whirlwind, her mind on such a trip that she fails to notice the freshly mopped floor, the brightly lit breakfast nook, or the fact that her husband is elbow deep in sudsy dishes at 2:47 in the afternoon. Nevertheless, when she sees him, her eyes brighten, and she runs over to him before he can question her presence, leaping into his arms like the lovesick teenager she was all those years ago. Before he can protest, she's pulling his mouth to hers, dragging her tongue across his lower lip and causing him to stumble backward against the countertop. She lets out a satisfied giggle at his response to her.
"What are you…?" He breathes out, but she's already captured his mouth again and he's never been one to protest a little affection, particularly when he's spent the last hour pining after this woman he loves more than life itself. After that, it's a rush of emotion so thick it overpowers the smell of the Clorox he used on the floor, and before either of them are fully aware of what's going on, he's dumping her on the couch in the living room and climbing on top of her. And as he presses sloppy kisses down her neckline, a youthful giggle falls out of her mouth. She can't remember the last time they were like this together, carefree and completely overwhelmed with each other. She may have forgotten how much she missed it, but it doesn't take her long to remember as he runs the pads of his fingers along her waistline, transforming her laughter into a string of soft whimpers pressed against his jawline.
Just when she thinks she might never be able to get enough of this vitality that is suddenly running through her veins, he peels himself off of her and plants himself on the opposite end of the sofa, pulling her feet into his lap before she has a chance to question him. He's unlacing her sneakers and pulling off her socks, leaving her to prop herself up on her elbows and wait for an explanation. "As much as I want to take you to bed right now, I can't."
"What's wrong?" She can't see herself, but she knows the look on her face almost breaks him. Regardless, he just lets out a deep sigh and begins to massage her feet with the utmost care and devotion. It's alarming, in a way, if she's being completely honest, because she's never known Damon to retreat from intimacy before, particularly when her behavior is so obviously wanton.
"I've not been a good husband or father lately and I want to make it up to you. You don't have to put on a show for me today, babe. I called Bonnie and asked her to pick up the kids this afternoon. I took off early and cleaned the kitchen and I'm going to fix us a nice dinner while you sit back and relax." He pats her leg with his signature smirk plastered across his face and then, as if he's completely satisfied with himself, he rises from his seat and returns to the kitchen. "I was thinking Italian, how does that sound to you?"
Completely domestic, safe. She thinks, but she forces herself to swallow her objections. "Sounds lovely!" She calls in response, but when she hears the sound of his whistling, she lets herself fall back against the cushion, wondering when her life became so ordinary.
"I went and picked up your car." The line falls out of her mouth like she's being robbed at gunpoint and those are her final words. He hadn't really planned far enough ahead to anticipate her reaction to his plans, but he can say with certainty he never expected her to be like this. Sitting across from her at the dinner table, she's hardly said a word to him. It's only after he lets himself analyze her every facial feature in a desperate attempt to understand what's happening that he lets himself take in what she said.
"You did what?" His eyes grow big in unfettered shock. "I thought we agreed that the car needed to be put away for good, Elena. It's in our past. Alaric agreed to keep it in the garage at the Salvatore School."
"I know, but…" The hint of shyness that makes her gaze falter is somewhat of a comfort to him. At least she's just as confused and unsure as he is. "I was sitting at work today just thinking about how things used to be and I missed it. I missed sitting in the passenger seat with my hair blowing freely in the wind. I missed the smell of crisp leather and the old fashioned radio dials. I missed the roar of the engine and the wash of teal pulling into my driveway. But most of all, I missed you, Damon—the one who would slip in the driver's seat and press his hand against the inside of my thigh, flashing me with your bedroom eyes and taunting me with your reckless driving."
As she gains confidence, her eyes steadily meet his again, her pupils dilated to the point that there can be no doubt as to what she wants. And yet, she can tell by the look in his eye that he no intention of giving it to her.
If there was ever a moment when he could definitively say that things fell apart, it would be then.
Author's Note: So he decides he needs to be more safe and civil for her and she decides she needs to be more daring and adventurous for him and… here we are. Don't you wish you could just talk some sense in to them? Don't worry… we're about to flash forward to present day!