Title: Wallowing, Wading, Whispering, Wanting.
Part Three of Four: Whispering
Author: Roguie/ SunSpecOps
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Characters: Damon Salvatore, Elena Gilbert, Damon/ Elena
Rating: M – violence, torture, A- class coarse language, and if you're very good, a little dash of smut to wrap it all up.
Spoilers: Everything up to 4x18 – AU at 4x19.
Disclaimer: The Vampire Diaries doesn't belong to me. I just like to borrow the characters and mutate their inner voices. What can I say, it's fun. Please don't sue, my house is small, my car is useless and my dogs are pains in the arse, but they're all I have.
Summary: Sight and sound are a powerful trigger to a mind already laden with layers of guilt he can never express. Twenty four hours can change two lives, fix two hearts, and set them to burn like they've never burned before.
A/N: Well, here we go with part three. I'm really really really hoping to get part four up before the new episode airs on Thursday but it's going to be a busy week. So, we'll see. :)
A/N2: Reviews are gold, and I'm just a poor girl. Don't forget to donate. :)
~~~Whispering~~~
He began to question his own sanity when the quiet echo of Elena's tortured screams refused to fade long into the morning. He found that if he turned up the volume on his stereo, the desperate sounds muffled slightly, but never actually disappeared. They lived in the back of his mind, easing and growing sharper in waves of agony.
At noon he gave up the fight trying to sleep and moved down to the kitchen, opening a blood bag and pouring it into a mug as he moved nearly silently through the familiar surroundings. He snorted softly as he came across his phone, dropped somewhere between the door and the stairwell as he and Casey had made their frantic entrance at some point deep in the night. He scowled at it silently, a reminder of his failure to keep up the charade of not caring, before picking it up and glancing at the screen.
Eleven text messages and four voicemails. How is it even possible that in the eight hours he'd not had his phone on his person that the world imploded and everyone and their uncle required his presence?
Must have been a damned good prom.
He settled back onto his sofa, sipping his blood as he sifted through the messages, silently. The first was from Rebekah, bitching that Elena hadn't met her after the dance and left her to walk back to the home they temporarily shared, alone. The second was from Bonnie demanding to know if he'd seen either Stefan or Elena.
Damon's heart plunged as the series of text messages gave life to his darkest imaginings. Of course Elena left the dance with Stefan. Of course no one knew where they were. They were probably curled up in the forest somewhere, naked bodies stained in blood, sweat, dirt, and sleeping off a night of feeding and debauchery.
It was the last text message that set his heart stuttering in sudden terror. It came from Stefan, only four hours prior as the sun rose high in the sky. It said simply, Forgive me.
Damon twitched, swallowing thickly before typing back slowly. "Forgive you what, brother?"
"It's Lexi's way. It will work. Trust me. Forgive me."
"What did you do, Stef?"
"What I had to."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The word became a prayer in his mind as he slammed through his front door and out into the blinding daylight. It was a beautiful day, hardly a cloud in the sky, and as summer quickly approached again, the heat from the sun was almost astounding. The beauty, however, couldn't stop the moment from shattering around him; as soon as he passed beyond the privacy of the boarding house walls, Elena's agonized voice crystalized, there was nothing left to protect him from the shattered screams that sent birds flocking for the safety of the clear blue skies above.
His heart belonged to her. His soul belonged to her. Every fundamental atom that made up the fabric of his being belonged to her, and as she screamed with the agony and horror of whatever Stefan was doing to her, each of those atoms tore apart and dropped him to his knees, howling as he covered his ears.
He forced it all back, concentrating on her voice as the moment of weakness passed, and he was on his feet in a blur, running into the forest at top speed towards the terrified cries of his heart. When he found the tiny shack moments later, he paused, confused. The small wooden building couldn't have been more than six foot by four, just a room in the woods, maybe a hunter's shack from the fifties, nothing at all important to their daily lives so he'd never even noticed it on the property before then. The first thing that struck him were the holes that punched through the weathered wood. Standing back, the sun shone through the empty spots like the wood was made of a soft Swiss cheese, the light cutting through the forest in thin rays that seemed beautiful in their harmlessness. The second thing to strike him was the sound of laboured breathing coming from inside, first a soft whimper, then a sharp cry, then as the sun shifted and more light filtered down onto the shack, the screaming began anew.
He was to the door before his brain even registered moving, hands closing around the wooden handle, ripping it from its hinges before realizing the wood had been soaked in vervain. He glanced for only a moment at his hand, the flesh from his fingers burning and flaying back from bone in instant agony. He barely paused to acknowledge the pain as he crossed the threshold into the trap very carefully laid by his brother.
He found her crouched in the darkest corner of the single room, beams of sunlight breaking across her blistered skin, wrenching another cry from her cracked lips. His own skin burned and blistered as the room filled with vervain mist and he cursed under his breath. Fucking Stefan. He thought of everything.
Her dark eyes met his, glowing faintly with desperation as she reached out to him, hissing as the sun cut across her fingers. "Please, Damon," she whispered softly, her voice laced with pain he could only begin to understand. "Help me."
Shit. Shit. Shit. He didn't think before he left the boarding house, he had nothing with which to cover her sensitive skin. She needed him and once again he came up useless.
"Shh, baby, I'm here. I'll get you out of this."
The vervain mist sprayed again, forcing them both to recoil sharply. "Tuck your legs up under your skirt; cover as much skin as you can." As he was speaking, Damon pulled his own shirt from his body, moving across the venom filled room to cover her face and arms. "Gonna need a little trust here, Gilbert, and a lot of luck, so no snacking while we run."
He pulled her into his arms, tucking loose ends of clothing around her tightly before stepping out into the sun, setting direction and running with every ounce of power in his body not left drained by the copious amounts of vervain Stefan had pumped into the little cabin of death that they were leaving behind.
He cursed Stefan with every step; he had to blink back tears as her arm jostled loose and her skin fried like a cracked egg on hot pavement, but he couldn't stop to cover her or she'd burn entirely. He forced even more out of his strained muscles, smashing through his front door with his shoulder, not stopping until Elena was safe in the darkness of his formal room. Only then did he allow himself a deep breath, only then did he sink to his knees in shock and horror, Elena's prone form tumbling from his fingers to rest gently on his carpeted floor.
"My brother," he panted softly, shaking his head to free his hair of any remaining vervain, "Is a dead man."
A wry chirp of laughter rose from the heap on the floor as still blistered fingers began peeling back layers of fine silk and cloth from ruined skin. "Tell me something not everyone in town already knows."
"Whoa," he chuckled, without any true humor, bending to help free her from the ruined material, "A joke from the world's most narcissistic ice bitch?" His brother's words from a year before rang through his mind, and his lips twitched softly. "Careful, Elena, your humanity is showing."
She whimpered softly as she took in the sight of her ruined arm, dark eyes flashing ill and horror. "So's my femur! Please tell me you've got something for me to eat?"
He moved through the house, grabbing a few pints of blood for her and one for himself. "Living with Barbie Klaus, I'd assume you've grown used to having donors at your beck and compel." He grinned down at her, his blue eyes carefully schooled not to show the overwhelming worry that threatened to swallow him whole as the flesh on her arm continued to smoke softly, rather than trying to heal. "You're gonna have to slum it a bit around here, though." He smirked. "We're not that fancy."
"Just give me the bag, Damon."
He heard it then, in her voice, the sadness, the weariness, the absolute acceptance of what had happened. He also heard the threat of tears as she struggled to not let them break her tone. His traitorous heart skipped a beat with hope as he knelt before her, bag in hand.
"'Lena?"
She ignored him completely as she snatched the bag from his fingers and drank deeply; two bags gone before her skin began to knit itself back together, painfully, wringing yet another whimpering groan from her soft lips.
It was risky, this unrestrained hope that threatened to smother him. His fingers shook, his chest trembled with unsteady breath. Her skin healed before his eyes, the unblemished, olive expanse filling out, healthy and rosy as strength returned to her every aspect. When she looked up, however, when the depths of her eyes met his, the abyss between them instantly melted away as her gaze reflected shame, uncertainty and overwhelming grief, none of which had been there when he'd left her with his brother only hours before. Tears flew unbidden to Damon's eyes, threatening his masculinity before he could force himself to react and look away.
His own gaze held uncertainty and trepidation as he waited for her to react to the onslaught of emotion that came with a forced switch flip. He expected tears, self-loathing, anger, terror, horror. Hell, he half expected her to lash out against him for making her change. Instead, she opened her arms, her silence a simple invitation for him to share her grief, quietened by time passed, but never lessened.
He held her through the afternoon, letting her cry against him, soothing her with only his presence. Words would come later. For now, the two of them were all that mattered.
It was easier than he thought, to let it all go, to forget his anger, his hurt and just be there for her while she came back to herself. He poured her a hot bath and settled her into it, letting the clean water wash away the dried vervain from her skin, letting it soak away the dried blood from already healed wounds, letting it relax her until her eyes closed and her breathing evened. He took no advantage as he lifted her from the tub and wrapped a soft towel around her new, glowing skin, carrying her to his bed, settling her in amongst the blankets and pillows. She'd not slept in at least a day and a half, she'd been tortured for hours, she was left without hope, without mercy so when she didn't move a single muscle through the entire process, Damon merely lay down beside her, pressing his lips to her bare shoulder, burying his face in her damp hair.
Words were just words, he could forgive her for each and every one that passed through her lips. Deaths were just deaths, no vampire had a clean record, and he'd not hold the small list she'd accumulated against her. Friends would come around, regrets would be pushed away, forgiveness would be given with only a tiny bit of prejudice, and she'd carry on. He'd take her to Jeremy's grave, she'd mourn and he'd wait for her. He'd dig up Stefan and offer him to her on a platter; she'd weep and thank him for having the strength that Damon himself didn't. They'd discuss the sire bond, and she'd insist she loved him while couldn't bring himself to truly believe it. Tomorrow wasn't going to be easy in the least, but for tonight, she was just Elena, in his arms, where she belonged; who she'd be when her pretty eyes opened he couldn't be certain, but at least he'd be there, waiting. Whatever happened from that point forward, Damon had a feeling he deserved every, single moment. Good or bad.
Indecision and uncertainty had threatened to destroy him. He'd taken from that and learned, with painful resistance, but he'd learned. One way or another, they'd find their way and they would survive.
All he could hope for now was more than mere survival. While she slept, nose wrinkled, whispering moans giving voice to her darkest memories, he prayed. Maybe he didn't believe in it all, but for one night, it certainly couldn't hurt.
God, he needed a drink.
~~~TBC~~~