I'm so sorry it's taken so long! I know, it's been almost a month...I've been crazy busy though. But anyways, here it is.
Hope you enjoy :)
Holding on just don't make sense
But the hardest part of letting go
Is tryin' to find a way
To let you know
Jason Walker – Cry
They stand there for a while, not quite knowing what to say. There are unspoken phrases lingering about in the spaces between them, spurgling and splashing, but Elena chooses to ignore them, to push them back even further in her mind. She doesn't know what could happen if she lets them resurface.
(It could be wonderful, but then again, good comes paired with bad.)
"Of course I care about you," she adds hastily, to break the silence.
(It's more than just that, she adds in her mind.)
The heat of the room catches up with them, as if they can no longer run. It's the awkwardness, the discomfiture lurking in the gaps between her bedspreads that cuts her, that fills her with the burden of lack of words, of conversation. It's truly, truly puzzling because he's always the one who kills the silence. She's always been the one to enjoy it.
What's happened?
"I'm sorry," she suddenly pipes up. The utterance makes a ring in her throat, and she doesn't know whether it's the quiet of the room that makes the sound so audible, so inappropriately clear or whether it's the significance of those two single words. Either way, her guttural feeling tells her that that phrase has been the most vulnerable thing she's ever said to him.
She expects him to pull a quizzical expression, and ask her softly why on earth she would be apologizing. She expects him to softly stroke her hair, to kiss her forehead tenderly and tell her she has nothing to be sorry for.
But instead, he just stands there, glued to the spot.
"Yes?" he says gently.
His beckoning of her to carry on makes her take a step back. She's always known that he's able to surprise her – astonish her, even – but she's still not used to it. She's never going to be.
(Somehow, she thinks it's a good thing.)
"Well," she begins hesitatingly. There's too much to say, too much to confess, too much that she can't think of anything. Why does he always make her feel like this?
"I'm sorry that I've…been this way," she says. She's not sure what this way means, but she's sure that he understands what she's saying better than she understands it herself. She's sure that he knows that part of her that she's never quite discovered, that unexplored part which has been locked up all this time.
"I'm sorry that I've never thanked you enough for all you've done."
She pauses to just look at him, just look at him with just a little bit of pride, to wallow in the blue of his eyes, to study the lining of his face. It's like she's looking at him for the first time. She's never thought sorrow could play with her heart so much, squishing it and tossing it round like dough, like a lightweight marshmallow whirling in a pool of hot chocolate. She doesn't quite know what has triggered her to say all this, when just moments ago she was yelling at him, beating the hell out of him with her harsh-cut words and her spiteful remarks about his nature. She thinks that perhaps twirling in the midst of anger is a small gem of redemption, a small gem of togetherness. That perhaps with every hard-hearted comment comes a flicker of love. That perhaps the reason why she got so mad at him only seconds ago was because of her desire to want something more from him.
He's still silent.
"You deserve better than this," she continues. "I can never make it up to you. I can never give you what you want, what you deserve. I've been so selfish, so unfair to you."
She thinks about spitting 'you have lost me…forever' at him, only to wish she had never said it mere minutes later. She thinks about slapping him with her belief that he had just wasted her best friend's life only to find out that what he did was one of the most benevolent things someone could do. She thinks about running from him in one of those moments where he had just given his soul to her and he needed her most.
(I will always choose you. The words have never left her heart, not even for a solid day.)
She's never bared herself to anyone like this, though, not even Stefan. She thinks he ought to know, he deserves to know that every day, she's thankful that he's here. That she feels so much more comfortable and a little more complete when he's by her side.
"There are things," she says, "things that you've done to me, to people I love –" she pauses for air, never expecting that a monologue like this would be so tiring to deliver, "that I can never quite forget. Things that make me hate you."
(Things that make her want to hate him.)
"But you're wonderful too," Elena breathes, and it's harmony to her ears, even coming out of her own mouth. It's harmony because it's pure truth – there's not a hint of regret, a hint of not knowing behind it.
He opens his mouth, and she imagines the thoughts running through his brain, the flow of letters up his throat ready to be released. But she breaks in first. She needs to finish this.
"You're wonderful in ways which," she ponders for a moment, selecting her words, rephrasing her train of thought, "I can't quite fathom."
She sees the tips of his mouth creep up into a smile, and at that moment a huge wave of joy washes through her, sweeps her off her feet, because that's the first hint of emotion she's seen from him since she's started talking.
"But the timing, Damon," she says. "The timing is always terrible, isn't it?"
It's a question more for herself.
She can't help but think of an alternate universe where no vampires trolled the earth; no werewolves howled in the pits of darkness, no weird hybrids (she's never gotten her head round to them) threatened to kill her loved ones. If he had appeared to her there, just the way he was, just human, would she have been able to resist him? If Stefan had never been in the equation, would she have been able to love Damon just as much?
"Anyway," she says, her voice wavering, "I'm done."
For the first time in his life, she thinks Damon Salvatore is completely devoid of words to say.
They stand there, again, for a moment, and they're back to where they started. But in a flash – well it seemed like it, anyway - she's in his arms, and she's wrapped in him, as tight as spaces will allow. He's the warm blanket she's become so accustomed to, the guilty pleasure that she'll always find solace in. At this moment, nothing else matters.
She thinks that she deserves peace at least once.
It's a while later, when the sun has gone down and the moon has taken residence, when the clouds have cleared and given way to the stars, when the trees have stopped swaying due to the lack of breeze, that her phone rings. Damon is still beside her – they've taken residence to the couch, now, their hands intertwined and their faces alight with a little more contentment.
When she picks up, the voice at the other end is undeniable.
It's silky, silvery and unquestionably evil.
"Why, hello," Klaus says.