For the moment, Elena was stranded at Maison Salvatore. She had no means of transportation, and while she could call Caroline, Bonnie, Matt - she wasn't short on options - she didn't want anyone else's thoughts competing with her own.
Not that she really wanted her own, either. For the second time that day Damon had given her a vicious headache, although this time around it was the product of stress, not violence. It was the product of a thousand thoughts all struggling for dominance in an overcrowded brain.
Was it wrong that part of her got a serious kick out of being able to drive Damon to that violence? To provoke him and watch his eyes flash with barely repressed anger? To push him beyond the bounds of self-control till he snapped, till he stopped repressing? Maybe it was because she knew he could ultimately heal her of any injury; maybe it was the illogical way that he made her feel safe even when he was anything but. Maybe she was just twisted somewhere deep inside, because damn it, he was unbelievably sexy when he was so pissed off. It was wrong, so wrong for her to goad him into losing his already tenuous hold on control. To enjoy doing it.
He'd strangled her. And she'd not only forgiven him, but forced him to accept that forgiveness.
Was that love, or was it sickness?
And why couldn't she make herself care?
A stray thought interrupted her silent self-recrimination as it crossed her mind that post-fight make-up sex with Damon would be mind-blowing.
Jesus, she was twisted.
What he'd done had been so entirely, inarguably wrong. She knew that, recognized it without trying to pretty up an ugly picture. And he knew that. God knew it weighed heavily on his conscience.
He also knew it wasn't okay. It was anything but okay. And when she'd said she had faith in him, in his ability to allow his fury to wreak havoc as long as none of that havoc was aimed her way, she truly meant it. The knowledge that he'd hurt her was killing him. But it had been hugely important, vital, really, for her to call him on his trip to Woe Is Me land. He had no right to act like the worst part of all this was his paralyzing remorse. Had no right to bitch to her about how horrible he felt when he was the offender, when he was a hundred percent to blame.
She'd needed him to recognize that fact, to recognize that while it was perfectly understandable for him to feel like, to put it frankly, total shit. But it wasn't okay to make the situation about him. She refused to think of herself as the victim. But if anyone was stuck with that uncomfortable label, it was her.
She resolved then and there never to use the incident against him later. Never to throw it back in his face. She wouldn't forget what had happened, and God knew he wouldn't either. But she'd forgive, and they'd move on. Because she had such a high, desperate, likely foolish hopes for a relationship with him. She didn't want to, wouldn't, throw it all out the window, wouldn't write it off before it began. She'd pushed him to do what he'd done - which in no way excused it. Still, she'd known what she was doing, known that she wanted to make him hurt, make him react, and she'd sure as hell pulled that off.
He shouldn't have reacted in quite that way, of course. But he had, and she'd been stupid enough to let it happen - which was odd, given her fierce survival instinct. She could've pulled the knee-to-the-crotch move, which had an impressive success rate, but she hadn't. She'd looked at him and thought, poor Damon. He's gonna feel miserable about this later.
So just as she resolved to never taunt him with his own actions, she resolved to never play passive victim again. She was stronger than that, and he was stronger than putting her in such a position a second time.
They'd be fine. If she could come to terms with it, he damn well had better, too. And if his temper ever, ever again got the best of him, she'd just stake him.
It wouldn't, though. She didn't know how she could possibly be so sure of such a thing, but something deep in her gut knew that he'd do absolutely anything to stop himself from ever hurting her again. The guy would probably snap his own neck if he felt his anger rising to a dangerous level. After all, he was far better at directing negative feelings toward himself than anyone else.
God knows that setting off her temper was one of his specialties as well. It hadn't been like that with Stefan. Sometimes she picked fights with Damon just for the fun of it, just to push him to his limits. There was so much passion, such wicked spark dancing between them. It would be a crime not to take advantage of, not to explore, something so volatile, so exciting, so wild and delicious and right.
She shook those daydreamy thoughts off and focused on the matter at hand. Stefan. God, if it wasn't one Salvatore, it was the other. Story of her (recent) life. It was strange, though; sometimes she found herself wishing that she wished neither Salvatore brother ever came to Mystic. Wishing that she wished she'd never heard the name.
The reality of it was that she wanted them here, with her, despite all the hellishness that accompanied their arrival in her life. That life had been simpler, sure, in the pre-Salvatore era. But it also lacked... something. Something that the Salvatores and all their excess baggage provided in spades.
Even when she'd been with Matt, when she'd been the bright, smiling, peppy cheerleader, she'd felt the need for that extra something. She wasn't unhappy by any means, but she'd constantly dreamed of more. She hadn't been able to define the source of her dissatisfaction. It had simply been there, hidden beneath the surface, easy enough to ignore for long stretches of time before it stirred itself up and whispered, "Is this it? There must be more..."
Well, she'd gotten more. Far more than she'd bargained for, but even when she longed for her old life, she knew that it would never have been enough. Besides, the vampire element would've popped up at some point with or without the brothers. Hadn't she found evidence of her own family's knowledge of the supernatural when she and Stefan visited the lake house? Vampires had always been part of the fine print hidden in the margins of her life. Her own birth mother was a vampire, after all, and connections didn't get much closer than that. It was hard to shrug the idea that this life was her destiny.
She didn't believe, though, that destiny meant that her choices didn't matter, that she would've gotten to this point whether she wanted to or not. That would take life's purpose and toss it to the curb; what was the point in living if your destination was predetermined?
This was different. Life had sculpted her circumstances, and she'd been born to a family of vampire hunters in a town rife with vampire history. As a consequence of that, those vampires inevitably crossed her path, first one, then two, then too many. So she did feel that her whole life had been leading her right here, to this stage populated by this cast of fanged characters. To Stefan. To Damon. But from there on out, each action was fully and entirely her own. It wasn't the series of events that brought her to this point that really mattered. What mattered came down to the choices she made now, and where those choices would take her.
Yep, she thought, irritably. It all comes down to choices.
Contrary to whatever the hell Damon believed, Elena had already made hers. Things would never have progressed to that level of intimacy with him if she hadn't. Choosing wasn't the issue. The issue was the impossible conversation she had to have with the guy she hadn't chosen. With Stefan.
She still loved him. She'd always love him. But she didn't want to be with him, not anymore. He'd left Mystic, left her behind, shattered in the wake of so much tragedy. And Damon was there to stand by her as she picked up the pieces and rebuilt her life.
She understood that Stefan had gone for pure and honorable reasons. He'd done it to save his brother. But in doing so, he'd knocked down the obstacles separating herself and Damon. The comfortable, reassuring barrier vanished the moment Stefan left town. And anyone with eyes could see that there had been something between herself and Damon from the very first moment, when he'd kissed her hand and shot bolts of intrigue, fascination, undiluted lust, through her body. He'd looked into her eyes, and she'd known them. She'd seen something in their blue depths, something so big, so powerful, that she'd pulled away, frightened.
She'd backed away from even the possibility of Damon and stumbled into the safe, warm, steadying embrace of Stefan's arms.
She didn't want safe or warm or steady anymore. Her life was none of those things, and hadn't been for a long, long time. A tiny, guilty voice wondered if Stefan had always been her safe haven, the Salvatore she should be with - the smarter choice. Everything about him was such a comfort in a time when she'd desperately needed someone to hold on to. Was that all she'd sought in her time with Stefan? A place to hide, shelter from the eternal storm that was her life?
No, she truly had loved him, had been in love with him. He'd been exactly what she needed at the time. But he'd left. And this time, instead of reacting to the grief of lost loved ones by seeking comfort in someone else's arms, she stood strong. She didn't lean on anyone else. Yes, Damon stood beside her through it all, and on more than one occasion that knowledge alone kept her from giving up all together. But she hadn't used him as a shelter. In Damon, she had a friend. An ally. Someone who would stick it out with her no matter how bad things got, who would protect her if necessary but recognized her ability to protect herself.
Hadn't he proven that the night she and ric went in search of Stefan? He'd shown up there in the woods, and he'd bitched and moaned and told her she was an idiot. He'd gone above and beyond by shoving her in the water - and damn if that hadn't been infuriating and somehow amusing all at once. Not that she'd let her lips so much as twitch with humor.
Honestly, he' done her a favor. It had been hot as hell that day.
So yeah, he'd been pissed - furious, really - to know she'd put herself in yet another life-or-death situation. But he didn't leave her side, and he didn't forcibly drag her out of harm's way, even though it was clear that he wanted to do just that. Instead, he let her do what he knew she needed to do, and only intervened when they both knew she wouldn't survive alone. He'd faced off with the sole creature higher than a vampire on the food chain, the sole species capable of annihilating his own.
She no longer wanted to bury her head in the safety of anyone's shoulder while the endless battle that was her life raged on. She wanted to fight. And she wanted to fight with Damon standing tall by her side.
Maybe holding her hand, too. But that wasn't weakness, that wasn't hiding. That was seeking strength where she knew she'd find it.
Which left Stefan where, exactly? Behind her? A shadow literally watching her back at all times? Beside her but not quite close enough to touch? A spectator forced to watch the girl he loved and the brother he loved... while they lost themselves in loving each other?
She put her head in her hands and raked her fingers through her hair, tired and pissed off and almost - almost - wishing there was some looming threat, a Klaus or a Katherine or an anything, that would distract her from the problem at hand and allow her to put it aside at least for a moment.
Even as the thought passed through her mind an alarmingly loud crash shattered the silence, followed quickly by the sound of Damon's voice as he let loose a stream of curses.
Elena winced, muttered a curse of her own, and headed toward a scene she'd witnessed at least twelve times too many. Bracing herself for the chaos waiting around the corner, she walked straight into the eye of the storm. She didn't have any other choice. Someone had to keep the Salvatore brothers from killing each other.
Apparently it was her lucky day.