A/N: So, here's the finish - it's much fluffier than I usually go. I really, really hope you all enjoy it. Please drop me a line if you do - I'm feeling strangely paranoid about this one. Besides, reviews just rock. So hard.
Happy, Happy Thanksgiving to those readers in the US. I've been under the weather in the worst way and your reviews have cheered me up so much. Thank you all and may you have a wonderful holiday season. I may be back - I've got a New Year's Eve idea that won't leave me alone... ;-)
The only thing more depressing than a bar on Christmas Eve is a half-empty bar. Two older guys in the corner and three sad looking divorcee's at the bar nursing mixed drinks does not a party make.
Happy holidays, my ass.
"Ho, ho, ho," Damon says under his breath, nodding at each of the ladies in turn.
He saunters up to the bar and feels all three of the women turn his way as he orders a scotch. The redhead isn't too bad if he can get past the freckles-God, what the hell is he doing here?
Admittedly, he needs to get drunk. He also needs to get laid, and with the way said redhead is eyeing him, he could probably accomplish that one Long Island iced tea from now.
But he's a vampire. Is this really what being at the top of the food chain is about? Drowning his sorrows in cheap scotch and banging small-town thirty-somethings in a bathroom stall?
He needs to get the hell out of this town.
"And away from her," he says to no one, toasting his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
He downs his drink in one gulp and leaves a twenty under his glass.
Fuck it. He's going. Right now. He's going to get free of this whole mess. Get in the car and drive until nothing at all reminds him of Elena Gilbert.
Keys out and grin in place, he pushes the door open and son of a bitch if she isn't standing right there, wearing a bright red scarf and mittens making her look like the cover of a Christmas card.
"Elena," he says, smile gone. He'd need a machete to hack through the emotions tangled up in that one word. Joy, resignation, hope, anger, fear. Love.
"I need your help," she says softly.
"Of course you do. You're speaking to me."
Her eyes reflect her surprise, a frown pulling at her mouth. "I'm sorry. Are you busy?"
"Would it matter?"
She seems taken back, crossing her arms and tilting her head. She seems to change her mind, her face closing off. "You know…nevermind. I shouldn't have come."
She turns around and starts walking.
Good. This is how it should be. She's walking away and he's going to get in the car and break every speed limit law in this country. He'll be in Vegas by Christmas afternoon. Find himself a showgirl and forget all about the last year of his life.
He allows himself one last look. She's halfway down the block, looking very small.
She could be in trouble.
"Don't you do it, Salvatore," he growls under his breath, clenching his fists painfully.
But she could be. She really could. She's like a magnet for all things fucked up.
She walks around a corner. A dark one. He starts into a run, shaking his head and griping at himself, "You whipped little piece of shit."
He's around the corner in less than a breath. "Alright, Speedy Gonzales, what's your big emergency this time?"
"It's not that big of a deal," she says. "I should get home. Jenna's trying to get us to do family stuff."
He looks around, confused. "Where's your car?"
"At home. I wanted to walk," she shrugs, stuffing her cartoonish mitten hands into her coat pockets.
"You walked here?"
"I already said that," she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and looking every bit the stuck-up bitchy cheerleader that she probably used to be.
"Okay, so I'll take it no one's at death's door. What do you need?"
"You know, you're clearly not in the mood. Don't worry about it."
She turns to leave and then there it is, rising up in him like bad, theatrical music. He wants her to wait. He actually sees himself calling after her, and her turning, tears in her eyes and his name on her lips.
Seriously? When is he going to get a clue that this shit Does. Not. Happen. Not to him.
Apparently not tonight.
He rushes her and touches her arm, spinning her around. She's not crying. She's not saying his name. She's actually shaking him off like a roach.
"They make pills for this sort of bitchy," he says. "Would you just tell me what you want?"
She takes a breath and blinks and then points a little aimlessly. Like she can't quite remember what she needs, or how to explain it.
This is unreal.
"Do you need a calculator? Or a very short bus?"
"You're a jerk, Damon. I just…I uh, wanted to know if you had anything in your library…that might help Bonnie, um, trace her family history a little better.
It's his turn to blink. A lot.
"You need me to help you help the witch with a family tree. On Christmas Eve."
She flushes hotly, throwing up her hands. "God, I don't even know why I bother."
"Well, that makes two of us. You came to me for this? Bonnie wouldn't piss on me if I were on fire. She'd light the fire. Hell, she already has! You were there!"
"I need to go," she says, shaking her head and walking away. "I'll see you later."
"No, you probably won't," he says, because every time she walks away tonight, that damn music pops back up in his head. It's all very dramatic. The good guy dies, the Titanic sinks, and Scarlett will never, ever go hungry again.
She doesn't turn around, but she stops, her shoulders a still, straight line beneath her coat. Her voice is small and flat when she speaks.
"You're leaving? Like leaving leaving?"
"Yeah," he says, and he'd love to zing her with some zippy comment about showgirls in feathers, but he can't. He just can't say anything.
"Does Stefan know?" she asks.
"I'll call him when I get there. Trust me, this will be the best thing Santa's ever brought him."
Her shoulders hitch for one second and then she nods. "Goodbye, Damon. Be safe."
And then she walks away. She doesn't even turn around.
She doesn't even fucking turn around!
That's it. He's done. Stick in the fork.
He flies back to his car on pure rage, wrenching open the door so hard, it's a miracle the springs hold. Inside, he tries to process that he has done this again. A century and a half later, and here he is, deeply, desperately in love with a girl who couldn't care less about him. Again. It's unbelievable. It's un-fucking-believable.
He grips the steering wheel hard, roaring out his frustration, then flinches when he hears the steering wheel snap off the column.
"Perfect."
He tosses it into the passenger seat, then jumps like a little girl when something whumps against his driver's window.
"What the—"
It whumps again. A purse.
Elena's purse.
She's standing there, staring in at him, face blotchy and tear tracks glistening on both cheeks. He sees her shoulders shake with a sob and his heart cracks into two pieces. He's never felt a sting quite like this.
"I hate you!" she screams, the words muffled by the window.
And then she runs away.
This time, there is no music. There's nothing but the absolute silence of having no damned clue of what just happened.
He walks around her block fifteen times before he decides he has to talk to her. He's pretty sure she's up there. The living room lights have been off for awhile and her bedroom light is still on.
He stands at the sidewalk, frowning up at her window, until the front door swings open, and there she is, keys in hand and an oversized coat open to reveal her Rudolph pajama pants. She hides any surprise she feels upon seeing him quickly.
She takes a breath.
"I thought you were leaving."
"I broke my car."
She arches a brow and then pulls the door closed behind her. He climbs the steps to the porch and then stops, remembering the night he thought he kissed her. And the night she told him she'd lost him forever. And all the nights he knows Stefan has spent on this porch with her laughing in his arms. He steps back off the porch, pretty sure that its cursed.
"I'm taking a drive," she says.
"At midnight in your pajamas?"
"I want to look at Christmas lights, okay?" she snaps and he holds up his hands in surrender. Then he snags the keys from her hand, zipping to the driveway to hop in. He gets the engine on and the heat cranking while she watches on, incredulous.
He rolls down the window as she approaches.
"What do you think you're doing? Adding grand theft auto to your record?"
"I thought we were going to see lights. Maybe pick up hot cocoa. Or hey, maybe talk about why you attacked my car with your purse."
"Now's not a good time," she says, eyeing her house suspiciously.
"Wrong. See, Elena, I'm the craaazy brother," he says, waggling his fingers and bugging his eyes out. "We're going to make time right now or I'm coming down your chimney tonight to do this while the whole family watches on. I'll make popcorn."
He sees the anger coming over her. Her mouth opens and closes, goldfish-style, but she doesn't seem to find anything worth saying. In the end, she relents, yanking the driver's door open.
"I'm driving."
The first five minutes of this ride are the weirdest of his life. He's sitting in the passenger seat of Elena's car, clenching his jaw while she drives aimlessly. Christmas carols are playing in the background, heat is pumping out of the registers, and Elena is perfectly quiet, touring one neighborhood street after the next.
Nat King Cole is talking about roasting chestnuts and Elena's acting like he isn't even in the car. And he would say something, but where should he start? Hell, no. He should keep his mouth shut. Think this through so he doesn't stick his foot in his mouth.
"So…you hate me?" he finally says, because he's never been one for thinking.
She pulls the car to a stop near an old Victorian house with the round turret in the corner and the wraparound porch. White lights glimmer from every surface, making her eyes sparkle as she looks on. She's still admiring the lights when she speaks.
"Do you really think I hate you, Damon?"
"You told me you did."
She tips her chin in that irritating superior way of hers. "You told me you didn't care."
"I don't," he lies.
"If that's the case, then maybe you really should leave!"
"I tried to."
"What, for ten whole seconds?"
"Yeah, well I kind of got distracted by a crazy person who needed my help with an emergency Christmas genealogy project!"
"God, I didn't need your help with Bonnie!"
"You're just—wait. What?"
"I said I didn't need your help with Bonnie," she says softly. "I made that up."
The silence between them stretches. Something's happening here. He can feel it in the air between them. An electric charge that's making him hot and cold at once. He takes a breath and forces himself to drop the irritation. He has a hundred and fifty years on her. It wouldn't kill him to be the bigger person for once.
Well, it might, but he's going to try it anyway.
"What did you need my help with, Elena?"
She bites her lip, tears blooming in those dark, pretty eyes. She holds them back, but only barely, her gaze locked on her lap now. "I need help with a decision."
"What decision?"
"The decision about what to do with you."
All the fluttering things that he's been trying to smother into silence for the past few weeks are doing somersaults in his chest.
Her words hang there for a moment between them. He'd break the silence, but he can't remember how to make words with his lips right now. Or what words are, for that matter.
Elena tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and lifts her eyes to his. "I told Stefan that I left because I wanted to wake up and know I'm safe and that the people I love are safe. I wanted to feel alright on my own again. And I do. So, there's no reason for us to be broken up anymore."
The fluttery things shrivel and die behind his ribs. Maybe there's a 'but'. There'd better be a 'but' and it better happen fast or he's going to break her car, too. And this is a cheap little plastic thing. He could shred it like cheese.
"But?" he finally supplies, when his mouth will not stay shut any longer.
"But we are broken up. And it has nothing to do with me needing to feel safe. And it's not because I don't love him, because I do. I love Stefan. He's kind and gentle and-"
"Are we really here to talk about my brother?" he asks, his voice shrill and manic, even to his own ears.
"No," she says, looking alarmed. She shakes her head then, and seems to steel herself for her next words. "No. We're here because you're right. There is something between us."
She swallows hard, her voice thick. "I've tried to ignore it. I've tried to avoid you. I've tried to hate you. I've tried everything I can think of, because…because you are completely insane!"
"Thanks. I'm all warm and fuzzy now."
"I'm serious!" she says. "You're temperamental and you're stubborn and you've done horrible, horrible things. I'd have to be crazy—"
He's incredulous. Pissed. "—You'd have to be crazy, Elena?—"
Elena keeps right on going, "—to even think about being with you, Damon,—"
"—I'm listening to this shit—" he stops short, going very still. He holds up one finger. And it's shaking. "Hold on. Go back. What did you just say?"
Elena is like a deer in headlights. Terrified. She licks her lips before answering. "You've done horrible things?"
"No. After that."
She takes a breath, but he doesn't wait for her to speak. He knows damn well what she said.
He leans across the seat, rabbit fast, kissing her hard. He's got one hand in her hair and one on her neck and there isn't even a nanosecond of adjustment before she's kissing him back. It's a fierce, desperate collision of lips and tongues. Her pulse is hammering away against his fingers and he's about to come out of his skin. He's been hungry for this since they kissed in his bedroom. Half-starved for her.
He pulls back just far enough to keep her from going cross-eyed.
"Yes," he says, nodding.
"Yes?" she asks, looking dazed. "Yes, what?"
"Yes to your decision. Take the leap, throw caution to the wind, pick the cliché of your choice, but yes, be with me."
He sees the 'but' in her eyes, but he doesn't want a 'but' now, so he kisses her again, more softly this time, lingering over her taste, trailing down to her jaw until she's twisting in her seat, squirming to get closer. God bless vampire speed, because he's got her seat belt off and her firm little body across the middle console and on his lap before she has time to gasp.
Her eyes go wide with surprise, an objection ready on her lips.
"Damon, wait. We can't do this. I haven't decided anything," she says, but he's nipping at her neck and she's arching it just right, giving him access. Her knees slide to either side of his and her fingers curl in his coat, so he's thinking that this decision nonsense is all over but the singing.
"You said you needed help," he says between kisses. "I'm helping."
She half-laughs. "This is not helpful."
"It's helping me," he says, pulling her closer until she lets out a low moan, one that sends fire running through his veins. "You sure it isn't helping? Not even a little?"
She stops him then, pushing away from him so that they're a few inches apart. His hands are at her hips and hers are on his chest, holding him at a distance.
"I'm afraid of this," she says. "Of what us would mean."
The mood shifts and he watches her, waiting for her to speak her piece. Her face is tortured, lips trembling.
"I'm serious, Damon. What if this destroys him? What if it destroys the two of you? He's your brother. I can't live with that."
His heart clenches. "But it would be easier to live without me," he supplies.
But then she touches his face and shakes her head. "No, I can't. I've tried."
He laces his fingers with hers, pulling her down until she's crying softly into his neck. It takes him a second to realize what it means. To realize that just as lost as he is. For once in her life, she can't force herself to do the right thing. And it's killing her.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are red and puffy and she's searching her pockets for a tissue.
"I love you, Elena," he says without preamble. "And I have no idea what that means or how the hell to go about this without it being a disaster for almost everyone we know, but I'm crazy about you," he says, running a hand over the side of her face, watching half a smile bloom on her lips.
"It would take time, Damon. Lots of time. We'd have to take things slow."
"If you're in this, if any part of you is in this with me…I'll wait for someday. I'll wait forever. You know I will."
She nods, eyes bright with tears. She doesn't tell him she loves him and he doesn't need her to. The look she's giving him is enough. The kiss she gives him is even better, so soft and every bit as sweet as her soul.
"It feels like someday," she whispers with a tiny smile. "Maybe not for everyone."
"But for you and me?" he asks.
"Maybe," she says.
It's enough for him.
Elena leans in for a kiss, lingering so close to his mouth that he can feel the heat of her breath, and the curve of her lips when she smiles.
"Definitely," she says.
"Definitely is good," he says, pulling her flush with his body and breathing her in. "Yeah, definitely works for me."