I never intended for this to be very long. It was simply a painful experiment to help us all survive the hiatus. As the show starts up again in a matter of weeks, I'm thinking after this chapter there will be two more. And perhaps an epilogue to set up some context for the one shot I already posted about their reunion in the rain because in my head, everything I've written since 5x22 aired all goes together.

This one is a touch shorter than the last. And the head canon is a small taste of something I know we all want in a DE scene. Let me know what you think.

Cheers m'dears.

Chapter Three: What A Lovely Way To Burn

"There are some people who could hear you speak a thousand words and still not understand you. And there are others who will understand without you even speaking a word."

They started as whispers. Shadows.

In the deepest quiet of the night, as I lay staring into space and contemplating the futility of my current existence, trying and failing to warm my frosted skin, it happened.

A phantom touch to my cheek. A ghostly sigh of love wrapped in the softest utterance of my name.

"Elena."

At first I startled so fiercely I crashed to the floor in my surprise.

I knew that touch. I knew that voice.

It couldn't be. It was impossible.

He was gone. He had to be. Otherwise I wouldn't be sitting here, attempting to fight off the perpetual cold that had infiltrated my every sense in the wake of his disappearance.

"Elena."

It didn't sound like he was calling for me from some great beyond. It sounded like he was taunting me. My name held the same teasing lilt it always had when we'd first met and he was trying to rattle me into absolute annoyance.

Every syllable was drawn out in that condescendingly seductive way he had about him. His tone was amused and arrogant and perhaps a touch exasperated, like I'd just done or said something to aggravate him in ways he'd never encountered in 173 years of living.

"Elena."

How was this happening? What was this supposed to be? Was I dreaming? It felt like I was awake but I've been so out of it recently that it was entirely possible I was mistaken.

Except I don't think I'd respond in this fashion if it was a dream. And I don't think I'd merely be hearing some ethereal, disembodied voice from god knows where that sounded eerily like my long lost love. If I were dreaming I'd be able to see him as well.

There was no spirit-like presence accompanying this voice, this touch. It was simply there, haunting me, creeping inside of me. Not unlike the pervasive cold that so overwhelmed my physical being.

Which could only mean one thing.

I was going crazy.

After months of suffering the endless physical torment of my frigid despair, marinating in the frozen prison that was my own body, it appeared the agony of losing Damon was continuing its assault in new and deadlier ways.

It was infiltrating my mind now. And not with a barrage of torturous memories that paint a portrait of our much too short time together. No this was much worse.

This was a slap in the face. A punch in the gut. A stab in the heart.

As if I needed more reminders that Damon is no longer with me, now it appears I am to be followed by the sound of his voice speaking my name. Forever.

A part of me wants to rejoice. I've been worried I may start to forget things about him as time goes on. Like the sound of his voice or the exact blue of his eyes or the spicy smell of his skin. But it seems my subconscious has perfectly preserved Damon's voice in my memory. He sounds just as he did before.

The only problem is it isn't really him. And I know that. I know it's nothing more than a figment of my imagination, a conjuration of a desperate and broken mind clinging in vain to the shadow of her missing counterpart.

So I can't enjoy the miracle of hearing him speak my name with such confidence and sarcasm mired in affection and a touch of innuendo. I'd almost rather not hear it at all than be reminded of all the beautiful ways Damon has ever said 'Elena.'

Like during fights, when he tried to persuade me in his rage to see things his way.

Or after he saved my life any one of a hundred times, and my name carried every ounce of his relief that I was okay.

Or in more flirtatious moments, as I tried (and failed) to fight my attraction to him.

But especially in the heat of passion, where my name sounded so much like 'I love you' that he never even needed to say it to assure me of his feelings. I just knew.

And the touches were no different. They spoke more to me about what he was feeling or thinking than words ever could.

It was one of many things I missed most about him. That we didn't always have to talk.

With Damon, I could just be.

I'd never experienced intimacy like the kind I shared with Damon. The way we could communicate with barely a look or a touch was a sensation entirely unique to us. There were times I felt we'd had a wonderful conversation with nary a word whispered between us, only the brush of pale fingers on olive skin, the sight of oceanic blue accompanied by a dash of raven's black.

It was fascinating. How words weren't always needed. We seemed to simply understand certain things about each other without the necessity of explanation.

As if the words we didn't say, the sweet nothings and passionate declarations, were already so much a part of us both that it took only the slightest reminder - a thumb caressing a stubbled jaw or a palm resting on the small of a back - to inspire recognition.

As if they were the murmurings of our very souls.

We conversed in this quietly familiar manner of ours all summer. For all the time we spent together, we didn't always engage in long-winded discussion. More often than not, when it was just the two of us, we let our bodies do the talking.

Not just sex. You'd expect that considering Damon's reputation, but it went so far beyond the undeniable pleasure of our physical relationship.

It was the before and after. The in-between moments. The stillness that surrounded us as we pressed our foreheads together before a kiss or lay in a satisfied heap on the floor after a romp.

Or right now. Lounging in that magnificent tub in our bathroom. Nothing but skin and water. Bubbles of both the bath salt and champagne kind invading every inch of space between us.

There wasn't much.

I loved that this porcelain masterpiece was big enough for two. It was like a small, private jacuzzi. I could stretch my legs out comfortably with my back against Damon's chest, his arms wrapped securely around my belly.

We hadn't spoken in awhile, content to merely sit and enjoy the strange delight of our silence. Whenever either of us felt we might have something to say, we chose to impart it with kisses and nuzzles, caresses and squeezes.

I'd never have pegged Damon Salvatore as the cuddly type, but he seemed to relish the opportunity to hold me close for as long as he pleased as much as any of our other activities.

Of course, after awhile, the nuzzles and squeezes always morphed into something more. Maybe one of his hands would stray a bit lower or I would let out a sound a little too much like a moan.

And then we'd snap.

My thighs would part a little wider and my back would arch a little more and before I know it, his hands would shift into infinitely more intimate waters.

But there are still no words spoken. Just as we are able to speak when we hold hands or caress a cheek or rub noses, we can communicate as effectively when the touches become a little rougher and the kisses a lot deeper.

So even though the water in the tub starts to cool and the bubbles start to disappear, the fire we create is enough to satisfy the missing warmth.

Honestly, the way the fire blazed between us I was constantly wondering how we both didn't simply implode upon contact. The slightest stirring of air as we did something as innocent and unassuming as breathe or smile while inhabiting the same space had the potential to cause a flaming sort of disaster.

It used to irk me, that he brought so much out of me. Our encounters, even the good ones when we didn't fight, drained me and empowered me simultaneously. It was exhausting, the amount of intensity that raged when Damon and I were within ten feet of each other, let alone laughing or fighting or speaking or, god forbid, touching.

That was when we really felt it. That was where the flames erupted most explosively.

When we touched, I swear fire licked at my skin and scorched my bones. I felt him everywhere. It was almost ridiculous, how warm he made me. He emitted this glow that threatened to envelop the earth.

Or maybe that was just me.

It was captivating. Addicting. Exquisite and surreal like I've never known.

Bizarre isn't it? To crave the sensation of fire so viscerally. To need the blaze in order to make sense of yourself. Like it calls to you, reminding you of things you'd forgotten in the haze of a harsh and unforgiving world.

That was Damon for me. Fire may be wild, may be the purest form of destruction and insanity but it brings a necessary clarity with its chaos. As he did for me. He blew into my life and wreaked havoc on everything within reach. But I see things more clearly now than I ever did before we met.

I'm so grateful to him for that. For changing my life in the best and worst of ways. He was a choice I made everyday that was so wrong it could only and ever be right.

At the end of it all, what we had, no matter how overwhelming and all-consuming and perhaps even a little frightening, was just such a lovely way to burn.