All right. I know that Damon and Elena burned up the dance floor in last week's episode. And it was amazing, and epic, and all of the Delena fans in the entire universe went "Ahhhh." But I had this idea bouncing around in my head before last week, and so I went ahead and wrote it anyway. I realize full well that is it probably not as overwhelmingly awesome as the moment in the actual show. But do me a favor and give it a try. Just for kicks, okay?

With that little disclaimer in mind, please read, review if you like, and, as always...enjoy. :)

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He was in the mood for a little brooding tonight.

It was the kind of evening meant for moonlight and slow dancing, scent of honeysuckle and verbena warm on the summer breeze, cicadas playing in counterpoint to the plaintive wail of a tenor sax. He had a glass of Merlot in one hand, a Cuban cigar in the other, and Coltrane playing on the stereo system. As far as he was concerned, it didn't get much better than this.

He caught himself right before the tail end of that thought and laughed out loud at the very idea. Of course it got better than this. Life was not about hot jazz and chilled wine, not in his world. Life was the hot flow of blood running metallic and filling down his throat, the brief struggle of a frail human body before the mortality drained out of it in fitful gusts and spurts, the icy thrill of absolute power in the narrowed pupils of his eyes. Life, his life, had little to do with the rhythm of lamplit music or the quiet sophistication of a solitary aperitif. Life was far more complex than that, and he'd do well to remember it if he ever wanted to find a way to survive in this cycle of death and revenge that had become his sole reason for existence.

Now that he thought about it, he found it ironic that he'd hated this home so much when he'd grown up in it, and now it held at least some fondness for him--if not the sort of draw people usually associated with the place of their birth. He'd actually grown somewhat attached to the rambling elegance it embodied, the combined sense of antiquity and comfort that drew him in and reminded him of an older and more dignified time. He'd been a cold-blooded killer for years--too many to, like Lady Macbeth, completely wash his ever-spotted hands--but that hardly meant he was incapable of appreciating the little subtleties that made this endless experience slightly more enjoyable. He just had to remember to not be sucked into them...to not forget that, no matter where he was or what the moment held, he was still a vampire. A creature of the night.

He was too busy musing over the complexities of being an undead immortal to notice the tell-tale crunch of gravel on the front drive or the quick tattoo of footsteps on the hardwood floors of the entryway, but the unmistakable thud of a beating human heart was too obvious to miss. By the time his nose had caught her distinctive scent and identified it as Elena, she was already standing at the half-opened French doors, one eyebrow raised as she took in his casual pose and the glass of wine dangling negligently between the fingers of one hand.

"Where's Stefan?" she asked without so much as a hello. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but that almost too-forceful directness was one of the things he liked best about her. He had no intention of letting her see that, though, and so he shot her one of his best sarcastic smiles by way of reply.

"Good evening to you too, Miss Gilbert," he murmured, a hint of his Southern upbringing creeping through the flat modern drawl. "Care for a glass of wine?"

"I don't think so," she said coolly. "I'm driving tonight, in case you hadn't noticed."

He shrugged elegantly and swirled the vintage carefully in his glass.

"Pity...it's a very good red. But far be it from me to be the one to lead you down the road of temptation," he mocked. She sent him another of those dirty looks--he was beginning to get inured to them by now--and propped one hand on her hip in a very good imitation of a chiding parent.

"Damon, stop messing with me and tell me where he went," she said with an exasperated note in her voice. "I need to talk to him."

"I'm right here," he said, spreading his arms wide to indicate his availability and giving her his best of-course-you-can-trust-me smile. "Speak."

"Don't be absurd," she muttered huffily and stepped out onto the porch, looking out past the circle of golden light as if she expected Stefan to somehow materialize out of the darkness. Behind her back, Damon permitted himself a small sneer and took another sip out of the delicate stemware.

"He's out," he said a little too cheerfully, enjoying the frustration in her eyes when she turned to look at him. "He didn't say when he'd be back."

"Well, did he say where he was going?"

"Do I look like his secretary to you?" he asked with sarcasm ripe in his voice.

"No, your legs aren't good enough," she shot back, leaving him briefly open-mouthed before he leaned back in his chair and released a delighted chuckle to the open sky.

"Ah, Elena. And here I thought you weren't any fun at all. You do manage to surprise me sometimes," he said with the heedless pleasure of a child discovering something new and interesting about his favorite toy. As he continued to laugh her eyes narrowed, and she looked as if she would dearly love to give in to her impulses and simply slap him across the face.

"If you weren't a vampire, I can think of so many, many things I'd love to do to you," she threatened darkly. He smirked, waiting for the import of her words to sink in, and watched with deep enjoyment as a sudden blush spread from her chin to her hairline.

"Oh, really?" he purred. "And what would those be, Miss Gilbert?"

"Nothing pleasant," she snapped. "Seriously, Damon, where did he go?"

"I don't know," he said, widening his eyes to give at the least the illusion of well-practiced innocence. "Seriously. So you might as well sit down and carry on a pleasant conversation instead of standing there like an avenging goddess or something." He lifted one shoulder in an intrinsically Continental movement. "I haven't even done anything particularly bad today. Cross my heart."

She sighed and pulled out one of the iron garden chairs, plopping into it with a weary nonchalance.

"What are you doing, anyway?"

He smiled and ran his finger around the rim of the glass.

"Thinking," he said mysteriously. She raised that eyebrow again, eyes curious as they scanned his face.

"About what?" she asked, tilting her head a little to the side in one of Katherine's signature gestures. On her it seemed not quite as coquettish, though, less deliberately flirtatious and more an expression of genuine interest. He wasn't sure if he liked the updated version or not. But the fact that he now had Katherine on the brain bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

"Mostly about the fact that I've got New Orleans jazz on the stereo and no one to dance with me yet," he said in an abrupt change of subject. She blinked, confused, as he set down his wine glass and moved in a soundless blur to stand in front of her, hand outstretched in a ridiculously over-formal bow.

"May I have the honor of this number, Miss Gilbert?" he said, years of cotillions and black-tie balls bringing the age-old formula to his lips. She shook her head at him, smiling a little.

"What?" she said incredulously, but he could see the little spark of enjoyment in the corners of those chocolate eyes and the tell-tale beginnings of a grin. All of a sudden he realized that he wanted to dance with her, here on his back porch with no one to see them but the fireflies, the scent of flowers surrounding them and the molten harmony of cornet and tenor floating through the humid air. And so he waited until finally, more out of bewilderment than desire, she placed her hand in his and let him draw her upright and into the pattern of the dance.

They moved well together, he thought smugly as he pulled her into a slow and graceful beat. Gradually, the rhythm lulling her into a sense of security, she let one arm creep around his neck, the fingers of her other hand still securely twined with his. He realized that she was warm and pliant against him, trusting without realizing the presence of faith, but for once he wasn't thinking of the sweet call of her blood or the rising tide of desire that she inevitably aroused in him. For now it was enough to simply hold her, his cheek brushing the soft silk of her hair and her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder, nothing on his mind but the music and the girl in his arms. He'd danced with many women over a century and a half, he thought, but none quite as perfect as this one. And as they swayed together, his thumb stroking lightly against the small of her back, he turned his face into her hair and simply let himself live in the moment, breath by bated breath.

They might have stayed for there minutes, or maybe hours. He wasn't entirely sure. The only thing he was certain of was that the moment was broken the minute she heard the front door open and too-soft footsteps in the hall. For a second she froze in his arms, her eyes locked on his and her breath shallow against his skin. Then she dropped his hand and turned away, a small sheepish smile curving that oh-so-solemn mouth.

"That'll be Stefan," she murmured, as if trying to excuse her breach of courtesy, and he thought he saw something shadowed in her eyes before she nodded briefly and moved toward the door. He'd turned aside to pick up his forgotten glass of wine when he felt her brush against his arm and looked down to find her gazing at him carefully, eyes steady and back very straight.

"Thanks for the dance, Damon," she said, so softly that even his sharp ears could barely hear her. Then she rose on her toes and very lightly, very gingerly, planted a kiss on the razor-sharp curve of his cheek.

She had vanished through the door and was in the living room greeting Stefan before he re-discovered the capacity of speech. When he did, the only thing that heard him was the little garter snake that habitually spent the night curled up under the planter on the corner plinth.

"What..the...hell?" he muttered slowly, and raised the lukewarm wine to his lips, draining the entire glass. It now had a bitter, acidic tang that soured in the back of his throat, but he barely noticed. He only wished it had been Scotch or vodka instead. He had a feeling he was going to need the hard stuff to deal with what had just happened between them.

She'd danced with him. And kissed him. And he had absolutely no idea how to figure out any of the reasons why.

All in all, brooding was looking better and better tonight.