Disclaimer: To those lovely people who tell me I should be an author – I wish I had been. Unfortunately, I don't own this.

I must say, I had a fantasmagorical, alcoholical, ridiculous birthday. Thank you to all those who wished it.

Oh look, early update again.

: D

Enjoy!

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2010

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Damon absolutely hated Christmas wrapping paper. He hated Christmas at the best of times – all about family, and togetherness, and love...

It was absolutely everywhere, and Damon was feeling sick at the sight of it. Elena had decided that the Boarding House needed a sprucing up, and Stefan had gone along with it as an act of happiness which barely began to mask the heavy musk of hatred and tension that was boiling beneath the surface.

Bonnie knew that everything was coming to a head. The dark cloud over the roof of the Boarding House meant that that half of the town was essentially a no-go zone, and she had pulled out of school a week before the Christmas break was due to begin.

Matt was getting antsy because Elena was worried – and because he hadn't seen or heard anything about that damned bracelet which he and Caroline had worked so hard to repair. He was beginning to regret it, as well, but he didn't dare to say anything – it was for Elena, and everyone knew it.

He didn't even like Damon. In actual fact, he was pretty sure that if nobody in the town saw him again, there wouldn't be a lot of sadness around.

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Italy, 1993 – Francesca's 22nd Birthday.

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Damon changed up a gear and pulled the roof up as Francesca, thoroughly comfortable and extremely satisfied, curled up in the front passenger seat, just watching him through heavy lidded eyes as she tried to stay awake. He gripped his wife's hand in the growing darkness of the evening, and told her that he loved her. He would tell her the same thing every day for a hundred years.

"I never want today to end," she whispered, pressing one of her hands to the place he had bitten her, the other to his neck as she pulled him in for a kiss.

Damon, with his vampire reflexes, incredible eyesight and brilliant dexterity, didn't really need to watch the road as he drove. Where he should have pulled over to have his way with her again, Damon continued to drive.

What neither of them had expected, however, was the disturbance of a passing truck, and its poorly secured load. Two kegs of god-knows-what exploded onto the surface of the road, and Damon had to swerve to avoid them. Ever exuberant, however, his grip on the wheel slipped hard, and his casual avoidance, coupled with his dangerous level of speed, sent the couple, and the Ferrari, careering off of the road.

They were in free fall.

Damon had the honest belief that he was about to die, adrenaline was coursing through him and he was yelling, apologies, 'I love you's and just screaming. Francesca knew she was about to die. Whichever way she looked at it, she knew that any injuries she sustained were going to be mortal, and that all of her injuries were going to hurt until the end.

She reached her hand out for Damon's, leaned over, and silenced his apology with a gentle kiss which spoke more than any words could say. When the Ferrari hit the bottom of the hill, all of its lights went out, and Damon felt Francesca's grip on his hand slacken.

In that second, all of the pain in his chest exploded into a sob, and he forced himself to unbuckle his seatbelt and attempt to get the pair of them out of the car. It was hard, more because when he had retrieved Francesca, and watched her form lay unmoving and silent in the darkness, he could barely see clearly for the tears.

In the darkness, around midnight, Damon held his wife, feeling her hair beneath his fingers and her skin brushing lightly against his. There was no heartbeat that could have been heard in the valley. It was simply Damon, holding tight the only thing he ever truly held dear.

It wasn't supposed to happen that way.

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It is during the darkness before dawn that things seem the clearest. There is a silence which nobody can shatter, only the birds – and there were none around that Damon could see.

He could, however, see everything for miles, and yet nothing mattered to him aside from the girl... No, the woman who lay dead in his arms. She was still so young, and so perfect, and in the half light, she looked as though she was about to stretch, wake up and kiss him good morning. Even her eyes appeared to be flickering in the darkness, her eyelashes surely only being shaken by the breeze.

"Francesca... I'll always love you," Damon whispered, sure that this was it; there was no future in his past.

He fingered the ring which lay on his finger, considering ending it as the sun came up, smiling at the stone shattered in two because the other half of it laid on the finger of the girl in his arms.

Permanently, Forever, Sempre.

He was about to tear the ring from his finger, ending the pain which was surely only beginning, but a slight movement - one which, had he not been hoping for it, and had he not had hypersenses, would have been totally invisible - caught his eye.

"Francesca?" Two fingers. He risked pressing two fingers into her palm. Her fingers convulsed around them. "Again," he demanded pressing his whole palm into hers, "Squeeze my hand again."

"Not right now." She managed to open her eyes, though her world was a little bit askew. "I think I'm dead."

"No," he laughed brightly, his eyes lighting up and his hands squeezing hers as he pulled her against him again. She shook her head at the sudden movement. She was dead – she must have been. Nobody could have survived that. "No, pretty girl! You're very much alive! You're in... You must be... You're in transition!"

The words meant nothing to her, but they were so loud, as though he was shouting them, that she raised her hands to bat him away, attempting to clear her head of all the noise. Blinking her eyes open again, even in the strains of morning sunlight, the glare was painful to the point that her eyes began to sting.

"Why's it so bright?" She asked softly, shifting into his arms for comfort, for safety.

"The sun hurts for a little while," Damon whispered, putting his arms around her and gently rubbing circles across her hips with his thumbs, "But I have sunglasses," Stretching up, feeling the stiffness of nearly nine hours of sitting and sobbing for a death that had passed and so swiftly been thrown into reverse, Damon looked down at Francesca, who was still leaning back on her elbows, eyes closed, smiling lightly.

"Why aren't I in pain?" She asked suddenly, basking in the glow of what she honestly thought was the afterlife.

"It doesn't hurt, but we'll need to get human blood into you quickly..." Damon was rummaging in the decimated Ferrari's glove box, his head down, so he did not see the confused look on Francesca's face.

"What do you mean, blood?" She asked again, sitting right up and crossing her legs, "I'm pretty sure we're in Hea-"

Damon turned to her and quirked his eyebrows, holding up the Aviator sunglasses as though he had just won the lottery.

"You're technically dead, yes." He said softly, running his fingertips across her cheeks as he came closer to her, but she still didn't understand. "Remember last night? What we did up on the cliffs?"

"Well, obviously-" She started, and though she felt the heat against her cheeks, Damon would not have seen a blush. He simply shook his head.

"I mean... what else we did." His right hand rose to slide along her neck, her right reflexively reaching for the wrist which she had drunk from the evening before. Her eyes widened in a realisation as he spoke, "You had my blood in you when we went over the cliff."

"It's happening?"

"I think it is," And both of them shared a bright smile before Francesca immediately felt afraid. Damon sensed it and pulled her straight into his arms. "It will be alright, Francesca," He held out his hand to her and tightly gripped hers between his fingers, "I promise you."

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2010

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Damon had no right to be sad. He had no right to feel anything, really, because it was becoming far too dark for him to even start to see the light. He spent his time looking at old photographs and holding on to the memories which felt like they were fading away. He didn't want them to leave. They were beginning to be the only good thing about his... life? Non-life... god knows.

He always wanted to cry, but there were so few times which were appropriate, which were right or which felt good enough for him to do so.

Every time he felt close to sadness, or to happiness, or to anything more than apathy, he was treated with an incredible nagging voice which beat on the inside of his brain.

You were a part of this from the beginning. You will never have a heart, because you will never know what it is to have a heart. You changed her. You broke her. You lost her.

You were supposed to be the better; the more experienced one, the one who knew what the hell he was doing because he had done it all before. Seen it all before. You were supposed to be the one who kept everything in order, who kept everyone from going insane. You were supposed to be sensible, to do the right thing, have nerves of steel, or at least pretend that you did. She was afraid, and you were not – at least, you would never show it. You put on a brave face for her. You had to.

It is that simple, and there is no way that you can change that. Hindsight, after all is twenty-twenty.

You will always be alone, no matter what you do. Everyone walks away from you – they can't trust you, you are unpredictable and you are not supposed to care.

It hurts. It hurts primarily because you do care – you had the sensation of friendship and comfort once, but now, now they don't even give you a second glance. You are the evil one. You have to walk away from everything because everybody trusts you with nothing.

You know that you will always be alone. That is one rule that can never be broken.You might break any other rule, but that one? Unbreakable. There was one person who broke it, and look what happened. When you think of her – her dark eyes entrancing you, taking a hold of your gaze and your heart and refusing to let go – you have to turn your head, blink, and walk away.

You will always be alone.

Nobody else saw the way you looked at her – Francesca was the only one who saw that look, and it was because she was its subject. They never saw the hurt in your eyes that came with knowing that you could never stop loving her, but now, you know that the feeling can never be returned. You lost her. You have to keep trying, it hurts, but you have to keep going, even though it doesn't seem possible, even though you can't tell her how bad it hurts. You're sure she does know how you feel, but none of that is important any more. You, you look at yourself in the mirror every day, and you hate yourself. You used to doubt yourself, your capabilities when she was around.

You will always be alone.

Maybe one day things will work out. They might even get better.

You doubt that, Damon Salvatore, and rightly so, but don't worry - Francesca will always love you. No matter what you decide to do.

Because of that, you will never be alone.

Damon opened the black notebook and couldn't help but stare at the picture of them on their wedding day. What he wouldn't give to live that all over again.

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A/N: Yup. I really hope I'm throwing you massive amounts of confusion right now. It'll get better, I promise!

On the other hand, I would like to advertise that I will be writing five outtakes from this story, and would appreciate some ideas – If you want to see some StefAbelle (erm, poor portmanteau, sorry), some Damon-Francesca Smut, a date, a dance, whatever you want – drop me a line, let me know, yes?

Thanks lovelies – and review!

xxx