Disclaimer: Oh, I am coining the term Iangasm, for the reaction I have at the sight of Mr. Somerhalder. He makes me go ungh inside. I wish I owned The Vampire Diaries. Thataway, I might have had the chance to meet him.

Sucks, eh?

Oh, erm, ungh, yes. I'm putting "Come Back When You Can" By Barcelona on when you get to the second 2010 flash. You'll want to read it slowly, carefully, and maybe if you have the time, shut your eyes and watch it play out in your head.

I love: Pandora03, G1rlanachr0n1sm and mouse555 for their level of awesome.

I love the rest of you, too. That's because you're all lovely.

Enjoy...


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2010

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Damon spent his time wallowing.

It was rather pathetic, really, because he felt like he was turning into Stefan, and that sucked. Stefan was never happy, not one-hundred-percent, but Damon had seen a time in which he had been happy, and he clung to it.

Bright spots clouded his vision as he laid in his bed and watched the winter sun filter in, paled and more interesting because of the angle at which he was staring at it from. Did he mention he was lying upside down?

The little black book had become a sort of safe haven for him at this stage. He was lonely because even Alaric, who he had begun to think he was harbouring a little bit of a bromance with, seemed to be sick and tired of him – and none of it was his fault.

He hadn't actually done anything – be it good or bad – in a very long time. It was most annoying.

Elena didn't talk to him either. He had written her a long letter, which he intended, maybe to mail to her, but not today, which explained everything that he wanted to say, everything he couldn't, and everything he never would. They amounted, essentially, to very much the same thing.

All of it an apology, one which he was not sure he really needed to send, because he surely did not need to defend the actions which had led to him leading such a happy life – if only for a little while.

Now, however, he was genuinely considering his place in Mystic Falls. His fingertips traced the edges of the picture which he had pulled from his notebook a million times in the past decade-and-a-half, and he wondered just what it would take to bring her back to him, or, failing that, to take himself to her.

It made him feel so lonely, but he wanted... Well, no, Damon didn't know what he wanted. Other than happiness, and somebody to love him.

It was simply happiness which he wanted, and honestly? Nobody should be denied the chance to be happy.

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Italy, 1993, August 23rd

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This was one thing she had been wary of – her first taste of Blood. Damon had said it was like sugar water – some kind of nectar, quenching a thirst but at the same time nothing particularly special.

Ice cream on a cold day.

Then again, Francesca was not entirely sure she believed him. When he laid beside her in the dead of night and gently bit down on any one of her pulse points, the sounds he made and the motions of gentle massage made her wonder if it was almost sexual in satisfaction.

When they had finally decided that it was time to move from the decimated Ferrari, Damon took the time to call Francesca's father from a small, empty – abandoned house, tell him that he had somehow let the Ferrari collapse off the cliff without injuring either of them. When he had calmed down to the point that Damon could apologise for the worry and stress they had caused, he asked kindly that his daughter be returned to him in near pristine condition.

Damon had agreed, then hung up laughing as he pulled Francesca closer and she nestled up against his lap.

She was tired – she needed blood, and Damon knew that there was a village very close, and that there would most definitely be people there who would be willing to share.

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The pair arrived at the house of Fabiano Del'Amici as Francesca began to stumble and her initial burst of transitional energy began to fade. He held her tightly in his arms as she rested her forehead against his shoulder.

"Come on," He whispered, "It'll be alright." She nodded weakly and Damon swiftly stepped up the garden path and rapped smartly on the door.

Fabiano was single, forty-eight and rather compelled as he took in the sight which met his eyes as he opened his front door. Two rather stunning individuals, one a tallish, dark man with wild, desperate eyes and hair which looked in need of a cut, and the other, a petite girl, dark hair glinting auburn in the sunlight, his hand wrapped around her waist, both of them with their hair blowing wildly in the wind as he stood, transfixed by the image for a long moment.

"Si?" Francesca wavered at the sound, cringing into Damon's arms as Damon set his jaw a little way and smiled at the older man, "Can I help you?"

"Our car broke down a while back – and I think she might be..." Damon shook his head, at a loss for words as to whether she was tired or dying, or ill... "I don't know. We've been walking for a while, and we wondered, would it be alright if we could use your phone?"

"And a bathroom," Francesca sounded as though she was about to vomit, and honestly, the churning in her stomach was something akin to that feeling. "Please?"

Fabiano halted for a moment, for the pair looked so well put together they surely could not have spent a morning walking. He supposed, however, they could have had a suitcase, or a change of clothes which they could have used.

The poor girl looked so tired, so ill that Fabiano wondered whether she was pregnant and her boyfriend – for Fabiano could tell by the way that he held her to him that he was clearly very in love – so desperate that he could not help but nod and step aside.

"Come in, the pair of you."

Satisfied by the subtle sound of an invitation, Damon slowly began to step across the threshold with Francesca in his arms, holding her upright and squeezing her tightly as the older man made inane small talk and left them alone to use his phone.

"Sweetheart, are you ready?" He murmured, looking down at her and pressing his lips lightly to her temple. She moved with his lips, leaning into him and nodding.

"Yes," And the single syllable left Damon with thousands of possibilities, a million different kinds of future running through his head.

All of them with her.

He touched her hand and gently squeezed it, his heart soaring and his mind racing.

"Come in five minutes," He whispered, standing to let her lay down against the arm of the sofa.

"Okay," She nodded and he left the room.

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Fabiano had busied himself by making coffee for the pair. They did not look unkempt, but they did look tired. He turned to look at the man, the one the girl had called Damon, as he stepped into the room and quietly took a seat at his kitchen table.

"You take good care of her, don't you?" Fabiano asked, and the man – no, the boy – for he could only be twenty-four at the oldest, gave a small, secret smile which told him that Damon would do anything for the girl in the other room.

"Of course." Then, as though he were about to tell Fabiano a secret, Damon's voice dropped to a melodious whisper, and his stunning eyes darkened ever-so-slightly. "Would you put the coffee down?"

Feeling as though he were walking on air, Fabiano complied.

Damon's voice swam through his head, but that was it, that was all. He was filled with a kind of silence and peace, and his vision clouded to all but his intended purpose.

"Undo the top three buttons of your shirt and sit in that chair."

"Of course." He nodded simply, "What are you doing?" For Damon had found a bottle of balsamic vinegar, and was currently twisting it nombly between his fingers.

"Oh, nothing." He shrugged, but in a blink, Damon was stood beside the older man. "Close your eyes and relax. If you don't do that, then this is going to hurt."

Del'Amici jumped at the sound of the glass bottle smashing, splintering into long shards as Damon crushed it between his strong hands.

"Relax."

And Fabiano Del'Amici did, because the voice told him it wouldn't hurt a bit.

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Counting five minutes had filled Francesca with massive amounts of unease.

Damon always spoke softly, and that had made her feel so safe ninety-percent of the time, but this morning, she felt nothing but ill and afraid.

Five minutes after her strength and her light had left her side, she was taking slow steps towards the kitchen and resting her hand against the doorframe.

"Pretty Girl," Damon looked up from Del'Amici's neck, and crossed the room to take her by the hand, pull her gently through the maze of the kitchen so she was standing in front of Fabiano's still form. "He's not dead."

A short pause as she looked up at him, clearly panicked. His fingertips stroked against her bare arm, and she calmed a little way.

"Don't let me hurt him," She whispered, gripping his hand so tightly that she thought she might break something. "Please."

"I won't." He smiled down at her and slowly pulled her to stand behind the compelled man. "Slowly, Francesca, and when it gets too much, no matter how difficult, try to pull away."

"Okay."

She dropped her head slightly, and pressed her lips to the warm skin, feeling the blood trickle slowly, ever so slowly into her waiting mouth.

It tasted good. Not as she had expected, metallic and salty, but instead more... more like sweet alcohol, a good red wine. Very quickly, she was trying to pull back, already addicted, and Damon had his hand gently on her shoulder, pulling her away. She looked almost woozy, disagreeable to the point that she tore Damon's hand from hers and growled at him, feeling genuinely overtaken by the monster within.

Damon simply gripped her hand and ran his fingers across her palm, having thoroughly expected such a furious rebuttal.

"Francesca," It was a warning, but also an attempt to pull her back to reality.

"I want more." She managed, her breaths coming in short pants, "I don't want to hurt him, but I wan-"

"No," Damon gripped both of her upper arms and forced her to face him. He wouldn't allow what happened to him because of Stefan, the murder of an innocent girl during his change, he would not allow that to happen with Francesca, "You don't."

A soft brush of his fingertips across the apples of her cheeks, and a gentle, slow, passionate kiss brought Francesca back down to earth.

Her throat burned painfully – she had assumed it would be like the craving of a cigarette, but she did not really know. It was hard to explain it, but as Damon began to clear everything up – influencing Del'Amici, and swiftly mopping up the pungent vinegar on the floor, Francesca realised that it was going to be a lot more difficult for her to cope than she had initially anticipated.

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2010

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Elena Gilbert found Stefan Salvatore with his head in his hands, staring at the book which had sent his world reeling.

"I... I did that." Were his only words, words which he honestly could not have understood the weight of. "That was my fault?" It was almost as though he was incredulous at the thought of it being his own fault. As though he couldn't do anything wrong.

"Stefan-" Elena started, but it rather quickly appeared that he was hosting a pity party of his own design, because he shook his head silently and rose as though he was about to lock himself down in the basement.

It irritated Elena to no end. So, she moved on, this time trying to find Damon to entertain her, but it seemed as though the black cloud which had coloured the entire Boarding House was definitely colouring Damon's mood as well.

"What's wrong with you?" She put it bluntly, and was not surprised to hear Damon huff and roll over, not looking across at Elena. "Honestly, Damon."

He kept his face carefully masked, but couldn't resist the urge to raise his eyebrows at her and shook his head a quarter of an inch to the left, a quarter back to the right.

"You are unbelievable, Elena." She cocked her head as though she didn't know what he was talking about, "Honestly? You came in here because you were bored, and you're getting a rise out of me because it's exactly what you want. You're set in your ways, and you have to have what you want all the time because that's what makes you happy."

Elena was struck silent. She honestly hadn't thought about it like that, but there was no doubting it was true.

"Yeah, I know. Horrible when you realise it, isn't it?" There was a beat of silence where she half-expected him to raise his arms in a hug and try to make it all better, but he did not move, "You're throwing everything away because you don't want to believe the truth, Elena, and it's difficult for me to keep this up."

"Damon, I-" He held up a hand to silence her before she could get anything out that would stem the flow of his argument.

"No, I don't think you get to talk right now," He shook his head and straightened up, "We were married, and yes, I do love her – enough that I would want to be human for her, or that I would give everything up just so I could live it all again, and everything would go perfect," He paused for a short breath and looked back at her, "But I can't have that, and it's because I was selfish, and tried to get her to change," Shaking his head, he forced himself to his feet and pulled Elena up to the window.

He stood her in front of him and held a hand over her eyes, held her nose so she couldn't breathe. She spluttered for a moment, trying to fight it, but then realised what he was doing. Depriving her of her senses.

He held her tightly, almost cutting off her breathing, but when he let go, and her eyes shot open, her vision sharpened from the blackness, breaths coming in short gasps as she looked around and took in the colours, the shapes of the things outside the window. It was stunning, and beautiful.

"I see the darkness." Damon whispered, "The deprivation." There was a long moment of silence, and he blinked twice, pushing the burning sensation in his throat down and away from his voice, "She was the colour, the taste and the vision." There was a moment of silence, "Now, you tell me I'm lying."

Elena stood, staring out of the window for the longest time, until she heard the door close and realised that Damon was no longer in the room.


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A/N: Cruel, aren't I? Theories, Guesses and Reviews?

Love y'all xx