DISCLAIMER: I do not own or profit (or even want to profit, for that matter) TVD or any of the characters therein.
A/N: Okay, you convinced me. :-) You are all lovely. Quoting my lines, complimenting me so sweetly. The reviews put me in a better mood all day. They, uh, also made me write more. So, yeah, here we are.
This chapter does have a blood…situation…and I think I drop an f-bomb. Anyway, it's going to be a long and bumpy road for these two kids, one of whom is *still* dating Stefan. Ugh! But we'll get there – trust me. Reviews are great at Christmas – tis the season for giving, right? ;-) Enjoy and Merry Christmas!
Stefan has his arm around my shoulder. I know he means well, Stefan always means well. But I feel like I'm suffocating. We're supposed to be watching a movie, but I'm watching the window beyond the TV instead. I'm half desperate to throw it open, to breathe in the icy air beyond the glass.
What the hell is with me? I've been this way for days.
I think I'm going crazy. A week ago I wanted nothing more than for Stefan to rush back into town. I was chomping at the bit to get him out of his clothes, to get his hands on me so that I could not feel all the awful things I was feeling.
And he did get back, three hours after Rose died. By then, everything was different. It was all I could do to hug him hello. He had a tall glass of comfort sex on his mind. I had Devastated Damon on tap.
I couldn't get him out of my head, the way he'd shuddered under my embrace, the way his tears had felt surprisingly hot soaking through my shirt.
Of course, he'd pulled away thirty seconds later, disappearing with Rose's body and a shovel. He returned the next morning, stone-faced and carrying a crate of liquor bottles.
He still hasn't stopped drinking. And Stefan and I still haven't had sex.
We will. I know that. It's just a matter of me curing whatever brand of crazy this is I've been inflicted with.
"He's not eating much," Stefan says, and I jerk my head back forward, only now realizing that I'd started gazing up the stairwell. Up towards Damon's room.
I frown, feeling guilty as hell. Stefan just smiles in that easy, understanding way of his.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I know I'm distracted. I realize it's insane for me to say this, but I'm pretty worried about Damon."
Stefan nods, looking serious. Then, when doesn't he look serious?
"Me too," he says. "He's unstable."
"This is more than that, Stefan. I was there and it was awful. She was his friend."
He rubs the upper part of my arm and gives me a look that makes me feel like a little girl. I hate that look. There's something so…superior about it.
"Damon doesn't really do friends, Elena," he says. "He only thinks he does. But I love that about you. You can find the good in anyone."
He cups my face and gives me a tender kiss. I remind myself that I should be enjoying this moment, this rare stolen bit of peace with my boyfriend. I should not be obsessing over the psycho vampire binge drinking on the second floor. But I am.
"Would you mind if I checked on him? I'd probably be more focused."
"You don't need my permission," he says, because he really is that perfect.
"I know, but Damon can be flirty and weird and it seems to get to you. Which is probably the whole reason he does it."
There it is again. That You-poor-stupid-child look. No. No, I have to be misreading it. Stefan is wonderful. I'm the one who's crazy. I'm picking him apart because I can't figure Damon out. I'm so screwed up, therapists would probably pay over me.
"Elena," he says, pushing a strand of my hair behind my ear. "I know you're concerned about him. It's what you do. You can't help it."
I swallow hard, not disagreeing, even though I know damn well it's more than me just being such a sweet, caring gal. No, this is a sticky mess of things I don't want to talk about. Or even think about.
"I'll tell you what," he says. "I need to make a run to the library before it closes. I've got a couple of botany books on reserve. For the spell."
"For the werewolf bite cure? But Bonnie said half of those ingredients are extinct."
"Some of them, yes. But plants are bred over and over again. They change names, locations. If we can trace the lines of those extinct plants—
"Then you might be able to make the spell work."
"In theory," he says, rubbing my knee softly. "So, that'll give you a few minutes to play good Samaritan to my brother. But be careful."
"I don't deserve you," I laugh, but it cuts off in my throat. I don't like those words suddenly. They seemed fine when I chose them, but now I feel like they leave my tongue sour and my ears stinging.
Stefan tells me I deserve more than him and then he kisses me. I let him. I even remember to respond.
I wait until I hear his car backing out of the driveway before I start up towards Damon's room. I haven't taken two steps when I hear him.
"So, the two of you plotting to save me from myself? Very touching."
I freeze on the stairs, frowning as he continues.
"Maybe a little Days-of-Our-Lives, but Stefan's hair has always had that daytime drama flair."
So, it's going to be typical Damon ass-hattery? Fine by me. I know all the steps to that dance. I square my shoulders and climb the massive staircase.
His room is gorgeous, in a messy, lived-in way. The furniture is polished, but cluttered. His nightstand is buried under a stack of books and a pile of broken glass that I imagine was once a crystal tumbler.
I find him on the floor, back to his bed and an empty bottle of liquor between his legs. He's flushed, shirtless, and far too aware of how good he looks if his smirk is any indicator.
"Wanna play spin the bottle?" he asks.
"Not if you paid me," I say, but not before the image flashes through my mind.
See, that's the thing. No matter how tightly I hold the reins with Damon, there's always that split second where it's out of control. That half of a breath where I picture it clear as day, the bottle spinning to a stop, me crawling across the floor, him leaning in with that fuck-me smile dialed up to ten.
In my right mind, I've never wanted to kiss Damon. Not once. But I've thought about it hundreds of times.
He pulls up his knees, looking at me under hooded eyes. "You can call off the suicide watch. I'm not planning to run myself through with a chair leg."
"Then why aren't you eating?"
He rolls his eyes. "Because I'm busy drinking."
"You look like hell."
This isn't really true. He's model gorgeous like he always is. Right now, he's a model with dark circles under his eyes and a little too much indentation around the ribs, but a model nonetheless. He leans his head back on the bed.
"You want to put on that cute little outfit you wore last year and take care of me, Nurse Gilbert?"
"No, Damon, I don't. What I would like is for you to stop pretending that what happened to Rose doesn't matter."
"And I'd like you to remove the stick from your ass—
I ignore this, plowing ahead. "I'd also like you eat something."
"You offering?"
"God, do you ever stop? You're not going to convince me that it's no big deal, Damon. I was there!"
His smirk fades, leaving his face blank and his beautiful eyes dark. There it is. Right there. That's the part of him I can't walk away from.
I crouch down until we're eye to eye. He won't quite look at me, but he's not forcing me to leave. It's something.
"Did you love her?" I ask, very softly.
"Doesn't it make it even more tragic that I didn't?" he asks, still not looking at me.
I don't answer, because I honestly don't know.
"I liked her, though," he says.
"Do you think she'd want you drinking yourself into oblivion?"
"This isn't because of her," he says, then he pushes off the floor and that brief fragile beauty is gone. His energy is back, a frenetic, palpable thing. Sometimes I wonder if it hurts him to be still.
"Will you please eat something?" I ask.
"As soon as I'm hungry."
I cross my arms, not believing him for a second. "You're not hungry?"
He's at his dresser now, pulling out a shirt. He sounds irritated. Has that tight look around his smile. "Not at this moment. Should I be keeping a log?"
"It's just funny. I mean, it seems like you go through blood bags by the hour and Stefan says you've barely had anything for days."
"Maybe I'm watching my girlish figure."
"Right," I say, and now I've had enough.
I head to the nightstand and pick up one of those broken pieces of glass I saw earlier.
I've lost it. I mean, really, truly lost it. Because only an insane person would drag a jagged piece of glass across her fingertips for a hungry and possibly psychotic vampire.
A line of blood blooms on my skin and he turns to me, chin lifted. His eyes are framed in dark veins, fangs extending between his lips.
"Thought you weren't hungry," I say, holding my fingers out pointedly.
This is a supremely stupid idea. He's at me before I even see him move, his hand around my wrist, his face so close I can smell the liquor he's been marinating in for the past few days.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Elena."
"I knew you were lying," I say, hating how breathless I sound. "I wanted to call your bluff."
"Now I'm about to call yours," he says, and then he leans in, eyes closed as his tongue slides across my fingers.
He gives me every possible opportunity to pull free. Really. And I could rattle off a grocery list of reasons why I should never, ever let this happen.
I ignore them all.
He pulls the stinging tips of my fingers between his lips and sucks, and I swear to God, I feel it in my knees. I mean it hurts like hell, but it feels so good that it makes my belly ache.
What does that say about me? What does it mean that I'm not stopping him? I'm not pulling away or saying a word. I'm just standing here, my heart pounding louder and harder as his tongue strokes my wound.
He makes a low, almost sexy sound in the back of his throat and I have never felt more filthy than I do at this moment.
I'm not sure I've ever felt more alive, either.
He pulls free, searching me with a look I don't think I can handle.
I drop my hand to my side as if all of this is very boring. Sure.
"I'll bring you two bags," I say, and I might as well be the checkout girl at Safeway, because this is all business now. "If you want more, just yell down the stairs."
The softness fades from his features, leaving the smirk I know so well in its wake. I feel his eyes flick up and down my frame.
"It's a whole lot better straight from the source, Elena."
I turn away before I say something I'll regret forever. But obviously not before he sees me blush, because his laugh follows me all the way down the stairs.