AN: Hello! I hope you're enjoying! I fail to put in author notes much. ._. But anyways, this is something I kind of sprung off the top of my head. It's my latest hang up in all of my fanfiction ideas, and I'm frankly in love with it. If you're here because you got an email saying that it's been updated and you try to find chapter 4 and there isn't one, it's because my dumb self went and posted my rough draft instead of the final. So this one is alot better than that funky one you read the other day. I'M SO SORRY. But, in better news, I'm working on my next chapter as we speak. :D REVIEWS! Thank you so much for your feedback. You all are so kind, and I hope to deliver this well to you. It's, again, my newest love, so I hope I can make it a good one for you too! I love hearing your comments, and love to know what you think!

They could come back. That's what Elena clung to: the doctor's diagnosis of temporary amnesia. It could come back in a few days, or weeks even. Or, worst case, he never remembered. Once they were home, Elena flew into rearranging the house. Damon hobbled. The same leg he was shot in during one of his deployments was injured again. Not horribly, but he was finding issues in walking on it without a support. He'd been given a cane to steady himself. He wasn't happy, but he didn't have a choice. A wheelchair was definitely out of the question. So, Elena fixed the house where he'd have no problem maneuvering where ever he need to go. She hadn't been home in two weeks. Dust was everywhere and Elena cringed. Damon didn't seem to notice, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"If you're hungry," she started, watching his every move as he inched towards the living room. "I can make you something." He inspected the house as he went, and Elena was confused until she remembered that, to him, this was a totally new place. They had bought it together, so he didn't know it anymore.

"No thanks," he said, looking at a photo of the two of them like they were foreign. She swallowed, finding a duster from the pantry. God this hurt worse than she thought it would.

"I've known you for how long?"

"F..Five years." Elena cleared her throat. "I met you at Bonnie's Christmas party. She introduced us. I kind of butted in on a conversation you two were having." She bounced on her toes. "But I don't regret it." She saw Damon smirk, and it made her feel a tiny bit better. He bumped a knuckle against one of the pictures.

"I'm not going to lie. I have good taste." She rolled her eyes, but went with it.
"Damn right." He liked that. He peeped over his shoulder at her, throwing her that same smirk, just a little more implied. Elena finished the kitchen and moved towards the living room. He followed her, finding the chair that was his, and only his. Somethings were just natural. He tried sitting, and just like in the car, he let out a groan of pain. It shot down his leg, almost like a cramp every time he tried to bend it. Flying to his side, Elena helped to steady him. He was surprised, but he kept forgetting. This woman was his wife. Or something like that.

"That's okay. I'll just go shower anyways. Get the hospital off me." He shrugged Elena off as kindly as he could. She nodded. She'd change the bed meanwhile. It needed it, after the last escapade that had occurred in it. She was sure that this Damon wouldn't appreciate sleeping in it. Oddly. As Damon shuffled into the bathroom, she began to strip the sheets from the mattress. It only occupied her hands. Her head was still spinning with ideas and possibilities and horrible outcomes. She didn't know how she was going to handle this. The doctor had little prospect for his memory returning. He couldn't say what would happen. Damon may never remember. She felt like rubber at that thought. He may never remember her. He might never remember any part of the most important things in her life, those she had with him. Not their engagement, not his war-time. None of it. Every sheet she put back on the bed made another something come into her head, and before she knew it, the bed was made and her eyes were brimming with tears.

"Elena." She jumped, lost in her thoughts. Clearing her throat, she put the last pillow on the bed and peeled back the sheets on his side of the bed. "I'm coming!" she called, but as she turned, Damon was right behind her and she all but ran into him. She covered her face, recovering, and inhaled before she looked back up to him.

"What do you need, ba—Damon?" When he saw her, really saw her, he frowned. He caught one of the tears on her cheek before she knew they were there. He hated seeing them. Especially on her. That obviously meant something.

"Don't cry," he said softly, but Elena shook her head.

"I'm fine," she covered. She offered him a pair of pants from his drawer, as he was still clad in nothing but a towel. "Here. I'm getting my things together, and I'll be out of here in a minute." She began to gather dirty linens, wrapping them into a pile she could carry out the door. Damon watched her, confused more than he was already.

"Where are you going?"

"In the living room," she replied, immediately overflowing an empty hamper with the wad of materials in her arms as she dropped them in the laundry room. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"Why? It's your bed. If anything, I should sleep out there." Elena blinked. He was sick. Or aching. She wouldn't put him out on the couch for anything. He needed his rest, and she didn't want to disturb it. And despite loving him with everything she had, a slight discomfort came over her at the idea of sleeping in the same bed as him.
"No, it's too hard, and you're sore," she frowned. "You can barely move. I'll be fine, I promise." She gave him a smile, but he didn't take it too well. "Promise." She said again. She found her night clothes and slid out the door. Damon watched her go. He wasn't happy. The idea of her on the couch outside just irritated him Probably because from what he could tell, that couch was a fluffy nightmare. Elena, though, was stubborn he could tell. So there would be no persuading her back. As he got a little comfortable in this damn big bed, is body began to feel like a blob of exhaustion. His meds, his soreness, his exercise with the PT nurse from hell all had him drained. Not to mention the damn thinking he was doing, trying to recall anything that might be lurking in his blacked-out brain. The more he did think about it, the more he realized how little he did know. He didn't know Elena, obviously. He knew Bonnie, from ages ago. High school. What was this year? 2014? Christ. What was the last thing he remembered? He dwelled on it, half awake and part of his mind on another tangent not even related to what was going on. 2009? 10? That was the year he finished college but was trying to find something else. Fuck being in college. Dad and his dreams. He could barely keep himself in order, much less learn shit in the process. He remembered meeting a guy about something. No, not a guy. A woman. The sheriff. Forbes. Did he go into the army? He had an urge to go find Elena and ask, but he was too far gone to care.

Outside, Elena wrapped herself in an afghan and tried to make herself comfortable. She'd never slept on this couch, and for a good reason. It was like a cloud, and she usually ended up sunk into the cushions. She was so tired, though, she barely cared. She could probably sleep on concrete at this point. Anything but another one of those hospital couches. Squeaky vinyl and dirty teal would forever haunt her dreams. Aimlessly she pressed the channel button on the remote control, finding nothing on the tube. A low rumble began somewhere above. The dreaded thunderstorm that had been the town's hot topic for several days now was making its arrival. Elena curled herself into the blanket. She hated storms. Some thunder she didn't mind, but loud claps made her absolutely tremble. She liked to thank her brother for that. Jerk and his antics. Closing her eyes, she opted out of any worrying and was hellbent on a deep sleep. Hopefully she could be out of it enough any noise would bypass her completely.

–

Fuck. What in the name of Satan was happening? Damon sat up, rubbed his face. He was sweating like he was in a sauna. And his head /hurt/. He mumbled something, but there was a ringing in his ears so loud he couldn't hear. He began to pull at them, but there was something in the way. The hell? He quickly tore off the hat –no, helmet– from his head. No wonder he was so hot. No, wait. He was hot because he was in a fucking desert. Damon sifted a pile of dirt through a gloved hand. Ruddy sand was all around him in endless dunes. Heat radiated in waves off of it. It felt like the sun was all but sitting on his shoulders. Armored shoulders, at that. He stood, a hundred or so pounds heavier, and he slowly began to hear. Rounds and rounds of bullets were being shot, but he just stood. Somewhere, he heard his name.

"Salvatore! Salvatore, GET. DOWN!" He turned, squinting against the brightness. Who the hell had said that? Then, it started again.

"Christ, Salvatore, are you an idiot? Get-"

In a second, he felt his body jump into action. He flew behind a dusty jeep emblazoned with "US ARMY" across the sides just as a slew of bullets buried themselves where he'd just been standing. Another body slammed into his, and he looked over to see the face of Carol Lockwood pressed against the vehicle with him.
"What the hell was that?"

"I got knocked for a loop. Sorry about that." Damon was confused as hell, but he just watched himself continue to function like it was nothing. He took off the empty magazine on the gun in his hands and reloaded it in such speed it blew his own mind.

"Don't do it again. I don't have time to be trying to drag your ass back to base." Damon smirked.

"Alright, guardian angel. What's about I tear into these bastards and you cover me? I see one that I can take in a heartbeat." Carol nodded, trying to peep around the corner, but just a bit too afraid she might be seen.

"Let's do it. I'll stay here. Shoot any that go at you. Decoy. I was queen of that in high school." She laughed and reloaded her own gun. Damon took several breaths, set his finger on the trigger, and sprung to his feet.

Bullets flew into the ground somewhere close. He felt them eat the sand. He began to fire, and one of the rebels that had cited him as his main target fell into a heap. Rounds kept firing, and he kept looking. He couldn't see where they were hiding from him. "Fuckers," he cursed under his breath. He fired off a round in any direction, just in case a stray bullet decided to hit one of them. The gunfire stopped, miraculously. Damon stood, waiting. It was quiet, and anyone would think it was over. It would be safe to move on. But he wasn't. One could be hiding. Or more could be waiting. It was what he'd been trained to do: accept every possible downfall and act on it. Act as if it were happening, and prepare. He stood for a solid ten minutes before deciding to retreat.

"Lockwood." He spun around, ready to find her and progress. But as he did, a pain like nothing he'd ever experienced tore through his abdomen. He grabbed, hands slipping on bloodied canvas. He searched for Carol, where she was still hidden by the jeep. She readied her gun and stood. She fired of a handful of shots towards the west, where an enemy jeep had appeared. Damon watched as his attacker flew out of the sand and into the open back seat. Another round of shots, and it was Damon's turn to yell at Carol.

"Lockwood, forget it! Let's run!" But it was too late. One of the bullets missed her, but buried itself in the side of their jeep, right where the fuel tankard was. Damon watched as Carol's poised figure was outlined with flames, then eaten up in an orange-black cloud. His feet left the ground. He flew for what seemed like ever before he skidded across the sand.

His ears rung. He sat up and rubbed his face. His head was pounding. He was hot. So hot. But he was in a desert. Damon sifted a pile of dirt through a gloved hand. Ruddy sand was all around him in endless dunes. Heat radiated in waves off of it. It felt like the sun was all but sitting on his shoulders.

Elena tossed. She wasn't lucky enough to fall asleep. Not from the thunder, and especially not from her damn mind. She had been dwelling on what to do for Damon. Where to start in retelling everything about them. There was so much, and some she didn't want to revisit. She needed Bonnie's ever-wonderful advice, but she was at work at- she glanced at the clock- 345 in the morning. Now wasn't the time for her to call her with her freak out moment. Elena flipped on the light on the table and threw off the blanket. Tea was what would calm her. Some of that herb-y stuff Bonnie swore by. She'd made some up for Damon when he couldn't sleep. Elena felt like he wouldn't mind if she dipped into his stash. She found the canister and rounded off a healthy dose to steep and began the water to boil. The only other sound was the ticking clock of Guiseppe's as it neared the hour. Elena even dozed a little as she stood, but was instantly jolted awake from the yell that pierced the silence like cold ice. She hadn't heard those in months, but they were just as horrible now as they were the first time. Possibly worse. Her feet barely touched the wooden floors as she flew down the hall. As she cut on the light, Damon was in a mess of sheets and sweat. His blue eyes were wide, empty, and lost. He was terrified. She ran to him, trying to pull the sheets away.

"I'm hurt." He was clutching at his ribs, tearing at his shirt. Seams popped he was pulling so hard. Elena took his hands to make him stop.

"You're not, Damon. You're okay." She knew this dream. Almost like she dreamt it herself.

"No, I'm shot. Don't you see?" He had a sort of child-like fear in his voice laced with panic, and it made Elena choke.

"Damon, it's me. Elena. You were dreaming. You're at home. With me." She stroked his cheek. It was all she could do. Talk to him, try to bring him out of his absolute terror. It took him ages to really get back. Damon flexed his hands, trying to hold what she assumed to be the phantom of a gun. Instead she squeezed them, hoping it would help.

"Damon," she'd say, and she could see him coming back to reality in slow, dragging moments. Damon finally blinked, recognizing Elena sitting there. At first he was surprised, but then she could see he understood. Out of paranoia, he checked himself and found no gaping holes. He shook, a muddled mess of nightmares and incoherence.

"Jesus," he breathed."What the hell was that?"

"The PTSD," Elena spoke just as quietly, watching him. "From the war."

"The war." Damon swallowed. He was silent for a long time, pondering.

"I was going to tell you. I just...hadn't yet. I'm sorry, Damon." He shook his head, threading his fingers into his hair and pulling on it. It was all he felt he could do. He was in the war?

"I watched Carol Lockwood die just then." Elena's gaze fell to the bed and refused to meet his as she spoke.

"I know. It's the same one. You've had problems with it ever since it happened." Damon looked up to her with a sickened look on his face. That was real? Was he remembering?

"You mean I actually watched Carol Lockwood die?" Elena didn't lift her eyes to him. She didn't speak. She knew he was just as mortified now as he was when it first happened. Because in his mind, it was. But her silence answered his question, and he guiltily buried his head in his hands.

"Christ."

"I'm sorry, Damon. The meds must've stirred them up."

"It's not your fault, Elena. I'll be fine." He looked up to her, rubbing her thigh in some sort of reassuring way. The first of any contact she'd had with him. "Thank you for being here." Being here. She hated being here when he went though these. It tore her up to see the strongest person she knew defenseless to his own mind. But she wouldn't have it any other way. She gave a small smile in return.

"Were you asleep?" He started unwinding himself from the material on the bed.

"Sleep. Right," she coughed, promptly spreading it back across the mattress. He rose a brow at her.

"It's the couch. It sucks. I told you to sleep in here." Elena rolled her eyes.

"You're injured."

"So?" Elena wavered. Damon watched, suspicious and almost knowing. Fuck. Was he that good that even when he didn't know her, he knew her?

"You're not just worried about that, are you?" She looked away, pulling the covers back to where they belonged.

"I'm going to sl-"

"You're a liar." He caught her hand, making her stop. She sighed. He tugged. "Stay with me." She pursed her lips. Physically she was aching to lay down. Mentally, she wanted to leave. But she wanted a sense of normality. Damon was willing, and she was confused as hell. She finally let herself fall onto the mattress, tired in more than one way. Her body melted into a puddle at the feel of her own sleeping space. Damn couch.

"Now. Is that so bad?" Damon prodded as she found a pillow and curled up, silently promising never to betray her bed for another couch again.

"I might not remember you, but that doesn't mean I'll bite. Hard." He flashed her that grin, and she laughed a little.

"I just figured it might be imposing."
"Imposing on what?"

"I won't lie. If I were in your shoes, I'd probably try and tell you you couldn't sleep in the bed."

"I'm not so objectioning." He chuckled. "But, you wouldn't win, either." Elena stared at the ceiling, feeling a tiny bit of steady for the first time in weeks. It was more or less just hearing Damon's voice that calmed her. He was here, not 100%, but in the 95% range, and he was cocky as ever. What more could she ask for?

"You know, Elena," he began after a silence, "I have this feeling that I'm insanely lucky that you're here for me." He turned his head to look at her. He expected to see those amazing eyes of hers, but instead they were shut, and she was long gone off in a restful sleep that she well deserved. The corners of his lips twisted slightly in a smug grin as he pulled the blankets across her.

"I win," he chuckled, and shut out the light for the second time that night.