Chapter 5: In Fragile Quiet
Damon's boots hit the ground as he walked up the familiar pathway to Elena's house. It was just after midday, the sun was high in the sky, but it did nothing to lift the darkness pressing on his chest. He had lost his nerve a number of times already, circling the town aimlessly, as he attempted to clear his head. Elena needed him, and yet... he felt the familiar stir of doubt creeping in.
He could feel the simmering anger in his gut, mostly directed at Bonnie and Caroline for hovering over Stefan like loyal babysitters, while Elena was left to piece herself back together. Alone.
He hated the way they treated him—as if his concern for Elena wasn't real, as if he wouldn't give his life to keep her safe. He knew he couldn't afford to let that anger follow him here. So, he had delayed his arrival until the steam in his brain had settled to a manageable fog.
He stopped at the bottom of the driveway, staring up at Elena's window. Normally, she would leave it open— which, as he saw it, was an invitation to climb up whenever he pleased. But today, the window was closed tight. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he considered what to do now.
The front door loomed ahead of him, more like a barrier than an entryway. Damon preferred his usual route— quick and familiar, the same way he had always entered her life. But the closed window gave him pause.
Respecting her privacy was important right now.
He strode up to the door and knocked lightly. The sound was loud in the otherwise quiet street. Damon tilted his head slightly, listening. He could hear her heartbeat. Slow, steady, but strong. She was definitely home, and yet there was no response. He knocked again, a little harder this time.
Still nothing.
Damon's jaw tightened, and for a moment, he considered walking away. But his feet carried him halfway back into the yard, directly under her window. A sigh escaped his lips as he contemplated his next move.
"Elena!" he called up, his voice rising only slightly, just enough for her to hear. "Elena, come on. Open up."
The seconds stretched long, the silence thick. He bent down, picking up a small stone, and gently flicked it at the glass. His vampire strength could shatter it if he wasn't careful, but the pebble made only a soft clink.
"Elena!" he called again, louder this time.
A moment later, the curtains shifted, and Elena's face appeared at the window. For a split second, he saw hesitation in her eyes—a flicker of something that sent a twinge of worry through him—but when she saw it was him, her hand moved to the latch. She pushed the window open without saying a word and disappeared from view again.
Damon exhaled slowly. It wasn't much of an invitation, but it was enough.
He jumped up, grabbing the edge of the window and sliding inside with practiced ease. The room was dim, the curtains blocking most of the daylight, casting the space in shadows. Elena had already made her way back to her bed. She sat on the edge, her hands resting limply in her lap, her feet hanging off the side.
Damon's gaze lingered on her longer than it should have. She was clean now, her hair damp from the shower, but there was something off about her. Gone were the skimpy sleep shorts and vest she usually wore at night, the outfits that both excited and tortured him because he knew he could never have her. Instead, she was dressed in long pajama bottoms, a woolen jumper that stretched down to her wrists, and thick socks. It was as if she had armored herself, covering every inch of skin that she could.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, studying her in silence. She hadn't flinched when he entered, hadn't even looked surprised to see him. But she wasn't engaging either. No witty comment, no irritated roll of her eyes like she usually did when he showed up unannounced. Just... nothing.
"Elena," he started, his voice soft, probing. No response. She didn't even lift her head.
He tried again, this time walking a few steps closer. "You can at least acknowledge my presence, you know."
Still nothing. Her head remained bowed, her fingers gripping the bed sheets slightly, but otherwise, she was frozen.
Damon sighed inwardly. He had been determined to check on her while Bonnie and Caroline played babysitter to Stefan, but now that he was here, his confidence felt like it was slipping away. What the hell was he supposed to do?
The silence stretched on, each second passing like an eternity. If there was one thing Damon knew well, though, it was patience. He'd lived over a hundred years; waiting was something he had perfected a long time ago. So, he waited.
He stayed where he was, leaning back against the wall, arms still crossed. The quiet felt deafening, but he didn't push. For nearly twenty minutes, they stayed that way—Damon watching her, Elena retreating into herself.
Eventually, Damon moved. He pushed off the wall and crossed the room to the chair beside the bed, sinking into it slowly. He rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together, his chin resting on them as he watched her. The silence persisted, but he could see subtle movements—the way her hands clenched the fabric, the slight tremble in her fingers.
He wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came. Every word felt wrong, every sentiment hollow.
Another stretch of time passed, minutes bleeding into minutes, until it felt like an hour had slipped by. Damon could be patient, but this was something else.
Finally, he broke the silence, his voice quiet, almost resigned. "Look, Elena… if you want me to go, I'll go. You don't have to say anything. I'll leave you alone."
Her reaction was immediate and sharp, "No!" The word came out fast, almost desperate, surprising them both. Her eyes shot up to meet his for the first time since he had arrived. "Please, don't leave me."
Damon blinked, surprised by the intensity of her response. He straightened, pushing off the chair slightly. "I just thought—"
"I just… I mean…" Elena interrupted him, her voice shaky and laced with fear. "Where is Stefan?"
And there it was. Damon felt his stomach twist as her question hung in the air. His shoulders fell, the weight of it settling in. Of course. No matter what happened, it always came back to Stefan. Even after what he had done, she would forgive him. It would always be Stefan.
Damon's voice hardened, bitterness creeping into his tone despite his best efforts to stay calm. "He's at the Boarding House. Locked in one of the cells."
Elena's face crumpled slightly at his words, her lips trembling. Damon felt a fresh wave of anger rise inside him. Sometimes, he really hated his brother. How could he hurt her? How could he do this to Elena? She was everything. She deserved the world, not the wreckage Stefan left in his wake.
Elena's breath hitched, and then she broke down. Tears spilled from her eyes, and Damon's resolve crumbled. It didn't matter how much he resented Stefan or how much he would always be jealous of the love she held for his younger brother—he couldn't stand to see her like this.
"Hey, hey," Damon said softly, kneeling at her feet. His voice had lost its edge, replaced with a gentleness he rarely used. He reached up, his fingers brushing against her cheek to wipe the tears away.
But as soon as his hand made contact with her skin, something changed. Elena's body tensed, and for a split second, Damon saw the flash of fear in her eyes. Her mind was back in the parking lot, reliving the previous night. His touch, meant to comfort, now mirrored the moment he had wiped blood from her face, instead of tears.
She started to tremble under his hand, her breaths coming in shallow, uneven bursts. Damon's heart sank as she flinched, pulling away from him and wrapping her arms around herself protectively.
Damon withdrew immediately, his hand dropping to his side. His throat tightened, and his vision blurred as his own emotions bubbled to the surface. He hadn't meant to scare her. His blue eyes glistened with unshed moisture, though he blinked it back quickly.
"Elena…" he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. "I'm sorry."
Elena didn't look at him. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, her body shaking.
Damon took a step back, his fists clenching and unclenching as he stood there, helpless. He had lived for well over a century, faced countless dangers, survived war and betrayal. But this. Seeing her in pain like this, knowing that he couldn't do anything to fix it— it made him feel powerless in a way he hadn't experienced in decades.
"I'm not him," Damon said softly, his voice barely audible. "I would never hurt you, Elena."
She didn't respond. Her gaze was distant, lost somewhere he couldn't follow. He wanted to reach out, to close the gap between them, but he didn't. He had pushed her enough.
The silence returned, thick and heavy, and this time, Damon couldn't break it.
"I'm going to go," Damon declared, his voice sombre. This time Elena didn't interject. "You have my number, Elena— If you need me, I'll here for you."
He walked back to the window, intending to leave the way he arrived. However, before he climbed through the opening, he paused. Elena may not be able to see it, but she needs someone to care for her, now more than ever.
Even if she didn't say it, Damon believed that deep down she cared about him too, at least a little bit. So he resolved himself to not give up on her, "I'll be back tomorrow."
