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Elena dreams in red. Poppy strewn ditches and forests turned scarlet by autumn leaves. Rust covered bridges under a flaming moon. A string of rubies at her neck and nails painted a deep, gleaming cherry. It all bleeds together; blood everywhere, splattered on her dress and dripping from Damon's lips. Always Damon, liquid crimson teasing its way down his chin. She traces the path from his throat to his mouth, first with her finger and then with her tongue; lost in the taste of salt and metal and life.
She wakes up out of breath, forgetting that she doesn't need air anymore. When she opens her eyes, Stefan is watching her sadly.
"You ok?"
"Nightmare." She stares at the ceiling and tries to tell herself that's the truth.
They lay in silence for several moments, her head finding Stefan's shoulder and his fingers finding her hair.
"You were saying his name again." Stefan's words are almost inaudible, so quiet that she would never have caught them as a human. Mortified, she buries her face in his chest. It's the second time this week.
"I'm sorry." She whispers.
He sighs. "It's not your fault. It's the blood-sharing. "
Elena isn't sure whether he's trying to convince her or himself, but she plays along. "I know."
Stefan is fidgeting uncharacteristically, one restless foot tapping the other. "He shouldn't be here. We both agreed. We agreed that whoever you didn't choose would leave town."
This is new information, but hardly surprising. It's a logical plan; certainly more logical than the three of them living here together like some sort of incestuously dysfunctional family. If anything is illogical, it's the cold shot of fear that runs down her spine at the thought that Damon might still make good on their agreement.
"Stefan, it was a mistake. We weren't thinking-"
"Damon was thinking."
"I'm sorry." She repeats.
Elena closes her eyes, sinking under the weight of guilt. She's sorry for so many things. She's sorry for everyone who died to save her from this fate - for John and Isobel and Alaric and Jenna. She's sorry for the bandage taped to Matt's neck and the disappointment in Bonnie's eyes and the abandonment written on Jeremy's face. She's sorry for the ever-widening rift she's torn between two brothers; sorry that choosing Stefan didn't douse the sparks that light her skin on fire whenever Damon is within reach.
Most of all though, she's sorry that she's not sorry enough. Her deepest shame is that she's begun to crave it - the hunt, the bloodlust, and the indescribable high of letting go, free falling, knowing that the older Salvatore brother will be there to catch her.
"Let's not dwell on it." Stefan murmurs, kissing the top of her head.
Easier said than done.
But she is lying in the embrace of a good man who loves her more than his own existence and she has no right to dwell on anything else. She has no right not to try harder.
It's been days of steering clear and keeping her distance. She's been clipping their conversations and refusing to make eye contact; cleaning up her own messes and keeping her own secrets. Damon is many things, but slow on the uptake is not one of them. He retreats to lick his wounds, kicked puppy eyes beneath a sneer. And she might still be hyper-aware of his every movement, but she doesn't let herself go running after him - not even the weekend her only food source (otherwise known as Matt) leaves town for an away game. Not even when she gets so hungry it hurts.
Instead, she digs out a bag of blood and wills herself to choke it down.
Stefan finds her doubled over in pain. He hesitates only for a moment before setting his jaw and grabbing her hand. "Let's go."
"But you can’t -"
"I can handle it."
He takes her to a dark, dingy bar on the edge of town and chaperones from the corner – fists clenched, eyes winced, ripper proclivities carefully checked - while she feeds on a waitress. His forehead is dotted with sweat and his hands are shaking by the time she rejoins him. He points out the blood still smeared on her cheek and she wipes it away apologetically.
It's about as much fun as getting drunk with a recovering alcoholic. But then, Elena reminds herself, feeding isn't supposed to be fun. It's supposed to be a necessary evil.
They leave in somber silence.
"How do you feel?" He asks when they're settled in the car.
She can't help but remember practically levitating in ecstasy when Damon asked her that same question on Halloween. I feel good.
But she doesn't feel good tonight. She feels dirty.
"Elena? Do you feel better?" Stefan asks again when she doesn't respond.
"Yeah. I feel better." She lies. On the drive home, she concentrates all of her energy on not crying.
When they arrive back at the mansion and he sees her shining eyes, Stefan wraps his arms around her. "I know it's hard right now, but things will get easier. I promise."
He doesn't understand. She isn't crying because this is too hard. She's crying because it's too easy.
But she nods anyway because she knows he's trying. He's working overtime, bending over backwards to prove that he can pick up the slack; that anytime she's ready to let go of his brother for good, he's ready to fill the void. He's trying to play both roles.
If Stefan doesn't quite succeed, that isn't his fault.
And if, he notices that, on their way upstairs, Elena's gaze lingers on Damon's door, he is kind enough not to comment.
Matt has begun to flinch at the sight of her. His blood tastes like fear and guilt and the disintegration of a lifelong friendship. She can't bring herself to drink it. She knows it would taste better if she compelled him, but the thought makes her almost as sick as the prospect of another shameful visit to another dive bar.
"I'm not hungry." She insists when Stefan all but physically drags her to a desolate diner in the next town.
He's compelled a busboy to bare his neck in the back alley and the teenager is standing there, head tilted, waiting for Elena's fangs. It's the vampire equivalent of spoon feeding. But there are florescent floodlights glaring and a car alarm going off nearby and Stefan is watching with forced clinical detachment. Elena can't summon an appetite.
As if reading her mind, a frown darkens his brow. "I'll wait inside."
"No." She catches him by the arm before he can leave her alone. If he turns his back, this boy will be dead by her hand within seconds. She's sure of it.
He shakes his head helplessly. "You can't starve yourself, Elena."
"I'm not hungry." She says again, like a mantra. When she says it, she can almost convince herself that it's true.
Elena falls asleep on the way home. When she wakes up, the car is parked and Stefan is staring at her.
"What?"
He runs a hand over his face before answering, "I don't know how to help you."
"You are helping me. You're doing your best."
"Those aren't the same things." He says quietly before turning off the engine.
When they walk through the front door, Damon is waiting. He's pacing the living room, glass of bourbon in hand.
"Well?"
His inquiry is directed at Stefan, who responds with a single shake of his head.
Damon scowls and tips back his drink, downing it in one shot.
It's the first time in days that Damon has been home and out of his room for any length of time. Elena is too exhausted to mask her relief at the sight of him. But it doesn't matter. He won't look at her. And she knows he's just making a show of abiding by her unspoken wishes, but an anxious feeling still spreads through her chest at the realization that she's not avoiding him anymore. He's avoiding her.
She can't think about it right now though. Right now, she can't think about anything. She's only half awake. She wanders over to the fireplace while Damon and Stefan talk about her like she's not there.
"We need you." Stefan is saying.
"You mean she needs me."
"What difference does it make?"
"It makes every difference." Damon mutters.
Lightheaded, Elena leans against the wall and stares into the fire while the brothers argue. Their voices seem distant compared to the crackling flames. She only picks up bits and pieces.
"… something wrong with her …"
"… nothing wrong, except that she's repressing every natural instinct …"
"… if you hadn't taken advantage of her…"
"… came to me for help because she knows, deep down …"
"… trying to preserve her humanity…"
"… trying to pass along your martyr complex..."
"... turning her into a killer ..."
"... killing her with your-self-righteous bullshit…"
"Stop it." She says, but her voice comes out in a whisper. They don't hear her. She wants to make them listen, but it's all she can do to keep her eyes open. Soon, she can't even manage that.
Soon, she's falling.
Strong arms catch her just before she hits the ground. Elena is vaguely aware of Stefan – his flannel shirt against her cheek, his hand under her back, his voice in her ear.
“I got you. You’re ok, you’re ok…”
But, as she slips into oblivion, the last voice she hears is Damon’s.
“She’s not ok, you idiot. She needs blood. She needs…”
Blood. Red candy apples and red rosa plums and blood red oranges. Stretching beyond the horizon, orchards upon orchards of red. Flashes of lightning and bright vermillion clouds, bursting with hot, sticky liquid. First just a drizzle and then a downpour of thick, exquisite blood. She watches, transfixed, as the red rain floods the ground and soaks Damon’s skin. He is standing like a child in the snow, mouth open, catching droplets on his tongue. More than anything, she wants to join him, but the wind pushes against her every step and she can’t reach him. He holds out a hand. She tries to take it, but the wind whips up into a frenzy, driving her back, deeper into the blood-storm. She is cold and lost and calling out his name.
“Shh. I’m here.” A voice pierces through the fog. “Elena, I’m right here.”
There is a cool pillow beneath her head and a firm hand squeezing her own. She opens her eyes just far enough to see that Damon is sitting in a chair beside the bed. He is out of focus, but she can still make out a concerned frown, shifting into a tight smile when he sees that she is awake.
Satisfied, Elena sighs and lets her eyes drift shut again.
The room is spinning faster and faster, pushing her into the sheets.
“I don’t feel so good.” She confesses in a whisper, as if this is news.
“Well, you look great.” He deadpans softly, a catch in his voice. “Sunken cheeks and dark circles? Very corpse chic.”
A feather-light finger skims a ring around her closed eyes and it feels so, so good. She focuses on the sensation, lets it anchor her to consciousness. His fingertips trail to her temple and she leans in, silently asking him to not to stop. He traces patterns on her cheek until she is coherent enough to remember that this isn’t his job.
“Where’s Stefan?”
Instantly, Damon’s touch disappears, leaving her untethered.
“Your knight in shining armor went to find you some dinner. Matt wasn’t answering his phone, but-”
“No.” She squints her eyes open again. “Not Matt. I won’t.”
He quirks a reproachful eyebrow. “Enough with the picky eating, young lady.”
Black dots are filling her vision as she feels herself slipping back into unconsciousness. But, before Damon dissolves, he lowers his face so it’s level with her own.
“Hey. Look at me.” He gently turns her chin so she’s looking directly into his flashing eyes. “I mean it, Elena. Enough.”
And she knows that Damon can’t compel her anymore. She is well aware of this. But his eyes burn through her restless dreams and they are still the only thought in her mind when she wakes up a little later to find a bloody wrist dangling under her nose.
Enough.
She doesn’t hesitate before sinking her teeth into the soft flesh. She takes deep, long sips without wondering for one second whose vein she is draining. It isn’t until the gnawing in her stomach begins to subside that she realizes the blood can’t be Matt’s. It tastes like nothing she’s ever tasted before; like smoke and cinnamon – power and magic.
Bonnie.
Elena tries to look up, but she can’t see past the wounded wrist, oozing blood. It’s mesmerizing. Remorse and hunger do battle in her gut. She needs more.
“Stop.” The witch speaks in a slow, calming voice and Elena obeys without thinking. She goes limp. “You don’t feel hungry anymore. In fact, one more drop of blood would be one drop too much. You’re so full, you can’t imagine eating for days. You don’t feel anything except satisfied and strong and sleepy. In fact, you can hardly keep your eyes open. They’re feeling heavy, very heavy. You’ll fall asleep in three, two -”
“Why don’t you make her cluck like a chicken while you’re at it?” Damon scoffs from somewhere near the doorway.
“Shut up, Damon.” Bonnie hisses.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Don’t let me interfere with the land of make-believe you’ve constructed over there. You go right on hypnotizing the bloodlust out of a vampire.”
“For the last time, that’s not what I’m doing. All I’m doing is temporarily changing her perception. Biologically, she still needs blood.”
“Very astute.” Damon mocks. “Did Professor Svengali teach you that?”
Stefan jumps in before Bonnie can retaliate. “We’re running out of options, Damon. If we can buy Elena some time – even a few days – this is worth a shot.”
“That argument didn’t make sense when you made it an hour ago and it doesn’t make sense now. Why delay the inevitable? What good are a few days?”
Stefan pauses before responding, “Maybe none. But a temporary fix is still better than no fix.”
“Elena doesn’t need to be fixed .” Damon snaps. “What she needs is to get her hands dirty. She needs to let herself go so she can find her limits. She needs to learn how to hunt.”
“She doesn’t want to learn how to hunt. It makes her sick. She hates it.”
“Is that so?” Damon gives a short, mirthless laugh. “She didn’t look sick when she was drenched in blood the other night, dancing circles around her prey.”
“What, at the frat party? That’s your big suggestion? More parties? Mardis gras? Spring break in Cancun? She cried herself to sleep that night, Damon. Did you know that? Did you know she came home and told me that she didn’t think she was going to survive? She told me it was awful.”
“It was only awful after Elphaba here pulled out her judgey face and sent Elena packing on the Guilt Trip Express. You should have seen her before that, Stefan. I mean it. You should have. She was amazing. And she was happy. She was happier than I’ve ever seen her.”
“You don’t even know what happy looks like.” Bonnie bites out. “She wasn’t happy. She was stoned on blood.”
“As if the two are mutually exclusive.” Damon retorts. But then there is a long silence followed by an even longer sigh. “You know what? Do your hocus pocus. Keep telling yourself that nothing has changed. When she’s ready to face reality, she knows where to find me.”
His footsteps echo down the hall, before stopping at the top of the stairs. Just within earshot, he murmurs, “You hear me, Elena? When you’re ready, I’ll be right here.”
The sun is setting by the time Elena opens her eyes again. She lies motionless, staring at the orange-tinted shadows dancing on the ceiling. A long moment passes as she processes a day lost to sleep and a protective arm curled around her mid-section.
Stefan is out cold. He doesn't stir even when she unwraps herself from his embrace and crawls out of bed.
She finds her clothes folded on the dresser and slips them on – jeans, t-shirt, then blazer. Purse in one hand and shoes in the other, she slowly closes the door behind her as she goes. Wincing at the loud click, she walks gingerly down the stairs. She is trying to take light steps, but the wood creeks uncooperatively. When she nears the door, loose floorboards rattle under her feet and the noise echoes through the front hall.
"Very stealthy."
She spins around to find Damon watching her. He is leaning against the living room doorway, arms folded; mouth turned up in the barest hint of a smirk.
Caught, she forces herself to smile nonchalantly. "Maybe if your house weren't a million years old …"
"Maybe if you weren't in such a hurry to find the nearest exit …"
Her smile falters. "That's not - I just didn't want to wake anybody up."
"Considerate." He nods, clearly unconvinced. "Vampires have better ways of making quick escapes, you know."
By way of demonstration, he disappears in a blur of speed and reappears directly in front of her.
He's close enough now that she can smell the bourbon on his breath; see his tired eyes and mussed hair. He's wearing the same wrinkled shirt he was wearing last night and it occurs to Elena that he's probably been awake for longer than she's been asleep. Something about the thought makes her chest constrict.
"I'm sorry." She blurts without stopping to identify the exact source of her guilt.
"Hey, I'm not the one you're sneaking away from." And he looks so unconcerned that she almost doesn't catch his next words. "Am I?"
There is a note of fear in his question that distracts her from denying the obvious: that she is, indeed, sneaking away. She shakes her head, eyes dropping to the floor.
"No. It's not you."
It's the complete absence of hunger in her stomach. It's the memory of Bonnie's blood in her mouth. It's the way Stefan looked at her last night, like irreparably damaged goods.
She needs some time.
"I can't believe I'm saying this." Damon shoves his hands into his pockets. "But, if intentions count for anything – you know Stefan was trying to help, right?"
And yes, of course, she knows that. But she still responds with a helpless shrug. "He could have asked."
"To be fair, you weren't exactly coherent."
It's almost funny.She'll never understand it, this strange tug of war they play; the way Damon pulls at her with all of his strength only to push her back the instant she budges.
Sincerely curious, Elena lifts her eyes to meet his. "Why do you do that?"
Confusion fills his face. "What?"
"Defend him."
Damon gives a short, mirthless laugh of acknowledgement. "Maybe because I lost the high ground on compulsion about two seconds after you and I met.
"Compelling me to forget isn't the same thing as compelling me to change." She mutters, looking down at her bare feet. To her great annoyance, she feels tears pricking her eyes. "It didn't even work. I'm already hungry."
Damon takes her face in his hands so she has no choice but to look at him. He frowns at the sight of her tears. "That's normal , Elena. You're fine . Look, there's a bar fifteen minutes from here with a band tonight – lots of dark corners and drunk locals. I was planning to go. You could come with me. We could leave right now."
It's so tempting, she can practically taste the blood. She can see herself prowling the crowd with Damon. She can hear a hundred hearts beating in time to the music. She can imagine what it might feel like to leave on Damon's arm, happy and sated.
What she can't picture is what would come next. She can't picture the fall out.
"I'm not ready."
His eyes register the reference to his words last night. He smiles softly as his hands slip away from her face. "Not ready ... as in - you're thinking about it?"
"Not ready ... as in - I don't know." She answers honestly, wiping her eyes and slipping on her shoes.
"Ok." He sighs. "Then you need another plan. And emaciating yourself doesn't count."
"No, I'm done with that." Elena promises and she has never meant anything more.
She is sick to death of feeling like some sort of overheated southern belle who faints at the slightest provocation.
She makes her way to the door, turning back at the last second to assure him, "I'll figure something out."
Caroline is early. Practically skipping her way up the stairs, she breezes into Elena's room all sequins and smoky eyes; five inch stilettos on her feet and eager smile on her face. She stops short at the sight of Elena in a sweater and jeans.
"No. Absolutely not. Unacceptable."
"You took the words right out of my mouth." Elena smirks at the dangerously high slit in Caroline's skirt.
"This is appropriate girls' night attire. That is not. You march right back into that closet and find something worthy of -"
"Of luring victims?"
"Of attracting admirers." Caroline corrects with unwavering enthusiasm. "Something – vampy."
The blonde grins in satisfaction at her own pun while the brunette rolls her eyes. But Elena knows better than to cross Caroline Forbes when she's running an event – be it junior high sleepover, high school dance, or vampire feeding lesson. She obediently begins sifting through her closet for something that won't make Caroline look hopelessly overdressed by comparison.
"I'm glad you called." Caroline's voice carries into the closet. "I told you this Hayley she-wolf is still living with Tyler, right? I need a distraction like you wouldn't believe."
"Yeah, but ... we could just watch a movie - if this is too much for you. I know this isn't exactly your scene-"
"Elena, I'm not Stefan. I'm only on a blood bag diet because it's working for me right now. If it's not working for you, I'm more than capable of playing wing-woman. Years of Atkins have left me with supernatural self-control.
"If you're sure…"
"Oh my god, yes, I'm sure. This is going to be fun, I promise. Just like the old days.”
Except less gossip and more blood.
"By the way, did Bonnie tell you that she agreed to go on a date with that professor guy?” Caroline continued, “How old is he, anyway? I mean, I get that your boyfriend was born two centuries ago, but technically he's still like, seventeen, right? This guy can't be a day under thirty-five. So weird."
Well, more blood anyway.
"Yeah, weird." Elena feigns fascination with a deep burgundy corset dress. If memory serves, she once relegated this dress to the back of her closet because she deemed it too short and tight for polite society. In an effort to change the subject from Bonnie, she grabs the hanger and holds it out for approval. "Vampy enough for you?"
Caroline claps her hands gleefully. "Elena Gilbert, you've been holding out on me."
Elena moves further into the closet to change.
"Oh, hey, where do you want to go? Normally, I'd say the Grill, but with Connor on the loose-"
"Um, I don't know." Elena has shimmied into the dress and is now hunting for a pair of heels. "I think there might be a bar about fifteen minutes from here with a band playing tonight."
She listens in thrilled horror to her own voice making the suggestion. By the time she catches herself, it's too late to retract the words. She waits on edge, half hoping Caroline vetoes the venue and half hoping …
"Oh yeah! I remember seeing a poster for some local band playing tonight. Good call. Lots of dark corners."
Drenched in cigarette smoke and the bare light of a sparkling disco ball, Elena weaves her way through the crowd. The walls are shaking. They thrum with the pulse of fresh pumping blood and a syncopated bass line. The beat kicks into high gear and vibrates all the way from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. It shakes the glass in her hand, splashing a trail of whiskey in her wake.
She barely notices. She is preoccupied with the knot in her stomach that coils tighter as she scans the room for dark hair and a leather jacket.
Caroline spots her and waves from the dance floor, where she is casually returning the flirtations of a muscle-bound waiter. "Elena, over here!"
Elena pretends not to see her just yet. Her eyes are darting from girls lost in the music to boys prowling for dance partners; couples pressed in the shadows to the band wrapping up a Portishead cover.
The knot in her stomach continues to wind in what might be dread and might be anticipation. She is concentrating on not asking herself which, when her gaze gets stuck on stage. The band is fronted by a tiny, dread-locked singer writhing under the spotlight. The girl is stretching her neck to reach a high note – exposing her jugular.
Involuntarily, Elena licks her lips.
The music fades to white noise. She takes one step forward and then two. She is already imagining how the girl will taste – like lemon and sage.
"Hey! Elena!" Caroline's voice sounds very far away.
It isn't until Elena tries to move again that she realizes her wrist is caught in a vice grip. Caroline holds tight, speaking in a slow, firm voice. "You're not hungry. You just ate. Remember the pervy biker who grabbed our asses on the way in? Focus, Elena."
Elena fights her way back to the surface, grimacing at Caroline in embarrassment.
"Sorry." She mouths.
Caroline shrugs as if to telegraph that it's no big deal, these things happen. Friends come inches from on-stage murder every day.
"It's like cheesecake."
Elena laughs in spite of herself, thinking she must have misheard. "Come again?"
"I said, it's like cheesecake." Caroline shouts over the music. "You're not actually hungry, but it's just sitting there, tempting you and so you have a piece – and then two – and then three. And it tastes good. But it's not good for you. You don't need it and, before you know it, you've gained twenty pounds."
"That's quite a metaphor." Elena's smile fades as she lowers her voice, forcing herself to ask the obvious question. "But what if you are actually hungry? Like … all the time?"
Caroline shakes her head. "You just think you're hungry. You can't let your emotions dictate your appetite."
Elena immediately wishes she hadn't brought it up. She looks down, avoiding the well-intentioned concern written on Caroline's face. She doesn't understand. If she did, she wouldn't be offering some Naturally Southbeach Skinny platitude from her human days.
In an effort at self-medicating her thirst, Elena downs the rest of her whiskey sour.
The girl on stage is now belting a Garbage cover, blissfully unaware of how close she has just come to having her vocal cords ripped from her throat. Caroline is moving with the beat.
"I'll be right back. I need another drink."
"I'll come."
"No, that's ok." Elena says a little too quickly, sending worried suspicion to Caroline's eyes. She slows down. "I'm fine. Enjoy the band. I'll be right back. I promise. No ... cheesecake."
Caroline nods reluctantly.
Elena makes her way back to the bar as the music skips and pounds, fast and steady. It hits her like a shot of adrenaline. She searches the passing faces, eyes wandering from the corner of the room to the booths in the back.
"Who are you looking for?" A familiar voice teases from directly beside her.
Damon. The knot in her stomach unravels.
She turns to find him keeping pace with her. Buzzed on whiskey and blood, she makes no effort to hide her delight at his appearance. Instead, she takes his arm, shamelessly leaning into him and flashing a thousand watt smile. "You're here."
"And you … are drunk." His eyes are trailing appreciatively from her glossy lips to her red fitted dress to her patent leather pumps.
"I've only had one drink." She protests, skin burning under the heat of his gaze.
"Mmhmm." His leans down to whisper in her ear. "And how much blood?"
"Not enough." She answers without thinking, looking up in time to see him smirk.
"That's what you get for submitting yourself to the esteemed tutelage of Caroline, the calorie counting vampire."
Elena snorts, containing her laugh out of loyalty. "It works for her."
"Does it work for you?"
"It – doesn't matter." She evades. "I just wanted a night out."
He nods slowly. "I find it interesting that you selected this particular location."
"It's not interesting. It's just a good place to feed." She clarifies halfheartedly.
"Says the girl who isn't ready."
His words ring an alarm bell in the back of her mind and she pulls away on instinct. "I'm not."
"No?" He murmurs, allowing her to distance herself but only by a foot or so.
Suddenly, she isn't sure what they're talking about any more. Feeling unsteady, she leans against the nearest wall. She turns her head and finds him leaning next to her, watching her. She can see faint hints of the veins in his face and fading flecks of the blood in his eyes. He's just fed and Elena is trying not to think about how good he would taste if he kissed her right now.
"Tell me something." He is saying.
"What?" She asks, struggling to look anywhere but his mouth.
"If you wanted to come here with me tonight, why didn't you? Stefan aside."
"That's a big aside." She may be pleasantly lightheaded, but she is concentrating on every word.
"Granted. But if you wanted-"
"Who says I wanted-"
" I do." He interrupts and suddenly he is inches from her, his voice dangerously low. " I say you wanted to come here with me tonight . And I say you want to kiss me right now. I say it . But you can't, can you?"
She opens her mouth, less in protest than shock. "I…"
"You what, Elena? Why is it so damn hard for you to say what you want?"
"What makes you so sure I don't already have what I want?"
" Do you?"
Now is not the time to be having this conversation. There is not a single safe thought in her head. When another beat passes and she still hasn't spoken, he gives her a sad smile.
"In all of my existence, I have never met anyone so afraid to be honest with herself. Do you even know what you want?"
Something snaps. She meets his eyes steadily. "Do you ?"
He returns her stare without flinching. "I think I've been very clear in that regard."
Normally, this is the part where she side-steps and back-pedals. But tonight, this is the part where she plows ahead. "It's clear that you want the wanting . The day-in-day-out having , on the other hand-"
"How would you know? When have you ever given me the option to do anything but want you?"
"Don't pretend it wouldn't send you into a panic if I did. If I told you right now that you're right – if I told you that I did want to come here with you and I d o want to kiss you –and if I told you that - that I made the wrong choice and I want to be with you … don't pretend it wouldn't scare the shit out of you."
He goes very still, but he doesn't blink. "Do I look scared?"
"It was a hypothetical. If you thought there was even the slightest chance I would act on it-"
"Try me."
Elena has never been one to take dares, but he is looking at her with so much assurance and so much hope, it makes her ache. And she could blame it on the whiskey or the blood or a passing moment of insanity, but the truth is that she is thinking of their interrupted night in Denver and one-off encounters on her front porch and she is realizing that he has never kissed her with any expectation of ever kissing her again. The truth is that she is too curious to resist. She needs to know what that Damon looks like, the Damon who gets what he wants. She needs to know what comes next.
She leans slowly towards him and he mirrors her movement, sighing when their noses brush. She breathes him in, copper and liquor; leather and sandalwood. He is watching her carefully and she wonders if he is waiting for her to swerve or planning his escape or …
"For the record," He whispers, breath warm against her lips. "I want it all. I've settled for the wanting, but I want every part of you at every moment in every form. So, you better be careful what you offer, Elena Gilbert. Because I'll take it."
An electric warmth floods her body and she swears to god she can feel her un-beating heart skip. And then her mouth is crashing against his like a slow motion car accident - like a neverending weightless fall and the world turned upside-down and his arms lifting her from the crash - and it's good. It's so fucking good, just like she remembers, but better. His lips soft and insistent. His teeth sharp and smooth. But this time he tastes like red.
Bitter red wine and sweet red currants. Saffron and prickly pear, annatto and coralberry. Blood. Ruby red grapefruit and pomegranate and everything she has been craving right there on his tongue. He tastes like blood and she is sinking, drowning, lost, and found.
Panting and speechless, she pulls back.
Disappointment flickers across his face, followed by resignation and then a practiced mask of apathy. "You don't have to say it-"
"No, you idiot." It sits heavy on her chest, how quickly he accepts her imagined rejection. It makes her want to go back and fix things she can't fix, undo things she can never undo. But instead, she brushes her lips across his again, so fast she barely touches him, but it's enough to leave him slack-jawed "If we're doing this, we're doing it right."
She's grabbing his hand. She's scanning the crowd for Caroline so they can leave. She's planning what to say to Stefan when they get home.