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Elena had been playing the weirdest game of hide-and-seek with him for days. Dodging him like she'd suddenly developed an allergy for Damon cooties one minute, and them desperately seeking him out - flimsy non-excuse in hand - the next.
On top of that, it was the first rainy afternoon in weeks, spreading through several states, which put a sudden halt to his secret plans to track Stefan and Klaus in the Smokies, based on a half-reliable lead at best. In fact, all the forecasts predicted golden, sunny weather, with only the slightest chance of rain, and the sudden storm seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Some local coven was probably agonizing that their precious herbs weren't getting enough of Mother Nature's tears, and overdid it on the rain ritual. Typical. Or maybe chaos was just in the air.
Speaking of.
Damon leaned against the doorway to the parlor of the Boarding House, swirling a tumbler of bourbon as he watched the whirlwind of pen strokes and turmoil write herself into a storm to rival the one railing outside. Sometimes their eyes would meet, and as soon as she was caught, a delectable blush would coat her cheeks, diverting her attention to the journal once more. Occasionally, she would pause and stare at seemingly nothing – her gaze filled with a distraught kind of confusion. But then she would wrap her fingers around her vervain necklace, and a profound sense of calm would kiss her features once more – her eyes would flutter closed and her lips would curl into a smile, as though the necklace itself gave her strength, a steady reservoir of joy. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit that those moments were bittersweet. As nice as it was to see the anxiety leave her spirit, however fleetingly, the knowledge that it was all thanks to thoughts of his saintly brother made the whole thing taste like ash.
This behavior, where Elena alternated between seeking him out and avoiding him, caught in a loop of soft vulnerability and sharp frustration, began on her birthday last week.
He chalked it up to her learning that her sanctimonious, morally-upright Saint Stefan was more Hyde than Jekyll, but that still didn’t explain the odd moments he’d find her staring at him with a look suspiciously like longing, only to quickly turn away and pretend to busy herself with the journal lying upside down on her lap when he caught her. Or, on the off chance that the notebook was aligned correctly, she’d begin scribbling in it like someone possessed, seemingly desperate to free herself of the persistent something that kept her captive.
He assumed it was some kind of tragic ode of longing for his pompous brother, filled with melodramatic rhetoric about the noble virtues of his Hero Hair and broody disposition.
But that wasn’t even the really weird part.
No, what really puzzled him were some of the telltale signs that he’d already been accustomed to since they’ve met, only dialed up to eleven: her dilated pupils when he got a little too close; her racing heartbeat whenever some part of her would brush some part of him, accidentally-on-purpose; the enticing shift in her scent whenever she caught sight of him, that stirred something deep and primal within him. But Damon knew that she’d wanted him for a while, so what changed? Even then, he knew that it wasn’t just physical attraction – there were feelings behind the yearning glances she’d cast his way when she was certain he was otherwise occupied – but this took it to an entirely different level.
And whatever it was, it was starting to drive him crazy.
All right. Enough of this. He could only take so much tense silence. He swallowed the remaining bourbon in his tumbler, and swaggered over to her, hoping to remind her what fun actually looks like.
“Oh, Stefan! My Broody Knight in Rock-Hard Hair Gel!” Damon mocked in a dramatic falsetto, lifting an imaginary journal with Shakespearean flair to emote a staged reading with one hand, and using the other to clutch at his heart. “The caverns of your frown lines run so deep, that I find myself lost and adrift in the memory of your mopey silences –”
Elena raised an eyebrow, finally putting her notebook down. Ooh, and look – right-side-up this time. A solid 30% track record. “What’s the matter, Damon? Not getting enough attention?”
“Not even close!” Damon said, giving her a sultry wink before resuming his performance. “Your moral superiority –”
“Is that what you think I write about?” She rolled her eyes theatrically, but Damon saw the upward twitch of her lips that she tried to hide – mission accomplished.
“And lo! How I’ve been forced to part with thy tragic perfection – whose visage alone makes all the forest animals weep – though perhaps it’s with relief. And instead, must endure the company of your much wittier, sexier, more charming brother!”
Elena tapped her chin thoughtfully, her dark eyes sparkling with mirth. “Fake falsetto Elena raises a great point, you know. The ‘wittier, sexier, more charming brother,’ might be growing an ego large enough to form its own gravitational field, and that puts her in danger,” she expressed in mock-concern, punctuating his title with air quotes.
Damon shrugged, a lazy grin forming as walked over to the wet cart and poured himself another glass. “Being a danger magnet’s kind of her thing.”
She rewarded him with an infectious laugh that warmed something in his chest with a delicious ache. “So, is this the plan? Spend the rest of the afternoon making bad guesses about my journal?”
“Nope!” He grabbed his phone, bringing up a search engine. The truth was that her behavior began to worry him. Clearly Stefan’s sacrifice was weighing heavily on her. And while baby bro was busy earning his Martyr Merit Badge with the Original Drama Lord, Elena continued to spiral. The absolute last thing she needed was this, and after losing both pairs of her adopted parents and birth parents – forced to watch three of them die violently – this could have finally set her over the edge. “Is it my turn to make bad guesses?” She responded with a grin of her own.
“We’re going to make pignoli cookies,” he replied with a wink. “I just need to pick up some almond paste and pine nuts.” A quick Google search told him that they carried them both in the supermarket in the next town over. Frowning in contemplation, he decided it would probably be faster if he just ran.
When he came back less than ten minutes later, he was less-than-surprised to find her frozen in the same position with a blank look on her face, looking past what he was sure were fascinating figures on the wall.
“How did you get back here so fast?” she finally asked, clearly startled when he walked in, his now-soaked fitted tee clinging to him in a way that made her pupils instantly blow up in size, followed immediately by an adorable blush and a refusal to meet his eyes. And, she's back.
Damon rolled his eyes theatrically. “I’m a vampire, Elena. We have a little thing called ‘super-speed’ – at least those of us not beholden to the whims of Bambi’s new workout regimen.”
She hopped off the couch, surprising him by leaving her precious journal unattended to peek into the bags.
He playfully smacked her hands away when she reached for the pine nuts,
"I didn’t know you could bake.”
“I have lots of hidden talents,” he said, letting his tone drop suggestively, while tearing the almond paste into smaller pieces. “But I like cooking more. Baking’s a bit too precise for me. I like something a little more … experimental.” He extended the last word suggestively, meeting her gaze with that same flirtatious flash of his eyes that he’d been expressly told not to do. What did she call it? ‘The eye thing?’
She instantly ducked her head trying to hide her physical reaction, which suited every smug instinct in him just fine. She must have picked up on it though – it’s like she had a special radar for when he got too cocky in her presence, and immediately met his gaze again, raising her eyebrows in playful challenge. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
She tilted her head to the side cheekily. “I’m not sure this is the appropriate time to discuss all your kinks.”
He gasped dramatically. “Oh my God, Elena! Get your mind out of the gutter. I meant experimenting with different flavor profiles.” Before she could respond, he dashed up to Stefan’s room and back, retrieving the stuffed teddy bear she’d been keeping there when she spent the night.
“Is she like this with you, too, Gummi?” he asked the bear, exaggerated concern written all over his features. His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Does she sexually harass you, too?”
“All the time, Damon!” he cried in an even higher falsetto than before, really straining his voice, while wiggling the teddy’s little hands and feet in front of his face.
“Show me, Gummi. Show me where Elena’s hurt you.” He directed the little paw to point right at his heart, placing his own hand over it in a dramatic display of compassion for the stuffed bear.
“I just want her to love me,” Damon-as-Gummi cried, the sound of her laughter reducing everything inside him to jelly, and urging him to continue, unable to fight the uncharacteristically foolish grin on his face, “but Elena won’t stop talking about sex.”
He turned to Elena, wagging his finger at her in a display of disappointment. “You need to learn to control yourself, Elena. Poor Gummi’s traumatized.”
She grinned deviously, surprising him with a decidedly sultry step forward, so much that she was able to yank the bear from his hands without him noticing. “Nah, he’s just a prude. He’s supposed to be my Emotional Support Plushie, there to listen to all my wicked fantasies, but clearly he can’t keep up.”
Damon’s physiological response was immediate, his pupils darkening his eyes with desire as he narrowed the gap between them, their breaths practically mingling in their shared proximity as his gaze dropped to her lips. He told himself it was to call her bluff. “Maybe Gummi just needs a little break. I can be your Emotional Support Plushie, Elena. You can tell me all your wicked fantasies.”
Her heartbeat accelerated again and he was crushed to catch a glimpse of regret on her face as she grasped her necklace, stepping away from him to catch her breath. “Let’s get those cookies started?” Her voice cracked with false cheer, breaking the tension-filled spell in the room.
“Why are you using a food processor, anyway, Mister I’m-a-super-speedy-vampire? Shouldn’t you be able to do it by hand?” Elena asked in challenge, leaning over the counter playfully as she watched Damon add the almond paste, confectioner’s sugar, egg white, salt, and vanilla into the machine. “Since you’re ‘too cool for pilates with Bambi,’” she mocked impishly.
“I didn’t want to overwhelm you,” he drawled, grabbing a whisk from one of the drawers and replacing the items into a large bowl. “The fragile human mind can only be exposed to so much cool at a time, and you’ve been spending most of your time with a guy whose idea of fun is quoting Puritan prayer books from memory.” Within seconds, though, his hand began to spin in a veritable blur, earning a squeal of delight from Elena.
“That’s so cool!” She leaned in closer, narrowing her eyes at the speedy motions before pulling back, a cheeky grin on her face. “You should make meringue next.”
When the cookies were finished, Elena grabbed one as soon as it wouldn’t scald to the touch, moaning at the taste. “Oh my God, these are amazing!” She leaned back on the couch, an expression of pure bliss on her face.
Damon’s throat constricted, and the promise of being able to leave with the receding rain almost felt like a blessing. He didn’t know how much longer he could spend in her presence and still hide everything he felt. “I thought we agreed you’d stop making sex noises in front of Gummi, and at least try to respect his boundaries.”
She threw a pillow at him in retaliation, which he neatly dodged, but was instantly on her feet as soon as she saw him grab his keys, her face awash with consternation. “Where are you going?”
“The rain’s clearing, and I’ve got something I need to check out,” he told her, thumbing through his phone distractedly.
“You can’t!” The words were out before she could stop herself, her entire body hurtling forward to stop him. Her hand shot out, holding his wrist in vice grip – surprisingly strong for a human. That’s when he realized it was infused with panic – a fight or flight response. Her heart was racing again, but this time it wasn’t from desire. He could practically feel the palpable fear, smell the sharp spike in her adrenaline.
He cocked his head to the side to study her. What’s gotten her into such a tizzy about him leaving? “And why’s that?”
Her panicked eyes flicked to his ribs, where he was staked during their previous bout of Klaus and Stefan’s creepy take on Where’s Waldo meets Hansel and Gretel, only they chose to substitute breadcrumbs with reports of disassembled bodies.
“I’m coming with you!”
“Nope! The Sun’s already set, and by the time I get there, the Smokies are going to be crawling Remus Lupin’s less hygienic cousins. You’d only slow me down.”
When her heart sped up even more, Damon began to seriously entertain the idea of distracting her and sprinkling the cookie in her hand with some of his blood in case she went into cardiac arrest. Still holding his wrist in a death grip, she walked over to the window in the darkened parlor, gracelessly dragging him along. If not for them being rounded in terror, Damon would think that her eyes in this moment – sparkling fields of midnight velvet, reflecting twin golden marbles of the Full Moon – were one of the most breathtaking sights of his life.
And then he realized the real reason for her anxiety. She must be worried about him. Her mopey knight.
So that’s why she’s been so reluctant to let him throw himself into the fray. She needs him to get his brother back. Something told Damon a stake to the heart would have hurt less, but he refused to let her see it, his ever-present smirk on his face yet again.
And yet, there was something so genuine in the way she looked at him – the way her hand dug into his wrist, like she sincerely cared. Sometimes when he caught her gaze, he could almost swear that she was in lo –
No, there was no way. That was definitely wishful thinking.
“We…” her voice faltered. “We need to make more cookies – for Jenna, and Jeremy – and Ric!”
“Right.” She’d been doing this more and more – creating some silly excuse to keep him from running into danger, and he was getting increasingly tired of her dancing around her actual reasons. One of these days – someday very soon – he’d make her admit it. He knew she ‘cared,’ as she was fond of telling him, but this felt deeper – more poignant, more real.
“Okay, so that should take another hour or two – tops.”
“And after that –!” Now both of his wrists were in her hands. “I should probably make some for Bonnie and Caroline; and Matt, and Tyler – oh! And we can make an extra batch for the Lockwood Fourth of July Party!”
“Why so much concern over the Lockwoods? Are we trying to infiltrate them by posing as the Werewolf Girls Scout Troop?”
“And – and you have to stay here, and help me bake them,” she continued, her voice stilted. “Because otherwise, I’m going to burn down your house.” She leveled a mock-threatening gaze at him that he found absolutely adorable. “I can’t be trusted around a stove, remember?”
He couldn’t stand to see her so worried, moving to cup her face gingerly, the jocularity in his voice replaced a softness that she'd become unnervingly adept at bringing out. "What's this really about?"
She threw her arms around him, squeezing him tight enough to hurt, as he felt her body shudder against him. After the initial shock receded, he wrapped his arms around her trembling body, soothing the softening cries with gentle strokes on her back, her hair. "Okay there, Randy. I know you want to see me in a wet tee shirt again, but you could just ask," he attempted playfully. She responded with a sob-chuckle and a smack against his back, after which she held him even tighter. His demeanor instantly softened, a curious ache taking place within him - one even more painful than his increasingly breaking heart. The sight of her in so much pain was agonizing to him. “Don’t worry, Elena. I’ll bring your saintly soulmate back to you in one piece. I’ll polish his halo and everything so that not a strand that Hero Hair is out of place.”
She looked at him strangely – as though through him. There was a resigned, almost penetrating sadness in her gaze. Her lips quirked into a wistful smile that didn’t meet her eyes, until the laugh that she couldn’t stifle softened them with mirth. “I wouldn’t call him ‘saintly.’ But he’s not as bad as he pretends to be, either.”
Stefan? The guy who could give hypocritical church ladies a run for their money in the self-righteousness department, pretending to be bad? Maybe her spiral’s even worse than he thought.
“Look, he’s still the same pompous, annoyingly self-righteous douche we all know and love; and once Klaus stops pulling his perfect little puppet strings, you’ll have your mopey boyfriend back.”
“Right. Klaus.”
“What you’re feeling now is just temporary,” he said, the softness in his voice cutting into his own heart. “You’ll have your sullen savior back, and everything will be right as rain. Happily ever after. True love conquers all.” He was making himself sick. Damn, he felt pathetic.
“I –”She stole another quick glance at his lips before her eyes shot back to his. “I’m not sure that’s possible anymore. We can't always get what we want, Damon. Sometimes things ... things make it too late. It would cause too much damage.”
“Ooh, look at you, all doom and gloom. What happened to all that annoying optimism?”
“Because being with me might cost him something else that’s important to him, and I’m not about to let him lose that – not when he’s fought for so long to get it back.”
“The blood lust issues?”
“Sure,” she said, glancing away, unable to meet his eyes.
“What could possibly be more important than you?” he asked quietly, the question pouring forth from his heart without his knowledge or permission.
The expression on her face was so achingly vulnerable that it nearly broke him. Her hand gingerly touched her necklace again just as her eyes fluttered to his lips. The sound of her racing heartbeat nearly eclipsed that of the one shattering his heart every time she reminded him with that one gesture that it’ll always be Stefan . It was so cacophonous that he barely heard her next words. “Someone who isn’t temporary.”
“Why would you be temporary? Aren’t you two supposed to be written in the stars as the paragons of melodramatic love confessions and dreamy sighs?”
“Damon, I –” Her voice affected a gentle, almost apologetic tone - tough it was obvious to him that something inside her was breaking and every fiber within him wanted to heal it, to make it whole. “We’ve had our fun pretending – and it was nice; it almost made me feel normal – but I can’t forget what I am. I’m the doppelganger. I doubt I’ll survive the year –”
“Don’t you say that!” His response was visceral, immediately, the energy sucked from the room as just the thought of that was enough to utterly pain him. He forced himself to breathe naturally, evenly, letting his hands fall to take hers and press them to his heart. “Takes all the fun out of outsmarting Klaus and the rest of the rest of the emotionally-constipated Shakespearean tragedy of a family. Can’t let them win.”
She didn’t look entirely convinced, but didn’t argue. Instead, she threaded her fingers through his, squeezing them for several whole seconds before speaking. “We’re out of ingredients, if we’re spending the rest of the night baking. Let’s go pick up some more.”
“I can get them faster by myself,” he countered.
“You’d better come right back. No reckless detours.” She nodded, taking a step back. “The cookies await!”
“Relax! There and back. Like a one-vamp ultra-sexy hurricane."
“Mm,” she hummed, scrutinizing him skeptically through narrowed eyes. “Sorry if I don’t take your word for it, and put my own insurance policy in place.”
“Oh, what’s that? More melodramatic entries about Stef's noble attack on the evil ozone layer, one hair product at a time?”
“Okay, well, remember, if you’re not back in fifteen minutes, I’m setting your house on fire.” To punctuate her point, she clasped her hands at waist level, perfectly mimicking the saccharine image of an innocent fairy tale princess.
Uh-huh. Wow. Well, he always suspected she was just as crazy as he was. A sly grin captured his face, as yet another piece of his heart merrily jumped into her hand, belonging to her forever.
“And just how many batches are we making?”
Her eyes flicked to the now-healed space on his forearm where he once had a werewolf bite, then turned to the window, the soft moonlight illuminating her face in an ethereal glow that squeezed a part of him he thought forgotten before he met her. She met his gaze again, he could plainly see her eyes shining with unshed tears. “As many as it takes.” There was determination in the delicate affection of her voice.
“Okay, Miss Arsonist. I’d better not see a single match near my bourbon when I come back, or anything I make for you from now on is coming out of a box." When a hint of trepidation remained on her face, he felt his own demeanor soften, letting his thumb gently stroke her cheekbone.
"Promise me."
For a second, Damon could almost swear he saw something in the aching vulnerability in her expression, the same longing, the same love that threatened to tear his still-beating undead heart from his chest and place it in her waiting hands - to crush, to squeeze, to do with as she wished. And like an idiot, he would gladly let her, because even pained seconds in her warmth were infinitely better than the coldness of the world without her.
"Fifteen minutes, Elena. I promise."