[The Vampire Diaries] Walking Away (she doesn't make it easy) - Damon/Elena
Title: Walking Away (she doesn’t make it easy)
Author: Kagome
Series: The Vampire Diaries (television series verse)
Word Count: 1,733
Rating: PG-13
Characters, Pairings: Damon/Elena, also mentions Stefan/Elena
Summary: Sometimes it’s easier to just walk away, they say… well, they’ve obviously never met Elena Gilbert.
Warnings: post-season two, tension, language.
Notes: Not much, really, but the idea wouldn’t leave me be. ^_^ Enjoy!
Whoever coined the phrase “sometimes it’s easier to just walk away” obviously never met Elena Gilbert. At least, that is how things seem from Damon’s perspective-and he should know, because he’s had a great deal of practice with walking away from her, and it only gets harder, not easier.
He’s very well aware of the fact that he’s heading in the wrong direction (even though it’s always felt precisely like the right direction)-he’s heading towards her instead of away from her, and after everything that’s happened the past few days, he should probably just give her some space. Both of them most likely need it, but the stupid thing is that all he yearns for is her proximity.
He knows where she is, and his still-weak legs begin carrying him there-past Stefan’s room (she hasn’t been in there since that night), past the guest bedroom she’s been not-resting in (her nights are filled with a whole lot of tossing and turning, fitful sleep and no rest), and down the stairs, into the living room.
She’ll scold him for getting out of bed. After his near-death experience, he’s still not quite up to par, and she’s been looking out for him, making sure that he takes it easy even though all this doing-nothing makes him restless as hell. He’s not particularly fond of being left alone with his thoughts in his spacious bed, because more often than not, he imagines that she is in it with him. It’s not so much that he’s opened the proverbial can of worms… it’s more like he refuses to let it close, even when he is aware of the fact that he should.
Although, he wouldn’t be Damon Salvatore if he did that, now, would he?
Elena is sitting on the couch, legs crossed at the knee, eyes glued to the television screen, even though her mind isn’t taking in any of what’s being said on the news. The images on the screen change from one story to the next, and her expression remains the same: distant, detached.
The moment he clears his throat, though, her gaze slides to him and those chocolate eyes of hers narrow. “Should you be out of bed? It’s only been three days.”
He offers her a blank stare in return, and then rolls his eyes. “Hello? Vampire? Rapid healing, remember?” Not that he could have done it on his own. Not that he would’ve survived if it hadn’t been for Klaus’ blood (that Stefan paid for), but he currently doesn’t feel the need to state the other obvious. “Besides, I’m a big boy. All grown up and everything.” He waggles his eyebrows and crookedly grins at her, which earns him a small smile. He takes it, because it’s better than nothing.
“Why are you down here, anyway?” she asks him as he unceremoniously plops onto the couch beside her, all bones and slowly re-strengthening muscle, and no grace.
I wanted to see you, is on the tip of his tongue but he bites it back. Again, he’d just be stating the obvious. “I was going to grab some lunch,” he lies (and knows she can probably see right through him), “but then I saw you in here and decided you might like my company.” There’s a hint of the old smugness and self-assuredness in his voice, and he is as comfortable with the familiar as she is.
She raises an elegantly-arched eyebrow at his words, and then says, “I could have brought it to you. The blood, I mean. Not like I don’t know where it’s kept. All you had to do was ask.”
It’s so like her, to play fucking nursemaid when she’s the one that needs to be taken care of. It’s one of her qualities that happens to annoy him to no end, but it’s also one of the many reasons why he loves her.
“You can stop pretending to be stronger than you are, Elena,” he says through gritted teeth, like saying it hurts… and maybe it does, but he won’t delude himself into thinking that it possibly hurts more than Elena herself has been hurting lately. So much loss in such a short time, and damn if she isn’t trying to shoulder it all without a single complaint.
“No I can’t,” she replies in a whisper. She isn’t looking at him, but he can see the lines of worry and despair etched into her face as he gazes at her. He can understand her reasons for not wanting to fall apart right now, but he’s still selfish enough to want to be the one that she turns to when it does happen (and it will-it’s inevitable, like falling in love with her was, for him).
There are tears in her eyes that she refuses to shed. He can see them, smell them, and it’s moments like these in which he would give almost anything (almost, because he sure as hell wouldn’t give up the memory of the feel of her lips or her body against his) to be in Stefan’s place. He doesn’t know if it’s because he wants to be the one she’s worried about, or if it’s because he’d rather suffer in Stefan’s place. Perhaps it’s a little of both.
Not that he’s ever been the one with the martyr complex.
She turns to him then, and in spite of the fact that there are only mere inches of space separating them, it feels like miles. She’s close, but nowhere near close enough, and he just barely resists the urge to pull her against him.
“You can stop blaming yourself,” she tells him as she reaches for his hand. Her eyes are full of wisdom beyond her nearly-eighteen years, and her little smile is all kindness and compassion and understanding, even though Damon should be the one doing the comforting here.
Her touch is gentle. It is nothing that he deserves and everything that he craves. It’s amazing how even the briefest brush of her fingers against his skin makes him feel as if he is drowning-it makes him draw an unnecessary breath and it sets every nerve-ending in his body ablaze in ways that not even Katherine had ever managed to do.
And Elena knows it. She knows it without knowing it, and that makes this all the more wrong (right).
“I don’t blame you at all,” she continues, with gravity, and her fingers lightly caress the top of his hand. His eyes follow the path of her fingertips: up and over his knuckles, and then down to his own fingers, curving slowly around them.
She always knows just what to say, even if Damon himself doesn’t realize at the time that her words are exactly what he needs to hear.
(He hears her in his mind, though-all the time, all quiet strength and I-told-you-so and we-shouldn’t-but… because there’s always been that ‘but’ between them, hasn’t there?)
Their gazes meet, and something incendiary passes between them, and he gives in to her (to himself), his fingers entwining with hers before he tugs her toward himself. He may be recovering still, but he is all the same much stronger than her, and her half-hearted protests amount to nothing when facing his all-consuming desire for her.
He can feel her heart pounding rapidly through the thin layer of clothing that she’s wearing. It’s a wild, uneven rhythm, and he loves it, because this isn’t fear she’s feeling, but nervous excitement. He knows what her fear smells like, and this isn’t it.
Damon catches her lips with his, and takes the opportunity her little gasp of surprise presents-his tongue pushes past her soft lips and explores her warm, wet mouth, and he half-expects her to slap him or try to shove him away at any moment, but she doesn’t.
It’s Damon who does the breaking-away from her lips, away from her touch, and despite how light-headed he feels and how every muscle in his body is screaming for him to go the fuck back to her, he’s halfway across the room before Elena can even register his movement.
She’s sitting there on the couch now, staring at him, eyes wide. The arteries in her neck are pounding-Damon can see them from where he’s standing. He can hear the blood rushing through her body; he can hear it over her breathing, and over his own, and why in the hell is he breathing heavily?
She presses her fingers to her lips and gives him a questioning look. She seems torn, and Damon can relate to that so well that it isn’t funny.
He’s crossed a line again, he knows-nothing new for him, but there are only so many times a certain line can be crossed before irreparable damage is done.
“Damon,” she begins, looking like a deer caught in the headlights (and yet, he can also see that there’s some part of her that wants to reach for him, and that’s even more dangerous than frightening her is), her fingers still pressed to her lips.
“I’m going back upstairs,” he informs, cutting off whatever else she might’ve intended to say. Because what’s between them is explosive and dangerous and unpredictable in its predictability. It’s also beautiful, and Damon’s never been good at holding onto pretty things.
He turns and he walks away from her while he still has the strength to do so, even though every step he takes away from her just makes him want to go back to her all the more.
He walks away from her while he still has the ability-he knows it’s only a matter of time before the pull will become too great, and he’ll be as stationary as a bilateral leg amputee without a prosthesis or a wheelchair to speak of; non-ambulatory, unable to leave her side.
Damon feels selfish for wanting that, for needing that.
She doesn’t make it easy to walk away from her. With each passing day (hour, minute, second, nano-second), the whole walking away and putting space between them thing becomes more and more difficult.
He knows - without a single shadow of a doubt - that what is currently barely feasible will become utterly and irrevocably impossible, and the worst part of all this?
The thought of that doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it ought to.
~END~
----------------------
Wow, Damon’s headspace is kinda complicated. He’s wordy, too, like my Elena. *laughs*
Author: Kagome
Series: The Vampire Diaries (television series verse)
Word Count: 1,733
Rating: PG-13
Characters, Pairings: Damon/Elena, also mentions Stefan/Elena
Summary: Sometimes it’s easier to just walk away, they say… well, they’ve obviously never met Elena Gilbert.
Warnings: post-season two, tension, language.
Notes: Not much, really, but the idea wouldn’t leave me be. ^_^ Enjoy!
Whoever coined the phrase “sometimes it’s easier to just walk away” obviously never met Elena Gilbert. At least, that is how things seem from Damon’s perspective-and he should know, because he’s had a great deal of practice with walking away from her, and it only gets harder, not easier.
He’s very well aware of the fact that he’s heading in the wrong direction (even though it’s always felt precisely like the right direction)-he’s heading towards her instead of away from her, and after everything that’s happened the past few days, he should probably just give her some space. Both of them most likely need it, but the stupid thing is that all he yearns for is her proximity.
He knows where she is, and his still-weak legs begin carrying him there-past Stefan’s room (she hasn’t been in there since that night), past the guest bedroom she’s been not-resting in (her nights are filled with a whole lot of tossing and turning, fitful sleep and no rest), and down the stairs, into the living room.
She’ll scold him for getting out of bed. After his near-death experience, he’s still not quite up to par, and she’s been looking out for him, making sure that he takes it easy even though all this doing-nothing makes him restless as hell. He’s not particularly fond of being left alone with his thoughts in his spacious bed, because more often than not, he imagines that she is in it with him. It’s not so much that he’s opened the proverbial can of worms… it’s more like he refuses to let it close, even when he is aware of the fact that he should.
Although, he wouldn’t be Damon Salvatore if he did that, now, would he?
Elena is sitting on the couch, legs crossed at the knee, eyes glued to the television screen, even though her mind isn’t taking in any of what’s being said on the news. The images on the screen change from one story to the next, and her expression remains the same: distant, detached.
The moment he clears his throat, though, her gaze slides to him and those chocolate eyes of hers narrow. “Should you be out of bed? It’s only been three days.”
He offers her a blank stare in return, and then rolls his eyes. “Hello? Vampire? Rapid healing, remember?” Not that he could have done it on his own. Not that he would’ve survived if it hadn’t been for Klaus’ blood (that Stefan paid for), but he currently doesn’t feel the need to state the other obvious. “Besides, I’m a big boy. All grown up and everything.” He waggles his eyebrows and crookedly grins at her, which earns him a small smile. He takes it, because it’s better than nothing.
“Why are you down here, anyway?” she asks him as he unceremoniously plops onto the couch beside her, all bones and slowly re-strengthening muscle, and no grace.
I wanted to see you, is on the tip of his tongue but he bites it back. Again, he’d just be stating the obvious. “I was going to grab some lunch,” he lies (and knows she can probably see right through him), “but then I saw you in here and decided you might like my company.” There’s a hint of the old smugness and self-assuredness in his voice, and he is as comfortable with the familiar as she is.
She raises an elegantly-arched eyebrow at his words, and then says, “I could have brought it to you. The blood, I mean. Not like I don’t know where it’s kept. All you had to do was ask.”
It’s so like her, to play fucking nursemaid when she’s the one that needs to be taken care of. It’s one of her qualities that happens to annoy him to no end, but it’s also one of the many reasons why he loves her.
“You can stop pretending to be stronger than you are, Elena,” he says through gritted teeth, like saying it hurts… and maybe it does, but he won’t delude himself into thinking that it possibly hurts more than Elena herself has been hurting lately. So much loss in such a short time, and damn if she isn’t trying to shoulder it all without a single complaint.
“No I can’t,” she replies in a whisper. She isn’t looking at him, but he can see the lines of worry and despair etched into her face as he gazes at her. He can understand her reasons for not wanting to fall apart right now, but he’s still selfish enough to want to be the one that she turns to when it does happen (and it will-it’s inevitable, like falling in love with her was, for him).
There are tears in her eyes that she refuses to shed. He can see them, smell them, and it’s moments like these in which he would give almost anything (almost, because he sure as hell wouldn’t give up the memory of the feel of her lips or her body against his) to be in Stefan’s place. He doesn’t know if it’s because he wants to be the one she’s worried about, or if it’s because he’d rather suffer in Stefan’s place. Perhaps it’s a little of both.
Not that he’s ever been the one with the martyr complex.
She turns to him then, and in spite of the fact that there are only mere inches of space separating them, it feels like miles. She’s close, but nowhere near close enough, and he just barely resists the urge to pull her against him.
“You can stop blaming yourself,” she tells him as she reaches for his hand. Her eyes are full of wisdom beyond her nearly-eighteen years, and her little smile is all kindness and compassion and understanding, even though Damon should be the one doing the comforting here.
Her touch is gentle. It is nothing that he deserves and everything that he craves. It’s amazing how even the briefest brush of her fingers against his skin makes him feel as if he is drowning-it makes him draw an unnecessary breath and it sets every nerve-ending in his body ablaze in ways that not even Katherine had ever managed to do.
And Elena knows it. She knows it without knowing it, and that makes this all the more wrong (right).
“I don’t blame you at all,” she continues, with gravity, and her fingers lightly caress the top of his hand. His eyes follow the path of her fingertips: up and over his knuckles, and then down to his own fingers, curving slowly around them.
She always knows just what to say, even if Damon himself doesn’t realize at the time that her words are exactly what he needs to hear.
(He hears her in his mind, though-all the time, all quiet strength and I-told-you-so and we-shouldn’t-but… because there’s always been that ‘but’ between them, hasn’t there?)
Their gazes meet, and something incendiary passes between them, and he gives in to her (to himself), his fingers entwining with hers before he tugs her toward himself. He may be recovering still, but he is all the same much stronger than her, and her half-hearted protests amount to nothing when facing his all-consuming desire for her.
He can feel her heart pounding rapidly through the thin layer of clothing that she’s wearing. It’s a wild, uneven rhythm, and he loves it, because this isn’t fear she’s feeling, but nervous excitement. He knows what her fear smells like, and this isn’t it.
Damon catches her lips with his, and takes the opportunity her little gasp of surprise presents-his tongue pushes past her soft lips and explores her warm, wet mouth, and he half-expects her to slap him or try to shove him away at any moment, but she doesn’t.
It’s Damon who does the breaking-away from her lips, away from her touch, and despite how light-headed he feels and how every muscle in his body is screaming for him to go the fuck back to her, he’s halfway across the room before Elena can even register his movement.
She’s sitting there on the couch now, staring at him, eyes wide. The arteries in her neck are pounding-Damon can see them from where he’s standing. He can hear the blood rushing through her body; he can hear it over her breathing, and over his own, and why in the hell is he breathing heavily?
She presses her fingers to her lips and gives him a questioning look. She seems torn, and Damon can relate to that so well that it isn’t funny.
He’s crossed a line again, he knows-nothing new for him, but there are only so many times a certain line can be crossed before irreparable damage is done.
“Damon,” she begins, looking like a deer caught in the headlights (and yet, he can also see that there’s some part of her that wants to reach for him, and that’s even more dangerous than frightening her is), her fingers still pressed to her lips.
“I’m going back upstairs,” he informs, cutting off whatever else she might’ve intended to say. Because what’s between them is explosive and dangerous and unpredictable in its predictability. It’s also beautiful, and Damon’s never been good at holding onto pretty things.
He turns and he walks away from her while he still has the strength to do so, even though every step he takes away from her just makes him want to go back to her all the more.
He walks away from her while he still has the ability-he knows it’s only a matter of time before the pull will become too great, and he’ll be as stationary as a bilateral leg amputee without a prosthesis or a wheelchair to speak of; non-ambulatory, unable to leave her side.
Damon feels selfish for wanting that, for needing that.
She doesn’t make it easy to walk away from her. With each passing day (hour, minute, second, nano-second), the whole walking away and putting space between them thing becomes more and more difficult.
He knows - without a single shadow of a doubt - that what is currently barely feasible will become utterly and irrevocably impossible, and the worst part of all this?
The thought of that doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it ought to.
~END~
----------------------
Wow, Damon’s headspace is kinda complicated. He’s wordy, too, like my Elena. *laughs*