TVD - Fic: This Flame Is Feeling Fine [1/1]
He practically skips on the way to her house; he’s so full of adrenaline. He’s not sure where the mood came from, but he wants to do something tonight, something wonderful and exciting. But first he just has to run one tiny little errand, just ask Stefan one quick thing (and simultaneously keep his brother from bringing down his evening).
Damon doesn’t think twice before knocking on Elena’s window, but he thinks twice about it afterwards. The slim brunette jumped nearly a foot off her bed, tumbling to the floor and letting out an extremely undignified (not to mention unsubtle) shriek.
He smirks, watching her face as she picks herself up off the rug and flips off the television, her hand still over her heart, as if she could steady her racing pulse with her splayed fingers. The death-glare that she gave him had him teetering on the verge of laugher as she pops the latch and swings open the window.
“That was not funny, Damon. You should be glad that my Aunt’s not home, or she’d be all over me about the screaming.”
“I was trying to be polite. And you’re home all alone? Then I am glad she’s not here,” he purrs, ignoring her irritation.
“Oh Jeremy’s here, all right. He just blasts music in his ears 24/7,” Elena said, smoothing her comforter and fluffing her pillows, “Which means that if you knock on his door to tell him, ‘dinner’s ready,’ he doesn’t hear you. But God forbid you open the door without his permission, because then you’re invading his precious privacy…”
Elena trails off, and Damon wonders exactly how frosty Jeremy’s kept things between them. He can see she’s displeased: hurt, sad, and maybe a bit guilty, but he cannot force the kid to keep a civil tongue without perpetuating the very cycle he’s currently protesting against. And it’s likely he’s pretty far down on the list of people Elena wants to speak to about this issue. With good reason, because he sucks at both familial relations and being the shoulder to cry on.
“What are you doing here anyway?” she asks, looking up at him.
“Looking for Stefan,” he says, scanning the room, as if his wayward younger brother were just out of sight. “Is he hiding somewhere around here?”
He moves, too quickly for her to follow with her eyes, to her closet, pulling open the door to reveal…nothing.
“Not here!” he chirps, as if playing a game with a child, “How about…under the bed?”
To his utter delight, he’s rewarded with Elena’s soft chuckle.
“Not under the bed,” she says, bemused, “I haven’t seen him today.”
There isn’t the slightest hint of jealousy in her voice. Damon envies that certainty between them; she cannot picture, cannot even imagine any kind of betrayal from her chosen companion.
“What were you watching?”
She appears confused for a moment, as if her thoughts had taken her a million miles from this room.
“Oh, just a marathon of something. Mindless activity, you know.”
He’d asked the question just to change the subject, but now she’s piqued his curiosity. Damon reaches for the remote, hearing the static crackle as the screen comes to life. Personally, he’s hoping for some skanky soap, the kind where long-lost twins show up and everyone carries a gun in their purse.
“Top Chef?” he says, shifting his gaze from the screen to her dark eyes.
“The new season starts tomorrow-how did you know it was Top Chef?”
“I’m allowed to watch TV,” he retorts, “Sometimes, if I’m a real good boy, I can even stay up past ten. Why were you so ashamed of it?”
Elena sits down on her bed, leaning back against the pillows. Damon joins her, shrugging out of his jacket.
“It’s not that I’m ashamed. It’s just that Stefan doesn’t really watch television,” she says, “he’d rather read a book or something. I’m not always that intellectually inclined.”
“Who is?” Damon mutters, under his breath, but not soft enough to escape her hearing.
“And so, I just keep this to myself, because he never knows what I’m talking about if I mention this show or that movie or whatever.” She says, adding, “I’m surprised you do.”
“I started watching movies,” Damon tells her, stretching out his legs and letting himself sink onto her pillow, “because they were an easy way to get out of the sun in the middle of the day. And they were like magic, you know, when they first came out.”
He remembers the day he saw one with sound for the first time. He, Damon Salvatore, with all his worldly (and otherworldly) knowledge, had sat shock-still, absolutely fascinated. He’d watched the whole film in a state of wonder.
Of course, the darkened theatres also games him plenty of protection if he’d needed to take a bite out of his date, but he doesn’t feel like sharing that particular tidbit with her just now. Especially not while she’s settling in beside him, giving him her absolute attention.
“I wasn’t too keen on the old radio programs,” he admitted, “Even early TV. It was all, ‘be good kids!’ and ‘eat your vegetables!’”
“But you like Top Chef,” Elena says carefully.
“Reality TV’s okay,” he says, shrugging, “I was a fan of the smart-ass brother on this past season.”
“Michael.”
“Yeah, him. Bravado and the balls to back it up.”
“I liked Kevin best. Or Bryan.”
“You liked the good guys.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She sits up, cocking her head to one side and looking down at him, a mix of exasperation and amusement coloring her features as she plays with the hem of her pajama pants.
“I guess it’s not,” he says, not rising to the bait, not saying but the bad ones make life far more interesting, then wondering if he’d already overstepped. Elena slides off the bed, padding toward the door. He leans forward, his hand falling on the space she just vacated, the still-warm comforter making the emptiness even more palpable.
“What?” Damon asks, realizing she’s been speaking.
“I said do you want some popcorn? Watching cooking shows always makes me hungry. And I don’t care how healthy they’re being, I just want to munch.”
“Okay.”
They both know he doesn’t need to eat, that popcorn (despite its buttery goodness), is not what he craves these days. But Elena doesn’t mention anything when she returns, plopping the bowl down between them and sinking back onto her side.
He’s spent his nights lately doing a lot of things, most of them far from typical. But there’s something comforting in letting the mesmerizingly dull glow of the screen lull him into submission. He even catches himself taking a handful of kernels and absentmindedly popping them into his mouth. Elena licks the salt and butter off her fingers, and he thinks ungentlemanly thoughts for a moment and then turns back to the screen. He’s a monument of restraint, tonight. Damon Salvatore, he thinks, good guy?
Eventually, the marathon ends. And while Damon enjoys watching master chefs squabble in kitchens with sharp knives, he really doesn’t give a shit about redecorating homes, or whatever else this channel shows. He turns to Elena, who fell asleep sometime between the start of the last Judge’s Table and the end credits. He picks up the bowl and sets it on her dresser, intending to take it downstairs after he tucks her in.
She stirs, only half-opening her eyes as she crawls underneath the covers.
“Leave it,” she murmurs, “I’ll get it tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Damon concedes, secretly relieved, because he hasn’t washed a dish in, well, a while.
“G’night,” she calls, as he heads to the window.
“Good night,” he replies, half-surprised to find that it really was.
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Fin.
In TWO weeks the brother will be visiting me for the celebrating of the birthday! (That's right people, July 4th. Me. America. Living it up together.) Sorry. Excitement leaking out all over.