Fic: Power of Darkness (3/10)
Part 3...
Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?
-John Lennon
He can't sleep tonight. He keeps telling himself that it's the heat, or the humidity, or the two glasses of Scotch he had earlier. But deep down he knows that it's something else...something to do with derisive brown eyes and a silk-straight fall of scented hair, too many memories of flirtatious curls and sepia smiles. He wants them both, the old love and the new desire, and the emptiness in his gut is gnawing at him with the implacable fury of Prometheus' eagle.
After what seems an eternity of staring into the silent darkness, he can't take it anymore. Uncurling himself from the sheet, he rises and pads slowly to the head of the stairs, completely unconcerned by the fact that he's only wearing a low-slung pair of plaid boxers. He's in his own home, after all, and the only person who might see him is Stefan. Besides, a carefully chosen underwear collection is a terrible thing to waste.
He's all the way downstairs and rummaging around in the liquor cabinet before his senses register an unfamiliar presence, and he turns around with uncanny speed to discover the girl he can't stop thinking about curled up in the depths of his grandfather's big leather armchair. Her knees are drawn to her chest in what he recognizes as her classic brooding pose, and he pauses for a moment to appreciate the way the movement has drawn her running shorts up that long, tanned leg. But then the melancholy in her eyes draws his gaze back to her face, and he tilts his head to the side as she studies him dispassionately.
"Enjoying the view?" he remarks with his usual sardonic sneer, because he doesn't dare admit that he's worried about the downwards curve of her pretty mouth. She rolls her eyes and gives him a cool once-over.
"Not bad," she says dismissively. "But that's not what I came here for."
He raises an eyebrow and pours himself three fingers of bourbon. He has a feeling he's going to need the hard stuff tonight. Lazily he swirls the liquor around his glass and moves over to plop in the chair across from her. She flicks a brief glance at the amber liquid and then looks away, the line between her eyes a little deeper than before.
"You want some?" he asks, because he's seen that look on a woman's face before and he knows from experience that nothing more than a good drunk will take it away. She shakes her head, though.
"No," she says on the tail end of a sigh. "It's not going to help."
He closes his eyes and takes a deep swallow of his drink, relishing the sharp fire that slides down his throat and along his veins. She's missing it, he thinks. This is good Kentucky-aged bourbon, the best of the best. Perfect for a one hundred and forty-five year old Southern gentleman.
"So what are you brooding about?" he asks her carelessly, because she can't get the impression that he actually cares about her problems. That's Stefan's job. He's merely curious...or so he tells himself.
She shrugs and rubs one hand absentmindedly up and down her leg.
"Life in general," she says morosely. "Bonnie's grandmother, Caroline and Matt, and Stefan. Mostly Stefan."
Damon can't help the visceral tug of delight in the pit of his stomach, but he manages to mask it well. Taking another sip, he eyes her knowingly over the rim of the glass.
"So...what's my sainted brother done this time?"
The corner of her mouth twists in a little displeased moue, the gesture reminding him so vividly of Katherine that his hair almost stands on end.
"I get the feeling he's keeping things from me again," she says slowly. "Like he's only telling me enough of the truth to keep me from asking more."
He resists the urge to release a gusty sigh at her willful ignorance.
"He's a vampire, Elena. There are always going to be some things that he'll keep from you. It's part of who we are, how we survive. He may pretend to trust you completely, but inside he's no different from all the rest of us."
She winces a little at the word 'trust,' and he finds himself fighting the inclination to stroke her hair and tell her that everything will be all right. That's not his job either.
"This isn't the way it's supposed to be," she says miserably. "When two people are in love...there aren't supposed to be secrets between them, things that they won't tell each other. That's not how it was with my parents. I don't want it to be like this between Stefan and me either."
He stares at her, wondering if this lovesick chit is anywhere close to the clear-minded, hardheaded girl he's come to know. Maybe a good stiff drink would improve her outlook. It would certainly be handy in helping her logic.
"Elena, have you been listening to anything I've been telling you?" he inquires with a soft bite in his tone. "Vampires aren't meant to fall in love with humans. You're prey. We kill you, we eat you, or if we're in a particularly generous mood, we turn you. End of story. There's no such thing as full disclosure in our world...even among our own."
She looks straight at him, eyes suddenly filled with tears, and something cold and hard lodges in his esophagus, making it astonishingly hard to breathe. He's not feeling sorry for Elena Gilbert. He's not. Because that would mean that everything he just told her is a complete and utter lie.
"Then why," she asks with a little catch in her voice, "why have you always been honest with me? Even when it wasn't going to do you any good?"
He never expected that question. He never even considered that she might ask. He thought he'd constructed the perfect shield of arrogance and disdain and elegantly distant charm. But apparently something has slipped through his defenses, and he's left speechless, eyes glued to hers while his hand clenches in a death-grip around his glass. And if the tremulous half-smile on her face is any indication, she knows exactly what is going through his mind.
"That's what's so strange about you, Damon," she murmurs wonderingly. "You're supposed to be the bad guy in this story. And yet you're the one who never lies. How exactly does that work out?"
He can't say anything, doesn't dare say anything. She may be floating on misery and defeat, but she's sharp enough to know and remember every move he makes, every gesture and every tone. She'll see through him in an instant if he tries to explain. So he merely sits back in his chair and raises the bourbon to his lips, not drinking because he knows the liquid won't make it past the huge knot of apprehension that's lodged itself in his throat.
She smiles for real this time, a glow of warmth that fills the dim room from floor to ceiling. He takes a careful breath through his nose and wills himself to not fall into giving her what she wants just because she has the smile of an Rossetti angel and the allure of Helen of Troy. But it doesn't matter at this point, because all of a sudden she unfolds herself from the chair and rises to steal the glass from his nerveless fingers, tilting her head back as she tosses it down.
"Not bad," she says again, and he has the feeling she's talking about his bare chest as well as the rich spirit. She sets the glass on the table beside him and leans down until they're almost nose to nose.
"You can't fool people forever, Damon," she says calmly, her voice almost annoyingly matter-of-fact. "You do care sometimes. And the more you think people won't notice, the more you keep fooling yourself."
She reaches out one small hand and cups his cheek, holding his face immobile as the blood runs ragged through his veins and his lungs forget to breathe.
"Remember that."
And then she's turned and on her way out the door, long legs moving smoothly and shoulders set under her plain white T-shirt. He doesn't even try to stop her, doesn't move a muscle as she closes the heavy front door behind her and vanishes into the cricket-filled night. He doesn't blink as he hears her footfalls thud down the porch steps and her ignition fire as gravel spurts beneath her wheels. In fact, he doesn't stir until he's sure she's good and gone, far enough away that she can't possibly see the effect she has on him. And when he finally does move, it's only to pour himself another glass of bourbon, settling into his chair with the spirits and his whirling thoughts. It's going to be a long, long night.
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He wakes up stiff and with a niggling headache from the alcohol, muscles tight and his eyes throbbing behind their tightly closed lids. He can't remember if her visit was reality or a dream, and isn't sure he really wants to know. It's enough that her scent is still on the damp morning air, and he can see the impression of her lips on the rim of his empty tumbler. If he actually did imagine the whole thing, at least his mind is supplying some truly amazing details.
Groaning, he stands up and stretches, running a hand over his chest and abdomen as he admires his physique in the mirror. He hopes she got an eyeful last night. It's only fair that an unwilling attraction should haunt her dreams as well. Right now, he's going to go take a hot shower and drive the memories of her tear-filled eyes and soft little hands out of his mind. But there's a sinking feeling in his stomach, though, as he realizes that even though he can fill the day ahead with other impressions, his favorite succubus is going to be back in his dreams come evening. Tilting his head back, he groans aloud. This isn't going to get any better until something between them changes, and he damn well knows it.
Hell. He doesn't stand a chance tonight.