dear_mun | on torn clothes and spilled liquor a la 3x14

How nice for you.

Oh please. Don't act like you care.

[ Great, where did he put that bottle of scotch... It's here somewhere. ]

[ Jeez, she feels bad enough as it is. ]

Damon, honestly. Don't be like this.

Be like what, Elena? [ The words come out with a bit of a snap. ] You think you can just waltz in here and look at me with those big doey eyes and guilt me into being all docile and tame?

[ Ah, there's the bottle. Hiding right between the couch cushions. He reaches down and grabs it by the neck, yanking it up. ]

Well, hate to break it to ya. But it doesn't work that way.

[ Not after last night, anyway. He lifts the bottle to his mouth without taking his eyes away and, shit, just his luck, it's empty. ]

[ Elena watches him from the steps leading down into the living room, brows pinched as she wrings her hands in front of her. This isn't new, obviously; Elena's seen Damon act out out like this before, stomping around everywhere like a spoiled, upset child, but she hates that this is because of her. ]

I'm not trying to guilt you into anything. [ She drops her arms to her sides and moves down the steps, crossing the room to where Damon's standing. He doesn't reek of alcohol quite yet, but he's certainly getting there.

Elena presses her lips together and gently pries the empty bottle from his hands.] And you've obviously had enough.

[ Oh, wonderful. Here she goes telling him, with her holier-than-thou tone masquerading as something gentle, just what he should be doing when really all Damon wants to do is find something soft and warm and breathing just so he can feel it die in his mouth, or in his hands -- but no, he can't do that either, because that would make her upset. And Damon hates making her upset as much as he hates that he hates making her upset in the first place.

(Because he cares too much. Isn't that fucking ironic.) ]

No, the only thing obvious is that you think you can control me.

[ And maybe he might have even let her, if circumstances were different. But, unfortunately that just isn't the case, is it.

He lets her have the bottle and stalks away from her, tries not to listen too closely to the sound of her heart or of her breathing right there, looking over rows of bottles of the good alcohol. ]

[ There's guilt, and then there's this, whatever Elena's feeling, that wrench in her gut that has her swallowing tightly when Damon turns away from her. She moves to follow him, but then stops, fingers squeezing around the empty bottle of liquor as she sets it down on the nearest table.

Damon's glowering over his alcohol like rum and vodka are his only goddamn friends. Elena's tempted to take a bat to his bottles, if it means he'll look at her again. ]

I'm sorry for what I said, Damon. I wasn't thinking.

[ And see, that's the problem isn't it. Elena wasn't thinking, which means she wasn't trying to not hurt him the way she normally goes about her day. Because that's just what Elena does. Which means. She meant every word. (Well, maybe that's the problem.) Maybe that's the problem. His emotions and the way she flinched when he closed his hand around her arm to try and get her to go home. Like he burned her something nasty. ]

No, you're not sorry for what you said, Elena. [ He says, all too lightly, as he plucks out a bottle of bourbon and uncaps the glass decanter, turning to face her. He takes a swig of the stuff, a good gulp and then finishes his thought. ] You're just sorry you said it.

[ She gives him a look. ] That's not true, and you know it.

[ Damon's face pinches in a bit of a sneer, upper lip curling back. ] Oh, don't act like it isn't. You want to know what I know?

[ And he stalks right back across the floor to her, bottle in hand. ]

I know that it's Stefan, and it'll always be Stefan, and nothing I ever do, or say, will ever change that. Because I'm not him. And I never will be.

[ Even if he might as well be acting every inch the role of what Stefan had been just a year ago. ]

That's what I know, Elena. So don't pretend like you didn't mean it. Because you meant every word.

[ For an immortal over a hundred years old, Damon tends to lash out in the most immature of ways. But Elena can't fault him, not here, not when she's aware why he's acting this way, knowing that she's responsible for hurting him.

Damon may be many things, but he's done a lot for her. And it goes beyond that, too, way beyond that. There's some truth to his words, after all; Damon's not Stefan, and he never will be.

But who said Elena ever wanted him to be? ]

You don't get it, do you? [ She reaches out as if to take the bottle from him, but her fingers pass the bottle to graze over the back of Damon's hand instead. ]

[ Damon makes as if he's about to jerk back from her touch, because it connects in a way that reminds him what he'll always only ever want but can never really have. And the feeling that it rips out of him is like a kind of tearing. A slow clawing from the inside. But he resists the urge to move back and simply looks down at their hands, then up at Elena with an eyebrow slightly rising. ]

What else is there to get?

[ He thinks he's got it pretty well. Even if a tiny part of him, this really annoying part deep within the softest part of him that revolves around Elena still hopes that maybe -- maybe-- No. Better not think at all. ]

[ Elena's touched him like this plenty of times before, especially lately, but she feels strangely out of line here. Still, she's stubborn, and she keeps her fingers where they are, pressed lightly to the top of Damon's hand, just under his knuckles.

And she's a little afraid that if she moves her hand, the anchor holding him to her will break and fall away, and he'll turn his back to her again. ]

Do you really think I don't care? Is that what you honestly think?

What does it matter, Elena?

[ It doesn't change anything at all, does it. Whether she cares or doesn't, her heart's too blocked up with Stefan for her to see what's right in front of her, even when Stefan's stopped caring about her.

His hand clenches slightly, knuckles moving under her touch as he tightens his hold around the neck of the bottle. Feeling the ridges of glass press hard into his palm. ]

It matters because I do care. [ She feels his hand tightening over the bottle, and her fingers move down to close over his wrist, squeezing around bone and tendon lightly. ] And because I don't want it to be like this.

To be like what exactly? Nothing's changed -- oh, unless you're talking about the part where I realize what a complete idiot I've been for thinking for even a moment that you could ever realize Stefan's not the one who's been here for you this entire time.

[ And with each word, his voice rises in volume and in tension, and he rips his wrist out of her grip to take another long swig from the bottle, moving so he's completely in her space. (She hates it when he does that, and he knows it but does it anyway. He tells himself this is his way of trying to regain footing on far too slippery ground that can go out under his feet any second.) ]

You know, I don't like being jerked around. [ And suddenly, without warning, his tone drops low, and he raises the hand with the bottle, points an index finger towards her chest. ] Even if it's you.

[ Elena's used to this, in a way - Damon crowding her space, getting too close, his face right in her face. But this is different because he's upset, and even if Elena's at fault for that, she doesn't like dealing with him when he starts to get too aggressive with her.

Instinctively, she wants to step back. But she holds her ground. ]

That's never what I wanted, [ she says, expression tight with frustration and with a little bit of guilt. She goes for the bottle now, closing her fingers around the long neck and tugging. ] You're mad at me? Okay, fine, I understand. Be mad, throw a tantrum and do whatever you need to do, Damon, but -- don't be so childish.

[ Damon doesn't know whether to laugh or to break something and that feeling, that fucking annoying one tearing up inside, is ripping outwards and he'd really like to kill something right about now. ]

I'm being childish.

[ He scoffs a sound of almost disbelief, lips curling up at the edges for a bit (it's not a smile, it's not a sneer, it's something in between).

And like something breaking, he's suddenly back in her face. ]

You want to talk about childish? I'm not the one who could've gotten herself killed just because she's too curious to give a shit about her own self preservation! And I sure as hell am not the one giving mixed signals and only kissing back when it's convenient!

[ The words come out almost in a hissed snarl. ]

[ There's a lot of truth to Damon's words, and Elena can't just ignore that, especially when he's being so honest with her, his expression so painfully open even as he tries his best to stay guarded. Damon looms in over her, and anyone else would flinch and skitter away under the heat of his temper; Elena doesn't move, her fingers still curled tightly over the neck of the bottle like it's the only thing keeping the two of them together, tying them tight in place.

She's quiet as he explodes, her eyes on his face, on his lips as he speaks, but what she hears from him is completely different from what comes out of his mouth.

Finally, she steps away, her hand slipping from the neck of the bottle to brush across the backs of Damon's fingers. ] I hurt you.

[ And what comes flying out of his mouth before he can even stop himself is -- ]

I'm dead remember? Dead people don't get hurt.

[ -- sneered right into her face and it's only then that he realizes the warmth of her hand against his fingers and he flinches away. Because all he wants to do is grab that warmth and never let go even when he knows he can't have it. Even when it stands right there and tries to reach out and touch him. It isn't warmth he can call his own. And he hates it. He hates everything about this. He hates that he can't control it. That it's just too large and too much and makes him do all sorts of crazy shit. ]

[ Damon flinches away from her, and Elena catches his wrist to keep him from pulling back. His words slip right past her; she's heard this before, has seen him like this before, and she hates knowing that they've come to this, that Damon cares more than he should, that she cares that he cares. That somewhere deep down she is so goddamn terrified of losing him, of waking up one morning to a world where Damon doesn't exist, because Damon's gone and Stefan's gone and Jeremy's gone, and she's just -- alone.

This isn't how things are supposed to be between them. And, god, she doesn't know what she'd do if they were any other way ]

Damon, please -- [ But she stops, unsure of what to say, staring up into his face as she catches her bottom lip between her teeth. Her hand falls away from his wrist, and then she's pressing closer, her arms moving to squeeze around him, dragging him into a tight hug. ]

[ And just like that, Damon can't even move another step because Elena's got her arms around him and all he can feel is the surge of her heart against his chest, and the way her breath hitches a little in her chest and how tightly she's pressing herself all along him and (this isn't right) it feels so right. Because this is Elena and somewhere along the way she became the only thing in a world as fucked as it is, that is right at all.

He breathes in a tense breath and god, she's in his nose and in his chest and lungs and he just.

Can't fight this at all. Because he's weak to her, and he cares too damn much, and even if he's still angry, he can't be angry with her arms around him and her body against his and he--

Exhales.

Slowly, slowly, the tension racketing up his spine a moment ago starts to leech its way out of him with Elena's warmth hitting him like her heart knocking against his body. He doesn't say anything, just looks over her shoulder and tries to focus on something that isn't how well the lines of their bodies fit together. ]

on torn clothes and spilled liquor a la 3x14

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