Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe his love for her was nothing more than a damned problem.
How inconceivably naïve could Damon be? Had be been idiotic enough to let his heart cloud his better judgment? Had he been blinded by the silky strands of her hair? The way her doe eyes batted and drew into the depths of his blues, undeniably attracted like the polar opposite sides of magnets? The way her full, pouting lips smiled when he vowed he would never, ever leave her again? It wasn’t a fucking dream, he wouldn’t accept that it’d all been an illusion. He’d felt her heart, he’d held her fragile hands in his, tasted her lips and the kiss he’d never thought he’d get returned. She had returned it. Elena had touched his soul, his heart, and turned his wicked ways into a undying need to protect, unconditionally. And he had. Hell, he’d give anything. Damon willingly offered his life every single day to make sure Elena could lie in her bed at night, breathing the breaths he counted out of sheer fear he wouldn’t hear them again. It burned, somewhere he couldn’t explain, to imagine he wouldn’t have the simple things with her. Like the blushing rose on her cheeks when his sarcastic and risqué behavior pushed her, or the way their conversations took a serious turn, and her voice spoke his name in a low, desperate plea. “Damon.”
He had to let these thoughts go like flying wisps of paper in a storm. She loved his brother. Elena loved Stefan. Of course she did.
Damon had been too swept in the months he’d had her to himself, taking the place as her protector, her rock, who she confided in. Her acceptance, her trust, her bind to him was more than he’d expected or deserved. And selfishly, he still wanted more. He was a drug addict with a limited supply, drawing out his hits and loathing the day they would end. When Stefan would sweep back on his damned white horse, bearing all the kindness and the unresolved intentions of their teenage dream romance, and he would lose her. Because Damon would never be more than the bad guy, who made all the wrong decisions, destroying, bringing darkness, and caring only for his own. If he cared too much, he was a damned liability. If he didn’t care at all, he was a villain. Nothing more than an unforgivable nuisance.
He had would play his part, because that’s what she needed. He wouldn’t cut her in half anymore. Fuck it. Fuck it all.
More than he wanted to give in to the burning deep within him, plunging him into self loathing and brokenness, he wanted to shut it off. Play his part in life’s game, because somewhere along the way, he’d convinced himself he was allowed to be better. He was allowed to have the girl, have a heart, and do the right thing in saving her damned life. She was a martyr, a stubborn little girl with too big of a heart. Her compassion still astounded him, and she never gave him the option to admire it because she was too damn busy gambling away the life he treasured more than his own. And that alone was the reason she denied him. He loved her too much. Her life needed to be expendable.
Damon wouldn’t accept it. He’d be there, waiting, going unnoticed and breaking her connection to him by hurting her. Being the villain. And when she stupidly put herself in harms way again, he’d save her ass.
Because he’d always love her. Because, if it came down to anything and anyone, he would always choose Elena.
