Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created by L.J. Smith, as portrayed in the TV series created by Kevin Williamson and Julie Plec. All rights to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Author's Note: Ok, so yet another AU-fic… this one is based on the movie Alex & Emma (2003), which any aspiring writer should watch (in my opinion). The general plot will be the same; however, the story-within-the-story will be completely different. This is dedicated to XxVampireXLoverxX, who encouraged me to write a Delena fic based on Alex & Emma – which I got her to watch : )

I'm a little nervous about this one, as I'm trying my hand at romantic comedy when I usually write romance/drama, and I'm not that funny… I hope you'll enjoy it just the same. : )

Oh, and just as a heads-up… I'm basing this on the movie, so the technology described here isn't up to today's standards. There is a reason why I haven't updated that aspect of the story… : )

WRITE TO LIVE

~ Introductions ~

Damon Salvatore ran a hand through his increasingly messy raven hair. His eyes were bloodshot from sleep deprivation and – to be honest – way too many tumblers of bourbon. He was in trouble. No, scratch that, he was in big trouble. Loaning that money had seemed like such a perfect plan – he would bet on the right team and he would walk away with big money. Instead, all he got was trouble. Big trouble.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

He looked up from his blank computer screen. Oh, crap. He quickly surveyed the room. Bathroom door – wouldn't lock. Kitchen – the stench in there would kill him before they did. Fire escape… yeah, that would have to do.

He fiddled with the window latch, but it was jammed. Great. What's the point of having a fire escape if you can't escape the apartment when there's a fire – or loan sharks beating down your door?

"Mr. Salvatore," a voice drawled.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

"Gentlemen," Damon acknowledged, straightening and turning around to face the three men who had just forcefully entered his apartment.

The man in the pinstriped suit brushed a speck of imaginary dirt off his sleeve and straightened his tie. "I do not appreciate having to come down here myself, but I hear from our friends that you have been most unwilling to settle your debt to us."

"Not at all, Mr. Shark," Damon said, walking over to his computer. "I am just finishing my next novel. My publisher will give me the money when I hand in my manuscript."

"When will that be?"

"Very soon. Like I said, it's only a matter of adding a few finishing touches at this point."

"Show me," he demanded.

"No. Uh… I mean, I would love to, but then I'd have to kill you," Damon said, chuckling.

His face fell instantly when he saw the murderous look in Mr. Shark's eyes. The two men flanking him – his henchmen Piranha 1 and 2 – were not-so-subtly revealing the guns in their holsters. These were not their real names, of course, just as the loan shark wasn't really named Mr. Shark – that would be appropriate, though… one might even say he had his career mapped out from infancy…

"Show me," Mr. Shark demanded again and Piranha 1 grabbed the laptop off Damon's desk, handing it over.

"I wasn't aware Microsoft had invented invisible fonts," Mr. Shark remarked dryly.

"Actually, it's a Mac… oh, ok, so it's not quite finished yet… but I have it all in my head, I just need a little more time to get it down on paper."

"No deal," Mr. Shark growled, which apparently was the cue for Piranha 1 and 2 to grab Damon and hold him out the window. Great, now the darn thing opens…

"Thirty days! I'll double what I owe you. A hundred grand – you'll have a hundred grand in thirty days!" Damon offered as Piranha 1 and 2 dangled him by his ankles. It was a long way down to the street.

"Pull him up," Mr. Shark ordered and Damon could feel the floor under his feet again. Oh, how he had missed his floor…

"You have thirty days. If we come back here and you don't have the money…"

"I'll have it."

"Good. Then I believe we're finished here," he snapped his fingers and Piranha 1 and 2 followed him towards the door. "Oh, and just so you won't be distracted…" Mr. Shark turned around. "Piranha 1 – the laptop."

"What? No, I need that to write!" Damon objected and flinched when a shot rang out and shattered the screen. A second shot splintered the keyboard, effectively shutting down the computer for good.

"Thirty days, Mr. Salvatore," Mr. Shark said over his shoulder as he left the small apartment.

Elena Gilbert looked at the address again and back up at the old brick building. This place sure didn't look like it would house a law office. It wasn't a bad neighborhood per se, just… unkempt. The lock on the front door was broken, so she pushed open the tarnished slim panel door and stepped inside the murky hallway.

She opted for the stairs to take her to the 7th floor– she didn't trust the rickety old elevator. She didn't trust elevators, period.

Elena was in good shape, but she still found she needed to catch her breath before knocking on door number 703. She straightened her grey pencil skirt, her white blouse and adjusted her grey jacket. The case she was carrying felt heavy after her climb. She was used to lugging it around, though. The case held her stenotype machine and several rolls of steno paper.

Stenography was a dying profession, nowadays almost completely limited to court reporting, but she was good at it. Her temp agency sent her out to all kinds of places. Law firms, mostly. But this place definitely didn't look like a place of business – unless you were talking about funny business…

With another deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked on the door.

She was slightly taken aback when a strikingly handsome man with piercing blue eyes opened the door, but quickly regained her focus.

"Is this the law offices of…" she took out her note again, "Ames, Kingsley, Austen & Hardy?"

"Yes, you've come to the right place," he smiled, "Damon Salvatore. Miss Gilbert, is it?" he said and stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in.

Elena took a few hesitant steps inside, looking around. The place was a mess. There were liquor bottles and takeaway cartons all over the place. The dishes in the small kitchen looked as though they hadn't been washed in weeks and there was a couch, table and arm chair littered with papers.

"I'm happy you could come with such short notice, Miss Gilbert. I…"

"How stupid do you think I am, Mr. Salvatore?" she frowned, staring him down with blazing brown eyes.

"I'm sorry?"

"This is not a law office," she huffed.

"We're… remodeling," he offered.

"Oh, please," she rolled her eyes. "You don't think I understand what is going on here? You want sex, Mr. Salvatore. Well, you can just call another number. I am not your girl," she said determined and strode back out the door.

"Wait!" he exclaimed, grabbing her arm.

"Unhand me!" she said fiercely.

"Unhand you?" he raised his eyebrows, but let go of her arm. "Who says that?"

"Good day, Mr. Salvatore."

"Please. I really need your help."

"I can see that, but like I said, I'm not the person you're looking for."

"You are a stenographer, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Here's the thing. I'm a writer. I have thirty days to finish a novel and I just can't type that fast. I need your professional assistance, that's all."

"Why should I believe a word you're saying?"

"I… wait… please, just hang on for one minute," he said and climbed a latter to a small loft. She could hear him rummaging and tapped her foot impatiently. He climbed back down and handed her a book. "There. Look at the picture on the back," he pointed to the cover.

Elena sighed and took the book. It was him. Slightly better groomed, no five o'clock shadow, clear blue eyes without red flecks, no dark circles under his eyes, and shiny, coiffed hair, but it was him.

"What's it about?" she asked, her eyes glued to the picture.

"It's about a man who fantasizes about all the ways he can kill his cheating wife."

Elena looked up at him with a questioning look in her eyes.

"It's a comedy," he shrugged.

"What's your next book about?"

"I don't know yet."

"You don't know? You want to finish a book in thirty days and you don't know what it's about?"

"I don't want to finish a book in thirty days. I have to."

"Why?" she asked, her eyes narrowed.

"Because if I don't, some not-so-nice men will introduce me to the barrel of a gun."

"You're serious?" Elena asked, wide-eyed.

"They might just throw me out the window," he shrugged, "but the end result will undoubtedly be the same."

Elena took another look around the dingy apartment, mulling over her decision. "I get paid by the end of each week," she said in a business-like tone.

"I can't pay you until the book is finished. I'll get paid when I hand in my manuscript."

"Assuming you finish…"

"Well, if I don't, I'll be sleeping with the fishes and you can help yourself to anything in my apartment."

Elena took another look around and crinkled her nose. "We should get started on that book of yours right away," she said and set down her case.