I feel like a terrible person, and I realize that posting a VD oneshot will not finish TLB, or apologize to everyone for my extended absence. School started, and I love it, as usual, but I'm often overwhelmed by work... Particularly Western Humanities. I want to shoot that class. I mean, I like it, but I'm taking A-level rather than Honors, which was probably a mistake, because everyone in my class is an idiot. So, enough ranting about my peers...

Have a fun little Damon/Elena oneshot! This one had a backstory at some point, but then...? I don't really know what happened. So enjoy.
Disclaimer: I idolize and adore L.J. Smith far too much to ever attempt to claim any of her brilliant work as my own.

"Why?"

Her blue-violet eyes stay locked on his dark ones, forlorn, confused, beseeching-- but never begging, merely asking for answers. As always, she's defiant to the last.

He shakes his head very slightly, not meeting her gaze. Perhaps a sign of hesitation, of regret? But it's probably just wishful thinking on her part.

"That's not good enough," she declares bluntly, and he frowns at her, startled. "I need answers, Damon! Explain yourself!" Her tone grows fiercer. "If this is your way of recommending yourself to me, it's not working very well. I suggest you find an alternative method."

A brief smile crosses his face, not his trademark two seconds of brilliance but a bitter grin lacking any real humor. "Need I remind you that you are not exactly in a position to be making 'suggestions'?" he grinds out, sending another jolt of pure psychic energy her way. She convulses as it rocks over her in waves, but dutifully holds her screams, her eyes revealing no pain. "And for the record," he adds casually, with a flimsy attempt at his old nonchalance, "I'm merely trying to make you see sense, Elena."

It's the first time he's used her name all night, and she softens slightly. Whyever he's doing this, it seems to be hurting him more than her.

"Stefan is dead, Elena," he spits, all his muscles visibly tense. "My precious, saintly brother is gone, and you have to accept it."

Thunder cracks nearby, so he can't be sure if he hears her or not, but to his ears, her mutterings sound suspiciously like the phrase "No, you do."

"Is that what this is about?" she questions softly, and his eyes meet hers at last, dark, troubled, a starless expanse of roiling onyx. "Damon, it's not me you're mad at, or Stefan," she reminds him gently. "It's yourself."

Suddenly he's angry again, and as a result, more pain shoots through her. "Don't you go pinning this on me! It's not my fault; none of it is! I didn't-- Nothing was-- This--" And then his shouting dissolves into sobs, and she's holding him, comforting her tormentor, her eyes soft and understanding and never wavering from his guilty ones.

He's never broken down do completely before, particularly not in front of her. She's always been the whole reason for the façade, because she's the only one who sees through it. She sees how terrified he is, and that scares him even more.

But maybe, just maybe, it's a good thing. A blessing in disguise. Because maybe, just maybe, the real reason for his shell is that he's begging for someone to look past it, for someone to notice him desperate, screaming, beneath it, throwing himself again and again against the bars of a cage he's built around himself. And maybe, just maybe, he's incredibly relieved that she's finally done it, and that she loves him no less for the truth of him, and he wants only to curl up in her arms and be safe and known and loved for all eternity.

And yet…

"Stop it," he whispers hoarsely, unable to stand the shame.

She buries her face in his hair and shakes her head. "No."

"Go," he commands weakly. "Just get it over with and leave me, like all the others."

"I'm not like them," she answers him simply. "I won't leave you."

And for some (maybe) unknown reason, he believes her.