A/N: I've been writing this for a long time – inbetween college applications, ugh – and it ended up much longer than I initially anticipated. But then, that always seems to happen…this is for morvamp for the Damon&Elena (Author2Author) Holiday Exchange.

This is also a love letter of sorts to the first nine episodes of this season. I've been so moved and touched by everything that has happened so far, and this felt necessary. Not to be melodramatic, but this is the only way I could put into words how Damon and Elena are making me feel.

Two years ago, I had no idea this show existed. Then I stumbled upon Rose, and I knew Damon and Elena were it for me. That feeling has only intensified since then, and I can't see it ever fading. This is dedicated to all of you out there who are as passionate as I am about this meant-to-be couple. Much love!

Title from Scottish folk song traditionally sung on New Year's Eve.

…Sorry for the ridiculously long Author's Note. AND I AM SO EXCITED FOR TOMORROW YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

Thanks for reading, enjoy, and please don't favorite without reviewing! Special thanks to Carla (Lizzy85cec) and Morgan (LiveLaughDreamInspire) for beta-ing this – it's so much better because of you two! Morgan (morvamp), I hope you like it :)

No one else will have me like you do
No one else will have me, only you
You'll sit alone forever
If you wait for the right time
What are you hoping for?
I'm here, and now, I'm ready
- "23" by Jimmy Eat World

Elena grew up believing in true love. She saw it in everything her mother and father did: him brewing coffee for her every morning, the tender touch of her hand on his cheek every night at dinner, their passionate kisses when they thought the kids weren't looking. She saw the respect and adoration her parents clearly had for each other and never doubted that this kind of love was out there for her, too.

She just never thought she'd find it with Damon.

When Christmas comes around this year, Elena is beyond excited. She's always loved Christmas: the twinkling lights, the multicolored ornaments, the wreaths…it all makes her feel hopeful, like anything is possible. And this Christmas, Elena decides she doesn't just want a new beginning.

She wants to change her life.

It's been three months since Stefan left for good, and she's getting antsy. Readjusting to life without him has come naturally (helped along by Caroline's effervescent chatter, Jeremy and Alaric's constant support, and Damon's witty remarks and smoldering eyes). What hasn't come so easily, though, is relinquishing the tight coiling in her stomach. She's been on edge since she held Damon's face in her hands that night by the fire, and it has nothing to do with Klaus or Katherine – or even Stefan.

(It has to do with Damon.)

She doesn't know when she decided that she's ready to take a chance with Damon. It wasn't a sudden moment of clarity, exactly. But when the cold sets in and decorations start appearing in windows, she knows she's waited far too long to tell him how she feels.

So she promises herself that by Christmas Eve, he'll be hers.

Somehow, she knows she owes herself that.

…

She wakes up on December 13 with a strange sort of ringing in her head, which she blames on how difficult it's been to sleep since Homecoming (she's always terrified Klaus is going to whisk her away). The trees outside her bedroom window are drenched with snow, the sun feebly shining through the grey clouds, and there's a crow perched on the nearest branch.

"Of course," she says wryly (he must be somewhere close by).

With a thick sigh, she pulls herself out of bed, pointedly ignoring her haggard reflection in the mirror. She's lost some weight, if the ribs poking through her tank top are any indication, and there are purple shadows beneath her eyes. It's not a pretty sight, and she keeps her gaze downcast.

"So much for Christmas spirit," she growls under her breath as she trudges into the bathroom.

She should be more shocked to find Damon lounging on her bed when she emerges from her morning routine, but at this point, nothing he does surprises her anymore. He's permeated every aspect of her life, and she has no desire to change that.

They hold still for a moment, drinking each other in. His eyes sweep her body luxuriously, as if he has all the time in the world to memorize the curve of her hip and the slope of her eyebrows. She draws her gaze along his long, lean lines, the action sending hot waves of lust coursing through her veins; it makes her awkward and uncomfortable. But she just shakes her head.

"Really?" She asks, rubbing her eyes. "First the crow, now you showing up in my bedroom unannounced? I thought you'd given up your murderous ways."

He grins at her, his white teeth sparkling in the early light, and she melts. She's done fighting the way she feels about him. She's just so goddamn done. It's time to show him that she's ready – undeniably, irrevocably ready.

"Oh, come on," he scoffs, propping his hands behind his head. "Let's not forget that I've spent the past week in your bed."

She nods reluctantly. "Good point."

"And besides, it's Day 1 of your present-giving extravaganza, remember?" He sing-songs. "I'm here to accept your first of 12 gifts."

He stares at her with the mixture of adoration and frustration that defines their relationship, and she smiles, coming towards him with a certainty that feels natural. His eyes are soft, and she looks at him, traces the pliable, sinuous skin between his shoulder blades, the ridges of his collarbone, the hollow of his neck. God, he's beautiful.

"Oh, really?" She asks, curling up next to him and nearly purring when he drapes an arm over her bare shoulder. "You think I have something to give you, do you?"

(She doesn't mean to flirt with him, but she can't seem to help herself lately.)

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through her. "Hey, you're the one that came up with this ridiculous idea. You can't blame me for this one."

"That's true," she acknowledges, "But you're the one who insisted that I give you the first gift first thing in the morning. Are you trying to do this when I'm my least attractive?"

"Oh, please," he says. "Stop fishing for compliments. I just have a lot to do today. Besides, you're beautiful and you know it."

She blushes. "Well," she says hastily, clearing her throat in a vain attempt to change the subject. "Let's get on with it then."

She sits up, suddenly feeling underdressed. Normally wearing her tiny pajama shorts around Damon doesn't bother her, but lately it's made her feel…hot. Lately it's made her skin flush a deep red and her palms sweaty.

She turns to face Damon despite her embarrassment, and thankfully, she's mollified by the affection dwelling in his electric eyes. "It's simple, really," she says haltingly, wishing she knew what to do with her hands. "My first gift is the letter 'L.'"

He arches an eyebrow, skepticism flooding his face. "The letter 'L? As in lottery? You're giving me the letter 'L'?"

"Yes, I'm giving you the letter 'L,' she says with a laugh. "Don't be ungrateful."

"I'm not!" He protests, crossing his arms over his chest (she fights the urge to watch the play of his muscles beneath his skin). "I'm just…confused. Plus, I'm annoyed that I'm not allowed to give you a present. This is no fun."

"Oh, stop pouting," she chastises him. "This year I'm in the giving mood. Deal with it."

She realizes as soon as those last words leave her mouth that she should take them back, though, because his eyes are sparkling dangerously, like they do whenever she does something massively annoying or massively sexy.

"Deal with it?" He asks slowly. "You want me to deal with it, Elena?"

She feels the way he says her name deep in her bones, and she nods quickly (all she can hear is the rush of blood in her ears, all she can feel is that ever-present current of sexual tension).

The veins around his eyes start to show, and she would be scared if she didn't know him so well. He slinks towards her, his every moment sleek and sinuous, and she hates herself for wanting him to just take control of her.

She has to find a way to stop this, she has to bring them back to safer ground, she has to –

"I wanted to thank you, you know," she blurts out.

He stiffens. "Thank me?" He asks suspiciously, hovering a few feet away from her, waiting for her to do something – anything to alleviate this tension. "For what?"

"For –" for being there for me despite how much you miss your brother, for making me laugh when my world feels like it's turned upside down, for loving me even when I don't deserve it – "For being you."

(It's probably the most honest thing she's ever said to him.)

He stares at her in shock. He doesn't say anything for a long time; he just reaches out to her and strokes her cheek once, twice. He doesn't let his hand fall. There's something like love in his gaze.

Tears spring to her eyes at the realization that no one has ever said that to him before.

He cocks his head, looking at her strangely, his hand still cupping her cheek. "'Lena?" He asks worriedly. "You're – you're crying."

She envelops him in a bone-crushing hug instead of telling him why.

…

December 14th dawns bright and clear, and Elena jumps out of bed as soon as her alarm goes off, feeling happy and vibrant for once. Today is the day of the annual tree-lighting ceremony – one of her favorite events of the year.

But she can't stop herself from wondering if her stupid 12 Days of Christmas plan is the right choice. Nothing about the evolution of her and Damon has been natural, but she worries that she's forcing this.

So she pulls on her favorite Christmas sweater (red, green and obnoxious, like all good Christmas sweaters are), pulls her hair back with an appropriately festive hair tie, and slips into her comfiest pair of boots. Then, she heads over to Caroline's house for some girl talk.

After all, she figures that if anyone will understand falling for someone you shouldn't, it'll be Caroline.

The blonde is chipper when she opens the door, pulling Elena in for a hug that's a little too tight. "Hey!" Caroline greets her best friend enthusiastically, pulling Elena into her sunny living room. "What's up?"

Elena hesitates. She doesn't know why she feels so uncomfortable. Caroline was the one who insisted that Elena admit that she's attracted to Damon. Caroline is the one who still loves Tyler, despite him being sired to Klaus. And Caroline has always been the one with the most compassion.

As if on cue, Caroline's face softens as she notices the anxiety gripping Elena's face. "Oh, sweetie," she says, squeezing Elena's hand, "It's Damon, isn't it?"

Elena opens her mouth to speak, but finds herself squeezing her eyes shut instead.

Caroline watches her for a brief moment, her eyes soft with sympathy, before leading Elena into the airy kitchen, where she makes some tea and quiet, soothing sounds.

When she feels like she can breathe again, Elena takes a gulp of air and confesses, "I don't know what I'm doing."

Caroline passes her a mug of tea and says easily, "Then tell me about it."

So Elena does. She tells Caroline about how that kiss on Damon's deathbed wasn't really a pity kiss, how now that Stefan's gone she can't pretend she doesn't want his brother anymore, how the more she tries to fight it the more her attraction to him seems to settle in her blood, how she's afraid that she wants so much more from him than sex, how she knows he loves her and that's almost too much, how she came up with this phenomenally stupid plan to convince him that she wants to go for it, how she –

As she rambles on, Caroline just looks at her, seeming much older than her 17 years should provide. "Honey," she says lovingly, stroking Elena's cheek with the familiarity of years of friendship, "You're so afraid of your heart."

Elena nods quickly. Of course she's afraid. She fell for Damon the way she always knew she would: fierce and unconditional and passionate. Stefan may have saved her, but Damon brought her back to life. It's terrifying to depend on someone that much.

"You know what you have to do," Caroline says wisely. "You don't have anything to fear. He loves you, so much more than you know, so much more than I'll ever be able to understand. No matter what else he's done, he loves you. Hold onto that. You're not going to regret taking this chance, 'Lena. You'll only regret not taking it."

And then, as if she knows that her best friend needs to be held, Caroline makes her way around the island and hugs Elena.

Elena breathes a sigh of relief.

…

As twilight begins to fall that night, Elena calls Damon.

He picks up on the first ring. "Elena?" He asks urgently, and she realizes, not for the first time, that he's always worrying about her. "Are you okay?"

She forces herself to laugh (she's touched by how much he cares). "Just because I'm constantly in danger doesn't mean I'm calling you to tell you to come save me," she scolds him, pretending the concern in his voice doesn't make her bones ache. "I'm calling because you and I are going to the tree-lighting ceremony."

"We are?" He echoes skeptically, and she can picture him clearly: he's probably sitting by the fireplace at the Boarding House, nursing a bottle of scotch, the set of his shoulders relaxed now that he's sure she's fine. It's a visual that makes every nerve ending on her skin electrify with desire.

"Yes, we are," she says, pounding down the stairs and slinging her purse over her arm. "I'm on my way to pick you up right now."

"Now?" He asks, an edge of panic diving into the word. "Elena, I could be naked or watching porn, or both, and you really –"

"I'll be there in ten minutes," she interrupts him, laughing when he just stutters in response.

…

Ten minutes later, she knocks on his door, smoothing her hair down. As usual, she doesn't want to care what she looks like around him, but when his eyes follow her like she's the answer to all his questions, she can't help but worry about her appearance. Besides, her talk with Caroline about him made her attraction to him feel more real (if that's even possible).

A few minutes pass without him coming, so she sighs in frustration and pushes open the door, reminding herself that this house is as much her home as her own.

The house is quiet and dim, of course (Damon doesn't believe in Christmas, so the usual lights and stockings are lacking). She rounds a corner, and she stumbles right into him, just like she did the first time she was here – the first time she met him.

(This time it feels like fate.)

"Hi," she whispers shyly, flicking her gaze at the floor instead of his eyes.

"Hello there," he says casually, brushing an errant hair off her forehead. "Hasn't anyone ever told you it's rude to just come barging in?"

She shakes her head quickly, color rushing to her cheeks. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking."

He cocks his head, the barest hint of a smile sneaking over his perpetually sarcastic features. "Relax, 'Lena," he says, and she has to close her eyes, caught off-guard by the affectionate nickname. "I was only joking."

She nods, forgetting for a moment that they need to leave. She feels safe, next to this man who used to kill people but cannot fathom hurting her. His arms go around her slowly, hesitantly, and she doesn't push him away.

Finally, she opens her eyes. "I guess we should be going, then?" She asks, ignoring the blush staining his cheeks (Damon Salvatore doesn't blush, unless this is some alternate universe).

He nods, flashing her that crooked smile that haunts her dreams sometimes.

She turns around, gulping when his hand falls on the small of her back, guiding her towards the front door.

Just before he opens the door, he leans down and whispers in her ear, "Don't think I didn't notice how close you were standing to me."

She swallows.

How is it possible that he sees through her so easily?

…

The tree-lighting ceremony is magical. Mayor Lockwood gives a speech about the history of the event, and Elena is entranced by the lights strewn about the massive tree, the ornaments sparkling in the night sky – and Damon's hand tucked securely in hers.

She doesn't know when he became the only person she truly depends on. She doesn't know when he became the only person who can make her laugh without fail, who frustrates her and excites her in equal measures, who loves her with the kind of devotion she thought existed only in fairytales.

(She doesn't know when he became everything she wants.)

He squeezes her hand, smiling down at her. "My mother would have loved this," he whispers.

She's overcome by a rush of love so potent, she's not sure she'll survive it.

And as they stare up in awe at the brilliant lights, she slips the letter "Y" into his hand.

…

The next day is uneventful. Elena does some long-overdue Christmas shopping – she buys Caroline a pretty scarf and earrings, Bonnie a leather-bound journal to write her spells in, Jeremy a sketchpad, Alaric a nice bottle of bourbon – and meanders about the mall, listening to cheery music and pretending she doesn't miss Damon.

Honestly, when did this start? She saw him just last night, and already, she feels like she won't be able to breathe properly until she sees his stupid smirk again. What is wrong with her?

But she doesn't analyze it, because when she goes to turn off the lights that night, he's besides her, pulling her in, like he always does.

(Like she hopes he always will.)

…

The sigh of the wind in the trees wakes her later that night – at least, that's the first thing she hears when her eyes flutter open. For a moment, disorientation soaks her senses; the room is quiet and dark, and the moon is bright through the windows. She could be anywhere, really. But soon enough, the shadows morph into her dresser, her mirror, and with a sigh, she leans more of her weight on Damon's chest, her hands fisting his black shirt.

Her first instinct should be to shrink back, to jump away from him and return to her side of the bed (his side of the bed already leans down a little with the curve of his body, a testament to all the nights he's spent there). But she curls a little closer instead.

His arm tightens around her, and she squeezes her eyes shut. His chest heaves gently up and down, and she breathes in the smell that has somehow become more familiar to her than the smell of the flowers she lays on her parents' graves. It soothes her soul, sends waves of happiness spiraling through her blood. Despite the pervading pain and anger of these past few months, his smell calms her immediately.

It is only then that she realizes that only with him does this kind of peace seem possible.

It is only then that she notices she's holding his hand.

She lies there for a while, just breathing him in, just thinking about him. Sometimes she thinks she makes what she and Damon have out to be so much more than it is. It's just an attraction, she tells herself. He just makes her laugh. He just makes her blood boil and her heart hurt (and race) and her life better.

But he doesn't just give her something to get excited about when everything else is falling apart. He doesn't just come too close and tempt her too much.

She doesn't have time to dissect her utterly inexplicable pull to him, though, because suddenly, she feels his nimble fingers in her hair.

She's afraid to lift her head lest he think she's awake and stop stroking her hair. The gesture reminds her of her childhood, when she'd wake up in the middle of the night gasping from a bad dream, and her mother would come in and stroke her hair until she fell asleep. She feels very young. It's not an unpleasant feeling.

He shifts slightly, his fingers still threading in her hair, and she bites her tongue. Is it really possible to feel this much for someone who killed her brother? Is it really possible to want to spend the rest of her life with someone she once hated? Is it really possible to need him?

She's not sure, but it's happened already.

He kisses the top of her head with a sweetness that makes her want to cry, and she knows he's awake. She doesn't say anything, though.

They're quiet for a long moment, the whirl of her fan casting tidy shadows on her wall.

He sweeps a hand over her forehead, the pads of his thumbs idly brushing her cheeks. She feels the part of her that has resisted him for so long finally, finally give in.

"You okay?" He whispers, his voice full of love and concern.

She lets out a long breath, lifting her head to look at him. In the moonlight, he looks so much like the innocent boy he must have been once upon a time. He looks, she realizes, like the man she has never really accepted she loves. She feels lightheaded, weightless, but also full of him, full of his laugh and his hand on hers and so many other things she can't forget.

She doesn't notice that she's trembling until he reaches out to cradle her face, his hands warm and careful. He waits, his thumbs tracing the hollows beneath her eyes.

"You okay?" He repeats, the words soft.

She nods, falling back onto his chest. "Yes," she musters feebly, closing her eyes; she's aware she might burst with the simultaneous tragedy and joy of it all. "Yes, I'm okay."

The last thing she feels before she succumbs to sleep is his lips on her hair.

…

For the first time in months, she sleeps without dreaming.

And then, as dawn breaks and the sun pours glorious colors into her bedroom, she whispers the letter "U" into the early morning light.

He squeezes her hand.

…

December 16 is one of those days when it just feels like Christmas. The air is alive with Santa and love and presents, and Elena feels like maybe everything will be all right. It's not a feeling she has often, so she decides to go with it.

She spends the day with Jeremy. He's still hung up on Bonnie; Elena's heard him leaving pleading messages on her voicemail, and Bonnie has confessed how torn she is about whether to take him back. Elena doesn't want to get in the middle of their relationship (thinking about it makes her gag), but she wants to be there for her brother.

They walk the length of the river, like they did when she told him she was adopted, and they talk about everything – her developing relationship with Damon (he doesn't take it nearly as badly as she thought he would), his impasse with Bonnie (she tells him that if he loves Bonnie, he shouldn't give up), Alaric's crippling grief (they have no idea what to do about that).

As they laugh and talk, she feels something in her shift: her baby brother is all grown up, and so is she. They've faced death and sacrifice and heartbreak, and they've survived. In all the ways that matter, they're truly adults now.

She feels overwhelmed by the realization, and she stops in her tracks. "Jer," she says, suddenly so grateful that he's still with her (he's the only family she has left). "I'm so glad you're here."

Jeremy smiles, pulling her in for a hug. "Me too, sis," he whispers, kissing her hair like he did when Stefan and Damon brought her home after Rose kidnapped her. "Me too."

Elena closes her eyes and holds on tighter.

…

At half-past seven that night, Elena knocks dutifully on Damon's door. She's with Caroline, Jeremy, Bonnie, Alaric and Matt (Tyler, sadly, has not managed to earn Caroline's forgiveness just yet), but Caroline has suggested, reasonably enough, that Elena has the best chance of getting Damon to come along.

Caroling is something the gang does every year. They didn't go last year (too much pain). But Caroline insisted that this year, they should go because of everything that's happened. They shouldn't be unhappy forever, she reminded them, and besides, they need some normality in their lives.

So here they are, about to go caroling. And Elena has the impossible task of convincing Damon to join them. Fantastic.

Damon opens the door after one knock, looking devilishly handsome in his usual black shirt and black jeans. "Elena," he drawls, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Elena lifts her head high, determined not to let him get under her skin (not tonight, at least). "We –" she angles her body so he can see the group of people behind her – "Are going caroling, and we want you to come with us."

"You brought the cavalry, I see," he says coolly, waving a half-hearted greeting at the five people perched on his doorstep.

Elena just glares at him.

He smirks at her, and then frowns as he realizes what she said. "You want me to go Christmas caroling?" He asks incredulously. "You want me to go Christmas caroling? Have you seen me? I'm practically the scrooge, the ghost of Christmas past, all that jazz."

She laughs. "You know you're not. And to be specific, Caroline wants you to," she explains, turning her head to smile at the bubbly blonde, "But we all do. Humor me just this once?"

He gives her the look, the look that plainly says: Like I could ever refuse you anything. She can feel the steady pulse of his gaze on her face, but there's nothing particularly warm about it; it just is. There's no question in the tragic depth of that blue, just a sort of complacent resignation, as if he knows he's powerless to look away. She blushes.

But the meaning of that look goes unspoken between them; she smiles innocently, squeezing his fingers instead of acknowledging the love in his eyes.

"Well," he hedges doubtfully, "I'm not so sure I –"

"Oh come on, man," Jeremy says earnestly, surprising them all (it's always weird how much he seems to genuinely like Damon). "The gang's all here."

Everyone else murmurs their assent, and Damon looks shocked, as if it had never occurred to him that this motley crew might consider him one of their own. Elena softens at the joy in his eyes.

"Come on," she coaxes, stroking the backs of his fingers. She lowers her voice, leaning towards him so only potentially Caroline could hear. "You're as much a part of this family as I am, you know."

He smiles at her, real and pure.

"Okay, okay," he says loudly, raising his hands in surrender. "I'll come. Just let me grab my coat."

Everyone cheers, and he darts into his foyer to find his leather jacket. Elena looks at the crowd of people on his doorstep; they all nod, and she scrambles into the house, pulls out a tube of lipstick, and writes the letter "I" on the mirror in the nearest bathroom.

Damon's back out in a moment, and she grins up at him. "You ready to go, Salvatore?"

"With you?" He asks, slinging an arm over her shoulder. "Always."

…

Strangely enough (and unintentionally, although of course Caroline doesn't believe her), Elena spends the next day with Damon.

It starts when she walks down the stairs late in the morning (sometimes she wakes up late and skips her training sessions with Alaric – it's the holidays, after all), her hair matted in clumps and her vision bleary. The smell of bacon and sausage beckons her, and she ends up in the kitchen, raising her eyebrows when she sees that Damon is the cause of the smell.

"Oh no," she says, finger-combing her hair as best she can, "Have I entered an alternate universe where Damon Salvatore cooks?"

He clutches his heart dramatically. "Oh, Elena, you wound me!" He exclaims, slinging a towel over his shoulder like he did when he asked her if he could trust her, back when Stefan was still among the most important people in her life (Damon hasn't replaced him; he's carved a new space in her heart). "I'm making you breakfast, and you have the indecency to insult my manliness. For shame!"

She giggles, and then sobers when she realizes he's taken time out of his day to make sure she eats.

"Thank you," she says sincerely. "This really means a lot to me."

He looks up from the eggs he's scrambling, his eyes so blue that she wants to drown in them. "Of course," he says, his gravelly voice making her insides feel strange. "Any time."

She looks away first.

…

Elena and Damon spend the day doing Christmas-y things. To Elena, it feels like the life she's always wanted: spending the day with someone she loves, doing things that make her happy.

(She hopes she spends the rest of her days like this.)

They go to the mall to take pictures with Santa first. Elena's mother used to take her every year, and when she explains this to Damon, he insists they go. Of course, once there, he makes fun of her for wishing for world peace and the end of hunger, and she nudges him playfully.

Next they drive out to a farm to buy a tree. Elena complains that none of the trees are tall enough for her house; he just murmurs that as long as she's under the tree Christmas morning, he could give a damn. She, in return, blushes hotly.

Finally, they head to a Christmas store, where Elena buys an ornament anointed with the letter "N" and triumphantly presents it to Damon. He grins and points above them; she follows his eyes to the mistletoe hanging from the ceiling and plants her feet to stop herself from running away.

His eyes are almost unimaginably soft as he leans toward her, and she knows that even though this wasn't part of the plan, she'll welcome it anyway. It's Christmas, and it's mistletoe, and it's Damon. She doesn't have it in her to refuse.

But his lips land on her cheek, and she closes her eyes at the chaste touch. She loves him so much for respecting her enough to want her to make the first move.

"Merry Christmas, Elena," he whispers, his eyes so close that her breath gets stuck in her throat.

She touches his cheek. "Merry Christmas, Damon."

…

She falls asleep that night with him cradling her body like she is the most precious thing he has ever held. Her body should viscerally react, shuddering with that same torrent of StefanStefanStefan pounding through her blood. But instead, her pulse slows, and she clings to him. There it is: the acceptance that he is who she wants (that he is who she will always want).

"I love you," he whispers.

Her heart skips a beat.

…

She wakes up with tears in her eyes the next morning. She's in Damon's arms, his face snuggled in her neck, and she tries to blink away the moisture. But to no avail: he wakes almost the same moment she does.

"'Lena," he asks worriedly, smoothing her hair in a soothing gesture that contradicts the note of anxiety pulsing through his body. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, burrowing deeper into his chest. "I just –" She closes her eyes. "I just need to go somewhere."

She twists in his arms to face him, and his eyes widen, taking in the wet tracks on her face, her smudged makeup. She touches her eyelids numbly, wondering how long she was crying in her sleep.

"You need to go somewhere?" He asks softly, his free hand rubbing circles on her hips. "Alone?"

She can tell he's trying to hide his disappointment and hurt, and she shakes her head again. "No," she whispers, leaning her forehead against his. "Will you come with me?"

He wraps both arms behind her back, pulling her closer. "Of course."

She smiles through her tears.

…

They're quiet as they walk through the cemetery, the snow-covered ground muffling their footsteps. Elena doesn't bother to wipe away her tears, instead clasping Damon's gloved hand in her own and leaning against him for support.

(He holds her up, as he always does.)

Elena feels like sorrow has crept into her every vein, every crevice; it's become unavoidable, the sinking feeling overwhelming and consuming and devastating.

It's changed everything.

And when they arrive at the solemn line of graves, Elena lets out a low, keening cry. She turns to Damon, pressing herself against him, wishing he could swallow her up, take her somewhere where she wouldn't have to feel this gut-wrenching grief. But he can't do that, she knows; they have family and friends and too many responsibilities to just leave.

Yet being in his arms heals her enough to help her see that although the pain might never go away, it will lessen, in time.

Eventually, she feels her heartbeat slow and her limbs steady, and she extricates herself from Damon's hold, making sure to keep her hand clasped with his.

"I came here last year, too," she explains, bending down to lay a dozen camellias on her mother's grave, sunflowers on her father's grave (he lived for the sun, he often said), dandelions on John's grave (whether or not he deserves them, she knows it's the right thing to do), and roses on Jenna's grave. "A week before Christmas, I don't know why. It just feels right."

She wonders if her parents would be proud of her if they could see her now. She's made choices she knows they wouldn't agree with – dating a vampire, for one, wouldn't make them happy – but she has to believe that they would love her nonetheless.

She's reminded of the letter John wrote her, the letter that she can no longer read properly because of the many tears staining the paper, and a fresh wave of sobs attacks her. She crouches next to his grave and buries her head in her hands, wishing with all her heart that they had fixed their relationship while he was alive. It's too late now to offer him forgiveness, but she does anyways, whispering the words into the cold morning air.

She stands up, tears stinging her eyes, and looks at Damon. His eyes are warm, sympathetic, as they were when she looked up at him at John and Jenna's funeral. Just as his gaze buoyed her then, she feels lighter now. She folds herself into his embrace and tries to remember how happy he routinely makes her; it helps a little.

"I'm actually rather touched," he says gently, kissing the top of her head. "The first time we met was in this very cemetery."

"That's not entirely accurate," she laughs, even as she sniffles. "That was the first time you met me, I suppose, but to me, you were just some creepy guy in the cemetery. Plus, there was the fog and that stupid crow. I had no idea who you were."

He laughs, stroking her arm with the kind of love and concern that warms her fractured heart. "Still," he says, "You're standing in the exact place where I first saw you. I thought you were Katherine."

She smiles. "What did you do when you figured out I wasn't?"

"Thanked God the bitch wasn't back," he says petulantly. "Then, I tried to figure out who you were."

"And what did you discover?" She asks softly, closing her eyes.

"That you're nothing like Katherine," he says, just as softly, kissing her hair again. "That you're kind and compassionate and vibrant."

That I love you.

She nods, desperately trying not to cry again.

After a long silence, she smiles weakly. "Can I have a moment?"

Damon nods graciously. "Of course."

He turns to leave, and she reaches for his hand purely out of self-preservation. She needs him right now – God, how she needs him. If anyone understands grief, it's him: he lost his mother young, his father to monstrosity, and his brother to his own demons.

He must feel her tense up (as much as she hates to admit it, he knows her better than either of them ever says out loud), because he squeezes her hand, his touch just the right side of sympathetic.

"Damon, I –" She begins, but she has no idea what to say. She could tell him she could never repay him for all he's done for her. She could tell him she's sorry for all the times she's doubted him. She could tell him that she cares about him so much more than she ever thought she would. But none of it seems right, so she settles for simply holding out her arms.

He steps into her embrace and holds her tight, and she lets herself cry.

He turns to walk away again, and she knows it's time: she reaches for his face, murmuring, "Your present today is the letter 'L.'" It feels wrong to interrupt the moment, but she needs him to know.

He kisses her forehead. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

…

That night, when she closes her eyes and burrows into him, he whispers, "One day you'll be happy, Elena, I promise you that."

She stills, breathing him in.

"I already am."

…

She wakes up the next morning feeling light and free. She knows it has everything to do with the vampire sleeping beside her, so she lingers for a moment, her hands hovering over his face. She shouldn't touch him, she knows – that would cross the nearly invisible (nearly nonexistent) line between them.

But she does anyways. She reaches out and strokes his cheek.

His eyes fly open. He must have felt the inherent affection in the touch – how could he not?

And she wants to run away from him. She wants to close her eyes and sprint down the stairs, forget that she ever met him, forget that she ever felt this for him. She wants to spend the day with Caroline and Bonnie and ignore how much she needs the boy lying in her bed, fully clothed but somehow more naked than she's ever seen anyone. She wants, she wants, she wants –

But she doesn't run. She doesn't even move, because no matter what she wants, what she needs is him. And she's had enough of running. Yes, he terrifies her, but she's so tired of being scared. Maybe if she faces her fears, she can conquer them.

"Morning," she whispers, deliberately stroking his cheek again. If nothing else, he deserves to know that she touched him because she wanted to.

"Morning," he breathes, wonder alighting in those unfathomable eyes of his.

It feels like the start of something special.

…

Damon leaves shortly after breakfast to "do something" (Elena decides not to ask him about it for the sake of her sanity), and she finds herself alone in the kitchen with Alaric.

She avoids looking at him for an awkward moment. Damon didn't have to tell her that Alaric told him to "take a beat" with her for her to understand that her guardian doesn't approve of her connection with the vampire who's killed him – what, three times now?

"I know what you're thinking," she says finally, looking up at the man who loved her aunt with all his heart. "You're thinking that I'm rushing into things. You're thinking that I shouldn't get involved with another vampire. You're thinking that Damon is dangerous. And I get that, I really do."

She takes a deep breath, waiting for Alaric to interject. But he doesn't say anything; he just crosses his arms, smiling.

"But I want you to know," she continues, thrusting her nose into the air defiantly, "I know what I'm doing. I've thought about it and I've thought about it, and I'm sure. He's what I want, Alaric. And I understand that you have your doubts, because I have my doubts, too, but –" She breaks off, noticing that Alaric isn't listening to her anymore. He's…he's laughing.

"What?" She asks venomously. "What is so funny?"

Alaric clears his throat, grinning at her. "Nothing," he says, reaching across the kitchen table to take her hand. "That wasn't what I was thinking at all."

"Oh," she says with a huff, taken aback. "Well, what you were thinking then?"

He cocks his head. "I was thinking," he says slowly, "That I haven't seen you this happy in a long time."

Without having to think about it, she stands up and rushes over to him, hugging him tightly.

…

Elena spends the day cooking. She doesn't get much time to herself, what with Damon constantly checking up on her (she doesn't really mind, of course) and all the random dangers circling Mystic Falls. Alaric's grading midterms, Jeremy's with Bonnie, and Damon is off…somewhere. So she cooks. She's missed it; she used to cook with her mother a lot.

And as she makes spaghetti and meatballs, she can only think this to herself: this thing between her and Damon is getting awfully ridiculous. There are errant touches, him reaching out and grabbing her hand when tears sting her eyes, her casually brushing by him when she walks out the door. There are significant glances and easy flirtation and obvious attraction, but nothing tangible. No advances, no conversation. She wants it – wants him. The waiting is killing her.

It's this ache she can't explain, really. She doesn't think about him all the time, and he hasn't broken her heart. But she feels inexplicably sad around him, like she's lost something she didn't know was hers to lose in the first place.

As dusk begins to fall, she decides it's time to decorate the tree. Christmas is less than a week away, and she can't use her parents' absence as an excuse not to celebrate. It's time to move on – or at least make some new memories.

So she turns on the Christmas station and pulls on her favorite Santa hat, and she gets to work.

…

"It's a little late to be decorating the tree, isn't it?"

Elena turns at the sound of Damon's voice, smiling instinctively. "Well, it is December 19," she acknowledges, reaching up to put an angel on a branch. "But better late than never, right?"

She supposes the sight of his glossy black hair and bright blue eyes shouldn't shock her; after all, his impertinent smile has haunted her dreams for longer than she can remember. But she still feels a little caught off-guard.

"I guess you're right," he says doubtfully, coming to stand behind her, making her breath catch. "Still, what's the point? Do we even know what we're doing for Christmas?"

She leans against him, staring up at the string of lights wound about the tree. "We're going to Caroline's, I think," she murmurs, sighing in contentment when she feels his chest against her back, the light touch of his hands on her waist. "It'll be the usual gang and maybe Tyler if we can get Caroline to have a little Christmas spirit."

Damon chuckles. "Doubtful," he scoffs, shaking his head, the soft whisper of his hair on Elena's neck making her tingle. "Vampire Barbie is notoriously good at holding grudges, remember?"

Elena waits for the current of frost to pass through her, waits for her bones to stiffen at the reminder of the months he spent abusing and compelling one of her best friends. But nothing happens. She thinks maybe it's because he's apologized for it before, and he was different then. Bonnie often accuses her of believing that blindly, but Elena knows better. It's simply the truth: Damon was different then.

So she just nods. "Oh trust me, I know," she says with a laugh, nuzzling Damon's neck with her cheek. "She never forgot that Matt and I dated. Our double-date was absolute hell."

She feels him smile, and he sweeps her hair off her shoulders. But she notices the tremble in his hands, the hesitation in his grip on her body, and that familiar ache in her chest, the knowledge that she can't breathe sometimes unless he's touching her, roars again. All her reassurances die on her lips, and she finds herself turning around quickly.

"Damon, I –" She begins, just like she did at the cemetery, and once again, she has no idea what to say.

He smiles sadly, looking centuries old. "Don't," he says softly, caressing her cheek with a tenderness that never fails to move her, even though it's in his touch every day, every moment. "You don't have to say anything, Elena. We've got a good thing going. No need to mess with it, okay?"

She opens her mouth, ready to deviate from her plan and confess all. She's tired of pretending she doesn't need him, because without him, she can never find reasons to smile. She's tired of sleeping in his arms at night and not being able to feel his skin against hers. She's tired of the devastating sorrow in his eyes, the obvious pain in his touch when his lips glide across her hair.

But she knows she has to stay strong. He has to believe she's in this forever, and he won't if she says anything now. She knows him well enough to understand that.

So she forces herself to stand away from him, because the magnetism of his gravity will pull her in if she's not cognizant of how much he affects her. She stares at him, memorizes the way he's looking at her right now, warm and open and trusting.

She bites her lip, nodding. "Okay," she whispers, the words like an olive branch she wishes she were strong enough not to give. "But we have to talk about it sometime, you know."

His eyes widen. He looks vastly uncomfortable. But then, she wasn't expecting anything different. Until they figure out where they go from here, they're going to be anything but at ease with each other. She's okay with that. She's just not okay with not even giving them a real chance.

She averts her eyes, wishing for a moment that he weren't so close, clouding her ability to think clearly. As much as she loved Stefan, he never made it this difficult for her to breathe. That's a talent unique to Damon.

She flicks her eyes back up to Damon's, awed by the affection in that soft, soft blue. "I have to go, actually," she says, pushing past the tenuous string holding her to him. "I promised Bonnie we'd have a girl's night tonight."

He nods quickly. "Of course."

For a moment they just stand there, and she wonders if it will take a miracle to bring them together. It is always one step forward, two steps back with him, and she doesn't know how to fix it. But she has to have a little blind faith.

"Besides," she says cheekily, mustering a grin as she saunters away, "Your present is hidden somewhere on the tree."

She lingers on the stairs to watch him find the letter, his eyes widening as he attempts to put the puzzle together. "'Y,'" he muses aloud. "What the hell is she getting at here?"

She smiles.

…

She's looking for Christmas decorations the next night when she stumbles across a picture of her and Stefan.

She immediately stiffens, unable to recognize the smiling girl in the picture. She doesn't feel like the same person who grinned for that camera, but she strokes Stefan's face fondly for a moment, lost in the memories of happier, simpler times. Of course she misses him, but mostly she misses the security his love provided. She never doubted that he'd be there for her, never worried that he would hurt her or that the way she felt about him would consume her. Nothing about her love for him ever scared her – not like the way her love for Damon terrifies her.

She frowns, tracing the lines of Stefan's face with trembling fingers. She wonders if she ever really knew him at all.

She hears a rustle by her window, and she looks up, every bone in her tired body giving way when she sees the silhouette of the passionate, infuriating, mesmerizing man who has made a home in her soul.

"Damon," she breathes, happiness bleeding into the two syllables without any conscious effort. It's been a long time since she's said his name with anything other than happiness.

He grins at her, shaking snow out of his hair, and she stands up to meet him. Frosty air blows in through the open window, but she feels warm.

"Have you come to get your present?" She asks breathlessly, rushing towards him, her hands finding the planes of his strong chest easily.

He nods, light flaring in his inimitable eyes. But then, as if he's seen something that disgusts him, he scrunches up his nose and pulls away from her. Her hands fall through the empty air like a broken promise, and she flinches.

"What," he growls, his gaze flicking to the floor (she realizes she dropped the picture frame when she saw him, and now it's in pieces), "Are you doing with that picture?"

She frowns, peeved that he's angry about a stupid picture. "I found it when I was looking for Christmas decorations," she says reasonably, attempting to placate him.

He shakes his head, looking so pissed off and torn that a part of her hates him for not trusting her. "God, I thought we were over this!" He exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. "I thought that wasn't an issue anymore!"

"It isn't!" She protests desperately, her head spinning as she tries to understand how things went so badly so quickly. "It doesn't mean anything!"

But his feral gaze stays on her as he moves closer and closer, his proximity threatening and thrilling in equal measures. She doesn't know what to do as he approaches her; she never knows what to do when he gets this close.

Finally, he's standing right in front of her, like some wicked, beautiful ghost from the past, and she can't say anything, can't speak at all; she's literally frozen.

His hands are suddenly on her face, his eyes too close, too intense, and she wishes she knew what to say. But he's too much; it's too much.

"Don't you remember all the tears you've cried?" he whispers, the words unbearably gentle. "Don't you remember all the nights you've laid awake, scared out of your mind because my saint of a brother decided to be an idiot and sacrifice himself for me? Don't you remember how he attacked you?"

She shudders. "Of course I do, but why are you –"

But he's already moved on; his eyes are soft and bleeding now, the way they always are when he's about to say something that will turn her world on its fragile axis.

"I don't know how to do this with you when you're still hung on my brother," he murmurs, his voice full of pain. His thumbs stroke her cheeks, the sort of touch that sends shockwaves through her – the sort of touch that is at once humbling in its sheer affection and terrifying because of what it means.

She wants to yell at him, to tell him that she let go of Stefan long ago. But all she can focus on are his eyes, bright and gorgeous and blazing into her. There's nothing in this world, supernatural or otherwise, that compares to being loved by Damon Salvatore. The fact that this beautiful man, the man currently cradling her head like he is afraid she will slip away, loves her? It's the most monumental thing she's ever experienced in her life. Death, loss and pain – it is all nothing in the face of this much love.

What is it about this boy? Why does he do this to her? Why does he render her completely unable to communicate, when their interactions used to come as naturally as breathing?

When everything used to be so simple?

"Damon," she tries. "Damon, it doesn't mean anything."

But he either doesn't listen or doesn't care; he backs away from her, his eyes wide and agonized. She leans against the nearby wall for support, her eyelids heavy, her vision distorted. He looks blurry, undefined, the ridges of his face abrupt and unsure in the wake of this much confusion. She feels strident, like he's ripped something away from her, something she can't ever get back.

"Damon," she begins again, quietly, closing her eyes. "I know I said it would always be Stefan. I know I said I hated you. I know I've pushed you away countless times. But I was wrong, about everything."

He makes a strangled sound, and she pads over to him, sighing as she reaches up to press her forehead to his. "That picture doesn't mean anything to me, not anymore," she whispers, realizing that this precarious balance she's subsided on for so long has tilted; the edge of the cliff she's standing on is crumbling beneath her feet. "Stefan's gone, and I've accepted that."

She looks up at him, drinks in the hope lingering in his eyes. This thing between them is like gossamer, transparent and opaque and so, so fragile. She's afraid of breaking it. She's always been afraid of breaking it.

"You're all that matters to me now," she says honestly, feeling him relax beneath her touch. "So go home, get some sleep, and come see me in the morning. We're both tired and cranky. Take the letter 'V' and go home, Damon. And remember that I meant it when I said we would let Stefan go, okay? I meant it."

He closes his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, the two words resounding with regret. "I just – I saw the picture, and I went crazy. That wasn't fair. I'm sorry, Elena."

She nods. "It's okay," she says, and she's surprised to find that it is. "I understand."

They're silent for a long moment, holding still with each other, and Elena feels herself tremble. She loves him – oh, how she loves him.

Finally, Damon straightens.

"Goodnight, Elena," he whispers, his fingers threading through her hair. Her gaze falls to his lips.

It's only after he walks out of her bedroom without so much as a backward glance that she realizes she desperately wanted him to kiss her.

…

Damon walks into Elena's kitchen early the next morning, when she's baking cookies for the annual Christmas party at the Forbes' house. He looks appropriately chagrined; he's hanging his head, his hair ruffled and unkempt, and he clearly hasn't slept much.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately, reaching out for her and then withdrawing, as if he's not sure she'll be receptive to his touch, "About last night. I was a dick."

Elena doesn't look up from the gingerbread cookie she's decorating. "Yes, you were."

He cringes, this time apparently brave enough to flash over to her side and touch her face in earnest, turning her towards him. "I'm sorry," he says again, so sincerely that she can't help but smile. "I should never have doubted you."

"At first I was really angry," she admits. "I thought I'd proven to you enough times that I would never treat you and Stefan like Katherine did. I thought it was grossly unfair of you to accuse me of still holding onto Stefan, considering I loved him for so long. And I was hurt, Damon. I thought you trusted me enough to believe me when I said we'd let him go."

Damon nods, his eyes sad. "I know."

"But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this has got to be so hard for you," she says, pressing herself close enough to him that she can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You watched me love Stefan for a year. You watched me miss him for months. Of course you doubt that I'm over him."

He cringes again, closing his eyes, and she touches his cheek. "Don't hide from me," she whispers, laying her head against his chest. "It's okay, honestly. I get it. And I'm sorry, too."

He kisses the top of her head, the touch reverent. "For what?"

"For giving you something to doubt me for," she whispers.

"No, 'Lena," he breathes, his voice full of love. "I'm just glad you're here."

She hears what he's not saying: I'm glad you're giving me a chance.

She withdraws from his hold after a moment, smiling brightly. "Mr. Salvatore," she asks playfully, "Would you care to decorate some cookies?"

"I guess I should have known," he muses, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Decorating cookies it is, then."

He smiles, and she trembles. She has a funny relationship with his smile. Sometimes she loves it, because it makes her feel warm and happy when he flashes those white teeth at her. Sometimes there's nothing she'd rather do than run up to him and feel him against her. But sometimes she hates that smile. Sometimes she hates him and everything he represents, hates the inevitable hitch in her breath.

(Because sometimes, she doesn't want to want him.)

But she hands Damon an undecorated cookie, and they get started.

After an hour or so has passed in comfortable quiet, she hands him a cookie with the letter "O" emblazoned in green icing.

…

Elena's lying on her bed the next day reading a book her teacher assigned her for English (unfortunately, the world hasn't stopped turning just because her ex-boyfriend threatened the most evil vampire in history) with her legs crossed behind her. The house is quiet; Jeremy is eating lunch at The Grill with Bonnie, Alaric is at school grading papers, and Damon is out robbing a blood bank.

It's strange to think that it's more than routine for Damon to be included in the list of people who regularly frequent her house, she muses, her attention momentarily slipping from the words on the page. She doesn't know how it happened, but then, she can't say she's unhappy that it did.

She'll get lost in thoughts of him if she's not careful, though, so she wrinkles her nose and attempts to concentrate on the book in front of her. But Hawthorne just can't hold her attention like Damon's blue eyes can, and she relinquishes the effort with a weary sigh.

Right on cue, she hears the voice she has to concede is sexy as hell:

"Hey, Elena."

She looks up slowly, bracing herself for the shock of his electrifying gaze. He's looked at her thousands of times, and it's not like there's ever much variation: he's always smoldering, always searching and always hoping (always loving). But something about the intensity burning in that blue still gets to her.

Sure enough, when her eyes meet his, she forgets how to breathe.

"Hey," she says breezily, trying to pretend his presence doesn't unnerve her. "What's up, Damon?"

"Oh, nothing," he says. "Just wondering how were you doing, I guess."

Her heart clenches. "I'm fine," she says, averting her eyes so he can't see her blush. "Homework calls."

"It's winter break," he exclaims in disbelief, sitting next to her (she wills herself not to sigh at his proximity), "Not to mention that it's three days before Christmas. What the hell are you doing reading The Scarlet Letter right now?"

She shrugs, laughing when he picks up her book and throws it on the floor with a sound of disgust. "I like reading," she explains, shoving him faux-seriously. "And besides, you weren't around. How was I supposed to entertain myself?"

His eyes widen, and she realizes too late what she's said. Suddenly, the air is quiet and the world is heavy, waiting.

"Well," he says seductively, trailing his finger down her back, and heat spirals beneath her skin until she shivers involuntarily, "What can I do for you, Miss Gilbert?"

He does that eye-thing, and she shifts her weight on the bed uncomfortably. What is it about his gaze that makes her want to drown in that blue and never come up for air?

But somehow that same fiery gaze makes her bold, and she sidles closer to him, letting her hands fall on his shoulders. He stares at her in shock, and that makes her brave, too; she presses her lips to his neck, lingering for a moment before withdrawing.

"What –" He stammers, closing his eyes briefly at the feather-light touch. "What the hell are you doing?"

She smirks. "Making you speechless, evidently."

He gapes at her, and she knows it's because he's never seen her like this – well, he saw her like this in Atlanta, she supposes. She used to be more fun; she used to tease and laugh and light up. It's only with him that she even remembers that girl anymore.

But suddenly his eyes darken, and he thrusts her hands away from his collarbone. "That's not fair," he says, that addictive blue boring into her. "We both know you're attracted to me, but you can't just go around kissing me, okay?"

"That's not what this is about," she says emphatically, almost imploringly, holding his head in her hands so he has to look at her. "This has never just been attraction." She pauses, scrutinizing the doubt in his expression. "You know that, right? This is about the fact that you're a part of me in ways I still can't explain."

His jaw drops. "What?"

She smiles. So rarely does she get to see the great Damon Salvatore speechless. It's gratifying. She has no idea how this conversation took this turn, but she's glad it did. He needs to hear this.

"You heard me right," she says confidently. "We both know that if I knew what I felt for you, I'd do something about it. But the more time I spend with you, the more I can't explain this thing between us. Do you get that?"

He nods quickly.

"Anyways," she says, stroking his cheek, thinking that the more time she spends with him, the more she's convinced he makes her happier than anyone else ever could, "Your present for the day is the letter 'E.'"

He doesn't say anything, and she carefully extricates herself from the entanglement of their bodies, picking up her book and smiling at him. She never thought such dysfunction as this could fulfill her, but she loves their stupid fights. Call her crazy, but she likes arguing with him; it makes her aware that she's his equal, that he cares enough to try to make things right, that she's alive.

She's moving towards her dresser to grab some chapstick when suddenly he's behind her, pressed up against her, his hands on her hips, his fingers grazing the skin exposed by the tank top that's at least two sizes small. Her breath hitches in her throat, but he doesn't wait for her protest; his hands expertly glide up and down her body, hovering over where she needs him most, but never quite touching her breasts, her pelvis and her lips. His breath is hot in her ear, and she has no idea what she's doing, no idea how to resist him when he's basically acting out every sinful fantasy she's had about him for the past year.

And honestly, she can only think one thing: if she can barely breathe when he's not even touching her all that aggressively, what will it be like when they finally collide?

"You've been holding back on me," she says breathlessly, sliding her hands up his sides hungrily.

He lightly nips her neck with his blunt teeth. "And we all know you've been holding back on me, haven't you?" He counteracts hotly, spinning her around so they're chest to chest, skin to skin, soul to soul.

"Touché," she whispers, unable to look away from him, even though she's almost afraid of the passion in his eyes.

"One of these days you're going to get too close to me, and I'm not going to resist," he warns, looking so ferociously beautiful that she grins.

"Is that a challenge?" She asks cheekily, smoothing her hands on his leather jacket. "Because you shouldn't dish it if you can't take it."

"No," he growls, letting his lips ghost across her forehead. "It's a promise."

And then he's gone.

…

Two nights before Christmas, Elena comes out of her bathroom yawning. Planning Christmas Eve dinner took longer than usual this year, and she's exhausted; the ache in her bones has settled, soaked her blood. But there he is, black hair and striking blue eyes – oh, and that soft smile that reverberates all the way down to her toes.

"Hi," she whispers shyly. The lace of her camisole scratches her sides, and she shivers; cold air blows in through the open window.

"Hi," he murmurs, his voice a deep, soothing rumble. Her eyes flutter closed, and she blindly walks towards the bed, stilling when she hears him inhale. She opens her eyes to find him cocking an eyebrow questioningly and crossing his arms. She musters a weak smile.

"Just tired," she assures him, crawling under the covers. She curls into him, her hands automatically finding the warmth of his chest. "Just tired."

He's quiet for a long moment, his cheek nuzzling her hair, and something in her cracks. Maybe it's the sleek glide of his lips across her heavy head. Maybe it's the hollow heat emanating from his familiar skin, the ever-present reminder that he's not human and never will be. Or maybe it's the twinkling lights outside her window.

"You're different than I thought you would be," she says at last, the only words that come to mind. She clings to him, tangling her hands with his.

He chuckles, sounding entirely content. "I should hope so," he says quietly, rubbing her back. "Let's not forget that when you met me, I wasn't exactly an upstanding guy."

She shakes her head. "That's not what I mean," she says, pausing to listen to the eerie stillness outside. "I thought I understood you. I thought I knew who you were. You were lonely and you were impulsive and you tried so hard not to feel. But I didn't understand you." She raises her eyes to look at him. "Not really, at least."

He makes a strangled sound, but she keeps going. The moonlight makes her brave.

"I'm not sure I even understand you now," she confesses. "I just know that you and I…somehow, it works. Somehow, you and I work."

He smiles at her, and as stupid as it sounds, she thinks that she feels safe with him. She's only known him for a year, but it feels like something else, something more, the weight of his hand on her shoulder, the blink of his eyes in her direction.

(It feels like love.)

"We do, don't we?" He echoes softly, his eyes gentle and sure.

Her fingers resume their remonstrations on the planes of his chest, and she stares at him, drinks him in. They're so close to their something special now; she can feel it.

"Goodnight," she whispers, closing her eyes and resting her head on his chest once more.

"Goodnight," he murmurs in return, kissing the top of her head.

…

She wakes before he does. She kisses his cheek, her lips curving in a smile against his skin.

She leaves the letter "O" on his chest and walks downstairs for breakfast.

…

Elena spends the next day in a daze, wishing she could find a productive way to pass the hours until Christmas Eve. All she wants to do is find Damon and tell him she loves him. She knows she has to wait, but it physically hurts to wait.

(She feels like they've both waited long enough.)

…

Christmas Eve dinner is held at Elena's house this year.

She sits across from Damon and trembles the entire time.

…

As soon as the dishes have been washed and all the obligatory pleasantries exchanged (she kisses Caroline and Bonnie on the cheek, hugs Alaric and Jeremy, sends a prayer skyward to her parents, biological and otherwise, and her aunt), Elena bolts out the front door and jumps in her car. Damon left a few minutes ago, and she knows that if she drives off now, she'll catch him. They haven't talked about their post-Christmas-Eve-dinner plans, but she knows he expects her.

She makes it to the Boarding House in record time, and there he is, standing in the front lawn, making her swoon. Every limb in her body feels weak; the air feels charged. She wonders whether she's really ready for this. She loves him – of course she loves him. But this is much, much more than that. She wants all of him, forever. She's finally found the missing puzzle piece, as cliché as that sounds. After all this time, after loving Matt and believing Stefan was her soul mate, she's finally found the man she's meant to be with.

She supposes that now, she just has to be brave enough to take the plunge.

Damon grins broadly when he sees her climbing out of her car, her midnight blue dress riding up to expose the sliver of thigh she shaved specifically for him. She avoids looking at him as she walks towards him, the only sound the click-clack of her heels on the asphalt. But she's honestly not sure she can contain herself any longer; the air is heavy with this thing between them, and she feels like everything – the sky, the trees, the stars – is waiting for her to make her move.

As she nears him, as her heart beats faster, she raises her gaze to meet his. It feels distinctly like coming home, and she disregards all propriety (all but the way he's looking at her) and vaults herself into his arms.

He catches her firmly, chuckling, and holds her so tightly that she worries she'll bruise. But she doesn't care. This, this right here, is right.

After a long moment, he tries to let her down, but she shakes her head, afraid she'll cry if he stops touching her. He seems to understand this; he just walks them through the front door. She buries her face in his neck until all she can smell is his signature smell of pine needles and mint, until all she can feel is the gentle hold of his arms around her back.

(She's never felt safer.)

He deposits her on her feet when they enter the foyer, and she looks down shyly. They are quiet, lost in this moment, the moment where the next step should be obvious but somehow it's not.

Finally, Damon thumbs a finger under her chin, tilting her face up towards his. She's shocked by the electric current that connects his skin and hers, but supposes she should have expected it. After all, she feels like a magnet around him, or maybe a satellite in orbit, an entity obligated to circle him until he draws her in.

"I got you something," he says, watching her warily, as if he worries she'll run away.

She frowns. "But Damon, I thought we agreed –

"I know you said I'm not allowed to get you anything," he breaks in, stroking her chin so lovingly that her knees buckle beneath her, "But you haven't had your vervain necklace for a while, and I just thought you should have some protection."

She waits, extremely curious. Knowing Damon, this gift will mean much more than he's saying.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sapphire pendant on a silver chain, and she notices the shake in his hands. "It was my mother's," he explains, his eyes at once sad and grateful. "Her birthstone was a sapphire. I think she would have wanted you to have it. She would have loved you, I'm sure."

Elena feels tears prick the backs of her eyes, and she has to swallow the lump in her throat. She knows what a big deal this is. It hurts him to talk about his mother; it's one of the few things he keeps secret from her. This is important, and she doesn't know what to say.

But Damon saves her, as he always does. Without having to be asked, he reaches around her shoulders to put the necklace on. When it's in its rightful place (she knows it was always meant to belong to her, just as she was always meant to belong to him), she touches it with a reverence she once reserved for Stefan's face.

"Oh, Damon," she whispers, twining her arms around his neck and folding herself into his welcoming arms. "I love it."

He holds her for a long moment, his chin resting on the top of her head. He looks so achingly beautiful that she could cry for all the time they've lost – and she does cry, hot, silent tears that leak onto his shirt. He doesn't pull away, though; he doesn't ask her what's wrong. She realizes he knows her well enough now that he doesn't have to.

"I guess it's time for me to give you your last present," she says at last, following him as he walks into the living room and sits down on the couch. Her voice is scratchy and she's heavy with thoughts of him, but none of that seems to matter. He smiles tentatively, and everything falls away, paling in comparison to the light in his eyes.

She knows what she has to do, but a part of her is still frightened of the way he makes her feel. The way he loves her is absolutely overwhelming, and more than that, the way she loves him is surreal. She doesn't know if she would survive if she lost him. She doesn't think she knows how to be happy without him anymore.

But she's Elena Gilbert. She's faced down Original vampires and a vengeful ex-boyfriend. She's lost almost her entire family. She's had her heart broken. She can do this.

So she smiles at him, and she takes one last chance.

"Your last present," she stammers, climbing unsteadily onto his lap (her legs feel like they might buckle beneath her, and she grips his shoulders for support), "Is sort of stupid. Basically, it's –"

He waits expectantly, only his eyes registering his shock at her impromptu clamber onto his lap, only the taut muscles in his arms revealing how affected he is by her proximity.

"Well," she stutters, closing her eyes as she feels his hands hovering at her sides, as if he wants to touch her but can't convince himself he's allowed to, "It's the last letter: the letter 'O.'"

His brow furrows as he tries to put it together, evidently forgetting for a moment that she's on top of him. She knows he's probably tried not to think about it until tonight, wanting it to come together in this final moment. But he's struggling, so she decides to take matters into her own hands.

She leans forward and kisses him. She kisses him because the longer she goes without him, the harder it is for her to breathe. And the touch of his lips on hers, the explosive fire of his hands trailing her sides, is the closest to heaven she'll ever get. She has no words for the feeling exploding inside her chest, none at all.

Just love.

She pulls back at last, her fingers tracing the features she knows so well. "You know what the letters spell out, Damon," she says softly, watching as the shock starts to drain from his face. "You've known longer than I have." She pauses, resting her thumbs on his cheeks, aching to touch him more, always more. "Haven't you?"

He shakes his head dumbly, but his hands find her hips again, and she has to suppress a moan. "I don't know," he whispers, smiling her favorite crooked smile, unadulterated joy shining in his eyes. "To be honest, I can't think straight when you're sitting in my lap."

She laughs, shifting just enough to make him groan. "To be honest," she echoes, resting her forehead against his, breathing raggedly, "I can never think straight when I'm around you."

"Likewise," he breathes, his lips finding hers again.

She gets lost for a moment, lost in the slip of his tongue in her mouth, in his fingers gripping her hips so lightly, so adoringly, that she could cry, in the sheer joy blooming in his touch. And when they pull apart, the only words she can say are this:

"I have no idea why I waited so long to do that."

He chuckles, brushing her hair out of her face. "Me neither," he says flippantly, pressing his lips to the column of her neck (she gasps, because giving into how much she wants him is just the beginning).

"Wait," she murmurs, pulling away to look into his eyes. "I never told you what the letters spell out."

He lets out a low growl that makes her ache. "I don't care, Elena. You're on top of me. You just kissed me. You really think I give a fuck what the letters spell out?"

"I think you do," she says seriously.

He waits, smoothing her hair off her forehead, and she trembles. She never dreamed that it would happen like this. She never dreamed that when she finally let herself love him, there'd be no dramatic confrontation, no crazy choice or desperate decision. She never dreamed that there'd only be him, and her, and the realization that she's been inordinately stupid.

But this feels perfect.

"It's silly, really," she begins, playing with the lapels on his suit. "I should have told you months ago, but I couldn't get the words out. And it might be too late now, but I need to say it any–"

"Elena," he breaks in, with the sort of lustful look that makes heat flame in her cheeks. "Get on with it."

"It's simple," she whispers, smiling softly. "I love only you."

He blinks. "Wait, what are you –"

"That's what the letters spell out," she says, leaning forward to kiss him again, savoring the collision of his lips with hers, so fated, so right. "I love only you. And that's what I've been meaning to tell you for months now. I love only you, Damon. Not Stefan, not anyone else. I love only you, and you forever. I love you."

By now, she's said the words five times, and still, it doesn't feel like enough.

"But you said –" He begins to protest.

"I said lots of things, Damon," she reminds him softly, holding his gaze. "But I can't be happy without you. That's the only truth I know anymore. That's the only truth that matters."

His eyes cloud over with doubt, but she keeps going. "And I know it's taken me a long time," she says, frowning as she remembers the pain and the mistakes and the horrible misunderstandings, "But I just want you to know that I love you. No matter how selfish I've been, no matter how misguided, you were always there, saving me. You love me even when I don't deserve it. You make me happy even when my whole world is turned upside down. And you're here for me despite how much we both miss Stefan."

She touches his cheek. "You're the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep and the first person I want to see in the morning. I could go on and on, because all those clichés are true for me. You're it for me, Damon. I didn't know it for a while, but I know it now. I love you. I don't know why I ever thought I didn't."

When she finishes talking, she realizes he's crying.

"Oh, Damon, what did I say?" She asks worriedly, wiping away his tears. "I'm so sorry if I upset you. I thought you'd be happy, but –"

He cuts her off by enfolding her in a strong embrace, his arms holding her close. He's trembling, she notices, and she rubs his back with soothing hands. This is what they do, after all: they protect each other.

He kisses her hair, his lips soft and sure. She remembers all the times those arms have been her only solace from the world, and she sighs into him gratefully.

When he pulls back, his eyes are sparkling. "You didn't upset me," he reassures her, cradling her head in his hands. "You made me happy, trust me. God Elena, you have no idea how much I love you."

She smiles bashfully. "If it's anything like the way I love you, then I think I have some idea."

He sighs happily, leaning in to kiss her. He takes his time, savoring her, and she wants nothing more than to linger here forever.

But she pulls back, whispering, "Damon, I want to give you myself."

He stares at her in shock, his mouth falling open. "You want to –" He doesn't finish, and she can see the shock, the longing in his eyes. It makes her love him even more, if that's possible.

She nods.

He kisses her again, joy spilling from his lips. "Okay," he whispers, laying her down on the couch with a reverence that warms her heart. "We're really going to do this, aren't we?"

She nods again, clinging to him. "We're really going to do this."

And so they do.

…

Just before they become one, he rests his forehead against hers and breathes her in. She feels like she might burst from how much she loves him, and she doesn't know how she ever lived without moments like these.

"I love you," she breathes, and it's a strange, wonderful combination of home and the unknown. "That's all that matters."

And when he begins moving with her, she knows it really is.

fin

P.S. If anyone is confused, the letters Elena gives Damon spell out I love only you (one letter for each day of Christmas).

Happy holidays to all! Hope you liked it :)