[...]
“Damon!” she screams, watching as the muscles of his entire body, overcharged with inhuman tension, shiver at the sound of her voice, like she pinched the cord of a Stradivarius. The dead weight slips off his fingers when he turns to look at her, unblinking and slightly dazed.
“He stabbed you,” voice hoarse like he’s been wandering in the desert for centuries, calling for a mercy heaven would not grant him.
“And you killed him,” she says, though the word doesn’t do justice to what truly happened to the poor bastard. She should be more outraged by this, but it does seem like justice, in a way "I think it's safe to say you're even—"
“He stabbed you,” Damon insists, licking his dry lips, having no reaction to the taste of grey matter he collected on his tongue as his eyes scan her body with incredulity.
“And now he looks like a packet of crackers run over by a freaking truck!” she protests, looking at the human pulp at his feet. She’ll give him hell about this, but not now, because it breaks her heart the way he looks at her.
Damon looks at her, desperate and fazed and speechless, and there’s something tugging at her heart, for he looks so lost. She had once thought he’d be relieved to see her die, but he looks like something inside broke the moment he thought he could lose her.
“Are you…” he takes a step in her direction, the first movement an awkward jerk, making him look like a toy with dying batteries.
[...]
