From Paris With Love
…
Summary: Damon finds Caroline in Paris. Things take an interesting turn after that. Rated M for sexual situations, nothing too graphic.
…
It's unmistakeable, that flash of blonde.
He almost mistakes it for the flash of a camera, so bright it's become over the decades. There's marks in her hair – unidentifiable to the human eye, but as clear as day for him – where she's clearly tried and tested highlights. For one moment, he envisions her with several different styles of hair, different slides scanning past his eyes of her in various poses, various degrees of beauty in each slide.
In every one, she bears a feisty expression, the typical pose of a teenager frozen in time.
In everyone one, she's completely radiant, almost devastatingly so.
"Damon?" She peers over her sunglasses, frowning. "Is that you?"
It's not even a particularly touristy spot they're at. Tourists, he quickly learned, take photos of anything even remotely interesting, and so he'd picked a quiet little street with the odd interesting building to walk down, pretending to himself he's here sightseeing when, in reality, it's not the reason at all.
Paris, he knows, is just one of the hundreds of places he's visited in a short span of time to escape the reality that his life.
The love of his life, Elena, died a year ago today. He'd held her hand as she'd passed away, her hair silver as the moonlight. Stefan had looked on, sombre as anything, but they'd shared a look as she'd taken her last breaths.
This is what we wanted for her.
In that respect, he has no regrets. Except for the fact there's a hole in his heart where her face should be. He took nothing to remind her of him, so he knows in time her face will fade, along with the memories, and all these various trips of indeterminate expense and lengths are not exactly helping in that department.
"Surprised you remember my name," he drawls, noting with a surprising amount of pleasure that she still seems to be the same person he remembers.
Her clothes – consisting of a bright red coat, a green plaid scarf, and dark sunglasses – all accentuate her diva personality, and he loves that about her. In her hands, he can see an array of shopping bags, again re-enforcing what he already knows about her.
"Great," she mutters sarcastically. "Until now, Paris was flawless." She casts him a disparaging look. "Until they let the likes of you in."
"Don't be like that," he quips, giving her his best smirk. "I've just made your entire trip."
She almost smiles at that.
"Still an ass?" she asks, tilting her head to one side. "Nice to know some things haven't changed."
"How long have you been out here?"
"I came straight after Bonnie's funeral," she replies, tight-lipped.
"Which was -?" Damon prompts impatiently.
He's not been back to Mystic Falls since Elena's funeral, so he hasn't really caught up with any other news which that god-awful town has managed to produce.
"A little under six months ago," Caroline responds, sighing, her heels twisting awkwardly, all signs she is desperate to get away.
And he won't let her, for some unknown reason.
"I'm sorry to hear that. I would've written her a great eulogy."
"Yeah? And how would you have slid in the words Judgey and witch without exposing yourself?" she questions, a smirk emerging. "I'm sorry, but I don't buy this act, Damon. You didn't give a damn about Bonnie. It's why you were prepared to step up to the bat and turn her mom, but when it came to Elena, and her family, you did everything in your power to help." She lets out a humourless laugh. "You never did manage to sort out your priorities did you?"
He scowls, unable to believe she's tearing him into pieces like she knows him.
Then again, she was always good at deciphering body language and facial expressions, so he isn't really surprised by how quickly she's worked him out.
"I'm not sorry she's dead," he says bluntly, constantly surprising himself by how cruel his honest can be. "But I am sorry for your loss."
She inclines her head, choosing this moment to remove her sunglasses completely which, it might just be his imagination, seems to tell him she's letting down her guard a little. Her expression is guarded, even though her cherry lips are twisted into a secretive smile, and he knows despite the many times they fought alongside each other, she still doesn't entirely trust him.
He shouldn't be concerned either way. She can act however she wants around him.
It's not like he's spent nigh on eighty years concerned about her.
"What are you doing in Paris anyway?" she asks, getting down to business. "I don't see you as the tourist type, so you must have other reasons for being here."
"Trying to see which country I despise the most," he says, only half joking.
"Damon..." Her gaze softens, just a fraction. "You don't have to be this macho all the time. It's okay to admit you miss her."
He scoffs, giving her a scathing glance.
"I miss nothing about my life in Mystic Falls. Do you?"
"Yes and no," she replies vaguely. "I miss the girl I was there." She scrutinises him carefully. "I'm sure deep down you miss the man you used to be there."
He shakes his head vigorously.
They are so not having this conversation right now.
"Come walk with me," she suddenly instructs, foisting some of her bags on his arm before he has time to protest.
"Why?" he asks, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.
She scoffs, as if the answer is obvious.
"Because my arms tire of holding all these bags – Paris has so many wonderful shops! - and because if I'm going to believe for one second that seeing you here was just a coincidence, I'm going to need some sort of stimulant in my body. Preferably coffee. There's a cute coffee shop a few streets away." She glares at him. "I suggest you play nice and follow."
"Or what?" he risks it by asking.
She smiles sweetly.
"Or I'll drag you shopping with me while I find shoes to match this outfit."
He gapes at all the bags she has on her possession.
"That's all one outfit?"
"Please," she says dismissively, "most are just accessories. Paris is the fashion capital of the world, or haven't you heard?"
And without waiting for him to keep up, she turns on her heels and walks off, leaving him no option but to follow.
…
She cradles her cup of coffee, scrutinising Damon carefully.
It shouldn't surprise her that she's encountered him. With eternity stretched before them, she knows they would've crossed paths before too long.
The first thing to notice is he looks worn, haggard, and most of his youth – if it's even possible – has slid off his face. His eyes have lost that bright spark which had attracted her to him in the first place. Most of the emotions he generally couldn't convey on his face – something about male vampire pride or whatever – were usually located in his eyes.
He looks lost, is perhaps what she's trying to say here.
Paris is an excuse to be anywhere else but home.
She wonders if really they're both here for the same reason – to forget home – except while she can dress her excuse up with tales about the beauty of Paris, Damon has no such excuse at hand.
She would feel sorry for him if she didn't know him better.
Sometimes she thinks she does anyway, in spite of it.
…
He must be barking mad, but he invites her to dinner that evening.
"Why?" is her perfectly logical question.
He searches for a response which doesn't make him sound like a presumptive jackass, or alternatively a needy, insecure idiot with absolutely nothing left to lose (except maybe his dignity).
"Because we're both here," he eventually supplies.
It's the best reason he can think of.
"You know," she says thoughtfully, biting her bottom lip in that delicious way she does. "Stefan came by a few weeks ago. Found me at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower. Gave me the same offer. What makes you think I should take you up on yours?"
"You turned him down?" is what Damon picks up from her question, although the more important point he should be focusing on is the Stefan part of the story.
What could have driven him to search Caroline out, he has to wonder?
She nods.
"I don't date people still hung up on their exes," she remarks darkly, shooting him a meaningful look.
"Date?" he splutters, alarmed. "I never said anything about a date. I said dinner."
She rolls her eyes.
"Damon – you asked me out to dinner in the most romantic city of them all. Nobody goes on a platonic dinner date in Paris."
"I'm sure some people do," he growls. "Stop romanticising everything, Caroline."
She drops her scrutinising stare, temporarily agog with surprise.
"What?" he snaps.
"Well, for one, you called me Caroline, not Blondie," she replies, rewarding him with a soft smile. "For another, you've hardly kept your eyes off of me all the time we've been together."
"Your hair..." he supplies desperately. "It's blonder. It's hard not to stare at." Spitefully, to cover his tracks, he adds, "You look like something the sun threw up."
There's a pause, before Caroline throws back her head and laughs. It's a warm, rich, infectious laugh, which he doesn't remember her having before.
Then again, he doesn't think he's ever heard Caroline laugh before. Not even when they were dating, which says a lot about the way he treated her, something he still regrets, even to this day.
"You haven't changed a bit," she remarks flatly, but she doesn't look irritated by that fact. The warmth in her eyes never recedes, even as she appraises him, and a shudder of something pleasant ripples down his spine.
"No, but you have," he points out. "You're stronger... Less whiny and needy." He gives her an approving nod. "See this Caroline I would've stayed with."
There's an awkward moment where he realises what he's just said.
For the first time since he was human, he actually blushes.
Thank God for the low lighting in this place.
But there's something in Caroline's smile which tells her she's not missed a thing, and he silently groans to himself.
And so begins the long, arduous battle in clawing back some dignity.
"Fine," she replies, starting to gather her belongings together. "But I choose the venue."
"I get to choose the table wine," he bargains hurriedly.
"I'll choose our server," she counters, smiling wickedly.
"As long as I get to choose dessert," he whispers huskily, treating her to his trademark smirk.
The smile he receives back does something, stirs something inside him he hasn't felt in a long, long time.
Desire.
…
His invitation to dinner startled her, she isn't going to lie.
Damon has hurt her before – emotionally and physically – and she cannot let herself go down this road again.
Despite the words she said to Damon, she's determined to keep this dinner platonic. She'll throw on something nice – maybe the deep red dress she bought in Florence in Italy, or the bottle green dress she found in the most expensive store imaginable in New York – and she'll make an effort for the evening, but that's about all she'll contribute.
She's interested in seeing where Damon takes this above everything else.
The way he dressed himself earlier still reflects a hidden desire to recapture the past. She can tell because he still sticks to black shirts, a couple of buttons deliberately neglected, and dark trousers. His raven hair is still styled in the same way, and even the expressions he pulls haven't changed much.
It's partly why she's wary of going out with him.
She's wondering whose face he'll substitute hers with, because there's no way in hell Damon Salvatore will go on this date with her and see her all the way through the meal.
No, she knows whose face he'll see, because it's the same face she's been missing ever since she upped and left Mystic Falls.
She knows the story, knows how in the end Elena never could choose between the brothers, so told them both she loved them both and always would but her priority lay in getting away from Mystic Falls, from all the hurt and pain which were trapping her there.
Stefan and Damon's hearts had broken that day for good. She knows they fought once or twice, coming close to killing each other, before they managed to reach a civil agreement, an agreement which, even though it achieved peace, did nothing more than break a bond that should never have been shattered, least of all by a woman, however unintentionally.
The price for that civil agreement, however, was spending the rest of their lives literally worlds apart, and that almost breaks her heart a little.
She's never been lucky enough to have siblings, but she knows if she'd been that lucky, she wouldn't have let anything come between them, not even if the world's greatest romance had presented itself to her.
She's a romantic, sure, but she knows nothing is more sacred than the bond of family.
If only Damon had figured that out rather than spending his time trying to deal with the remnants of a broken heart he'll probably never be able to fix.
….
He swarms in with his timeless swagger, all suited up for the occasion, his hair gelled in places to provide at least the illusion of order, if nothing else. He isn't armed with flowers – some clichés he'll always actively avoid – but he has come armed with a gift, something he hopes she'll appreciate.
Then again, he's never quite sure how she'll react. One minute, she can almost appear solemn, her eyes absorbing everything in sight, her mind contemplating every little possible meaning she can take from her surroundings, and then the next she's back to giggling schoolgirl Caroline, the one who incessantly irritated him because of her naivete and shallowness, although that phase had been terminated when she'd become a vampire.
She's already sitting at the table, inadvertently defying every dating cliché in the history of clichés. He's almost impressed.
Swaddled in red silk, her hair straightened (for the most part) with curls on the fringes like little ticks, she is a vision of beauty that is for sure. Desire pumps through his body, and every little gesture – from the casual crossing of her legs, to the light drumming motion her fingers make against the table, to the way she holds her glass like she owns it – drives him wild with some sort of insatiable hunger he can't satisfy.
"Someone looks ravishing tonight," he drawls as he takes his seat opposite her, noticing her eyes are already lazily perusing the menu.
She peels her eyes away to appraise him.
"Someone suited up," she compliments, fighting to hide the approval in her eyes. "You look quite dashing."
"Oh, please," he snorts, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm stunning. If I were an art exhibit, the Louvre would be too good for me. I'd be better in the Cairo Museum, or someone else more suited to holding such a unique treasure as myself."
"Watch your ego, Damon, before it expands and fills the restaurant," she comments mildly. "I'd rather stay here and enjoy the atmosphere, if it's all the same with you."
He smirks, but picks up his own menu, barely surveying the young server who seems to almost be dazzled by Caroline's beauty. He can tell by the acceleration of the young man's heartbeat, by his erratic breathing pattern, and fights to hold back laughter.
"Excusez-moi, monsieur," Caroline speaks, providing what has to be the biggest surprise of the evening so far. "Que recommandez-vous?"
The young man, barely out of his teen years by the looks of things, swallows loudly, barely acknowledging Damon, who, for some reason, feels irritated by this fact. For all this young man knows, he could be serving a newly engaged couple, or a newly married couple on their honeymoon, and rather than greeting them with the famous Parisian hospitality he's long since admired, he's serving them with eyes that devour Caroline's appearance as if he's never seen such a beautiful woman before in his whole life, and if it isn't for the fact they are in Paris, a capital known for hosting all things bright and beautiful, Damon might've been inclined to believe that theory.
"Le poisson..." The young man – Frederic – offers, smiling nervously. "C'est délicieux. Le chef dit..."
"Hm..." Caroline muses, interrupting him for a moment, still perusing the menu thoughtfully. "I hate fish since I allowed that abomination of a chef to serve me that monstrosity of a dish in Vermont." She shudders; he tries to ignore what that simple movement does to his own body. "I hear the chicken is supposed to be beautiful." She flutters her Bambi eyes up at him. "Le poulet pour moi."
If anything, the waiter looks even more confused by her order.
"Quel plat - "
"Vous choisissez," she announces grandly, passing him back the menu. "C'est trop difficile pour moi."
Frederic, their ever bashful server for the evening, turns towards him, finally acknowledging his existence, and he almost enjoys delivering the contemptuous smirk, mentally dividing the tip he'd been thinking about leaving – though leaving tips is really not his thing at all – for whoever had served them by a sizeable amount.
"I'll have the most expensive dish on the menu," he brags, giving her a smirk as he leans back against his chair. "Why not? I'm paying after all."
"I'm not arguing," she responds evenly, brushing back a strand of hair, revealing the laughter in her eyes her mouth dare not expel in such a classy abode.
Frederic gives a skittish bow, releases a quick, nervous smile in their direction, and then moves away, like he's afraid of bursting into flames in the presence of such a goddess. Damon can't help but chuckle.
"I'm sorry, but this is who you chose to be our waiter for the evening? A man who looks French, sounds French, but would explode upon hearing the phrase French kissing?"
"I thought he was charming."
"Of course you would. He was ogling you like he was about to sacrifice his own mother to you."
She aligns her eyes on his.
"Jealous are we?"
"Not jealous," he dismisses. "But the guy could take a lesson or two in the art of subtlety."
She laughs, and he settles back in his seat, satisfied upon hearing that melodic, warm sound emitting from her throat.
"So, what really brings you to Paris?" she asks, assessing his expression carefully, her hands folded on the table, ready to reach for his just in case.
He studies her in turn, trying to pass off indifference as a means of an answer, but one careful motion of her eyebrows soon puts him in his place, and he has no choice but to tell.
"Paris was where I was going to take her after this whole Klaus business," he eventually supplies, looking morose. "I stupidly assumed she'd choose me – I don't know why – and this was going to be the place I was going to - "
"Screw her," she crudely fills in for him, nodding. "I see. Why come here if it holds that sort of significance for you?"
"Because - " He searches the air for an answer to pluck out and deliver to her. "I guess even after all this time, I still held onto the dream of this place. Paris is beautiful. I loved it long before people swept in and made it a cultural icon. I came here a few times after Elena – I don't know what I was looking for. She was gone and I – I wasn't."
"Sounds like a dear diary moment," she comments, raising an eyebrow. "Where's this sensitive Damon cropped up all of a sudden?"
"I assure you, this is merely a moment we are having here," he grins. "It'll pass, and I'll be back to being that lovable, if not snarky, ass you know so well."
"Good." She pretends to wipe her head. "I was worried." She leans forward to grin at him, bearing a set of white teeth which gleam like pearls. "Good to know the real Damon hasn't been left behind on your journey of self-discovery."
He smiles, leans over to grab the bottle of wine already on the table, and gets a whiff of her fragrance. It's not perfume, that much he can tell, but it's like she's somehow bottled up the essence of Paris and stuck it in a bottle before spraying it on her skin. Just inhaling her scent brings back those memories when a younger (in mind only) version of himself first stumbled into Paris' welcome arms, how the lights seemed brighter than the sun, how the stars seemed so much more welcoming here than they did back home, how service came with a smile, no matter where in Paris you went.
Nostalgia grips him for a moment.
It's easier to lose himself in those memories – not as painful, either.
"I thought I was choosing the wine," he suddenly recalls, narrowing his eyes.
She winks at him.
"In Paris, you don't choose the wine. The wine chooses you," she informs him. "I've been dining in enough restaurants now to figure out my tastes, figure out which wines go well with dates like this..."
"I thought we'd established this wasn't a date," he teases, unable to resist letting his eyes fall to the deep plunge of the neckline on her dress.
How had he not noticed what a beautiful treasure she was?
She leans back, stretching her back against the chair like she's got aristocratic blood pumping through her veins, and lets a victorious smile stretch into view.
"Oh, Damon," she sighs. "C'est Paris. Le ville de l'amour." She grins wickedly. "We both knew something more was on the cards the moment we saw each other again."
He stiffens as he feels her foot – slipped delicately from her shoes without so much as a noise to indicate that particular action – slides up his trouser leg, and then jolts as she reaches further than he knew she could reach.
"Where's our damn dinner?" he growls, searching for their server with a frantic air.
"Patience," she coos, slowly retracting her leg, grinning broadly. "You've still yet to choose what dessert you want for afterwards."
The look in his eyes immediately tells her he knows what he wants for dessert, and it isn't on any menu any restaurant anywhere in the entire world.
….
They barely make it through dinner – dessert is inevitably forgotten.
He pays quickly, thrusting a handful of notes at a frightened looking Frederic – clearly new to the job – forgetting his desire to divide the tip, so eager is he to just get out here.
She mentions she has a hotel room not far from here, and within seconds, they are outside the building, and he's pushing her against the wall, assaulting her lips with a fierce intensity. A low moan builds up in her throat, and he responds by running his hands through her golden sun-soaked hair.
She spins them around so he's against the wall, grinning wickedly as she takes her turn in assaulting him. As their lips connect again, she tugs at his bottom lip, earning her the satisfaction of hearing a surprised groan escape from his lips.
Figures even now, she still possesses the power to surprise him.
Of course, she's learned a few new tricks since last they danced this particular dance, and he's about to find out for himself.
"My room..." she breathes in between kisses. "It's room 107."
"Then we better get there fast," he responds, taking her hand – she's surprised by how a gesture that simple can easily move her in ways she's not felt since Tyler was around.
The journey to her booked room – she has a place here of course, but there's an allure about a hotel room that just can't be beaten – feels like it takes forever, because they are in the presence of humans, so they have to act, to a degree, like civilised people.
She taps her foot impatiently in the elevator, catches him smirking, and smacks him around the back of his head.
Oh, God, she'd forgotten how soft and bouncy his raven curls were.
She runs her fingers through each lock, lifting each in turn and examining it like an old toy she'd long forgotten.
"Having fun?" comes his amused voice.
"Not yet," she growls, pushing him out of the elevator, and towards her room.
She opens the door quickly, pushes him inside with a brutality which takes even herself by surprise.
She won't tell him this, but it's been years since the last time she's had a moment like this. She's had ample opportunities, but she's focused all her energy on living and building a life for herself wherever and whenever she can, and somehow passionate activities never seemed to make the list of things she needed.
How naïve she'd been to think she could've dropped this from her list.
He pins her to the wall, kissing her with a fierce intensity she can only put down to him having gone through a similar dry period like hers.
The almost forgotten sensation of arousal grips her tight, causing a moan to burst from her crimson lips. He moves his lips to her neck, to the exposed skin her dress reveals. His tongue coyly traces patterns on the areas just above her breasts, and an impatient, almost feverish feeling kicks in.
With a rough movement, she pushes him onto the bed, but before she can work on catching him up to speed, his fingers climb up her nimble legs, reaching higher and high until she slaps them away.
"Not yet," she grins, pulling him up again, grinding her hips against his, gaining that sense of gratification at the surprised look on his face. "That's better."
"Oh, you are such a tease, Blondie," he breathes, winding his fingers around her neck, this time, lowering his lips carefully to the exposed part of each breast. "This needs to come off," he adds coyly, tugging lightly on her dress.
"No foreplay?" she pouts.
He gives her a wry look.
"We made it back here within thirty seconds. I think it's safe to assume we both need this right now."
The dress is whipped off before she can even gather enough words to throw back at him in a counter-argument, but when she feels where his lips travel next, they just die on her tongue.
Words fail altogether when his fingers travel lower and lower until he pulls back suddenly, a cocky grin on his face.
"For someone who was so self-assured earlier that this wasn't going to be a date, the fact you're wearing no underwear completely contradicts your non-existent saintly intentions," he teases.
"Actually," she whispers hotly, taking advantage of the pause in the action to throw him back on the bed, frantically working on releasing his gorgeous body – there's no denying that, no matter what else you thought of him – from its suited prison. "I was the one who told you there's no such thing as a platonic date in Paris." She nips playfully at his earlobes. "Looks like I was right and you were wrong."
"For the record," he breathes in her ear, relishing her facial expression at his low husky tone, "before I completely ravage you, you should know, you're the most beautiful girl in Paris tonight."
"Oh just shut up and fuck me," she moans against his mouth as their tongues duel for dominance once again.
He grins as she strips him of his last items of clothing, her fingers exploring every inch of his skin like they've not already been there.
"You ask, I come, I'm easy like that." He chuckles at the innuendo. "Well, maybe not easy in that sense..."
"Really?" she gazes at him doubtfully. "Since our last...um...encounter, I've learned a few new tricks, and let me tell you, you're going to be working for it mister."
"Really?"
"Yeah, and um, Damon?"
"Mmm?"
"Leave the bedroom talk to me. You suck at it. You chat on and on like an old woman, and it's..."
But she's immediately silenced as he discovers an act which will suitably occupy them both for the next few moments.
Her face is frozen with mingled pleasure and surprise.
It's funny, but she almost wants to cry that he's memorised her body in this way. How else could he have remembered the exact spots where she feels like taking off and just orbiting the damn planet, so high it makes her feel?
Then again, she remembers his body too; she owns every ridge, every curve of his body, so it's no surprise when he emerges to kiss her lips, she finds a way to turn the odds in her favour again.
Then it's she who wears the wicked smile.
….
After a whirlwind of emotions, energetic lovemaking, and endless other activities she can hardly recall at this stage, she curls up inside his arms, remembering how when they'd had sex before, it had felt very different. Brutal. Rough. Needed, not wanted. She'd literally been his booty call, and even afterwards when she'd satisfied him, he'd still found a way to lower her self-esteem enough for her to keep begging him to tell her how to make him happy.
In essence, she should hate this man. He is a part of the reason why she still hates to trust men, why she still feels like sometimes she's completely worthless.
But, on the other side of the coin, he is also part of the reason why she's so strong today, and they may have just used each other to fulfil a neglected need, but the fact his arms hold her tight, not push her away, and the fact he seems to wear a lazy smile, even in slumber, tells her she could grow to love this man again.
They've lost a lot – too much in fact – but sometimes what is born from pain and loss is greater than what you ever had in the first place.
Her muscles ache a little from the experience, and she knows she'll need blood soon because she's drained – physically, mostly, although a little emotionally too – but all she can say for certain is that she'd made the right call wearing the red dress.
Red is the colour of blood; it symbolises passion, anger, love, all the emotions which, funnily enough, fuel sex. Above all else, however, red is the colour of the sky after a stormy night, when morning first begins to peep around the corner to see what state the world is in after the night has had its feast.
Red is the colour of sunrise, symbolising the end of a dark period and the birth of a brighter tomorrow.
She can only hope she's not being her usual Caroline self and expecting more from a situation than perhaps is realistic to ask for, but if there's one thing she's learned from her time on this earth so far, is that people are capable of changing. They might take decades, even years to do so, but even the earth never remains the same state it was in the night before as each tomorrow dawns.
Baby steps, as her mother would've said, even in a situation like this one.
She smiles, and for the first time in a long time, it's a sincere one.
A/n: My first vaguely smutty fic! Also my first Daroline fic :P I hope you enjoy, I was going for something vaguely hot, but the attempt blew up in my face :P I don't know whether smut writing is my thing, which is why I didn't go into too much detail here. Let me know if I did okay. :) Hope you enjoyed. Also, I think the French in this chapter is accurate, buuut if it's not wrong, blame the fact I've not done French since high school :P