This may turn into a collection of scenes between Bonnie and Enzo. We shall see.

She had been up to her head in research materials when he got back.

Sometimes, she really resented him. Because he had a life outside of this cabin. He got to steal away from here and play Alexandria's games. He didn't tire to remind her that it was not exactly fun and that he did it solely to keep up appearances. And to help keep his "cousin" from suspecting that he knew where she was.

But. It always left a bit of a sour taste in her mouth.

So now he was back once again, and she pressed her mouth together, disapproving. She couldn't help it. What did he expect? That she showed gratitude because he came back to the cabin to stay with her, keep her company?

Because she wasn't!

Okay. Maybe she was. A little.

...

He saluted her, "I see you've been busy studying. Find anything helpful for the cause?"

He threw a bag of groceries or something on the kitchen counter, but instead of starting to unpack it and busy himself making dinner for them - something he usually liked doing when he came out to see her - he slumped down heavily on the sofa chair to her side.

She frowned, oddly concerned. "Tough day at the office?" She asked, finally looking up from her computer to take him in. She noticed a light sheen of sweat on his brow, and dark circles around his eyes. Something was going on with him, and it wasn't good.

He scoffed. "Something like that." He didn't say any more, just sat there, eyes closed, breathing in and out shallowly.

"Are you okay?" Bonnie was openly staring at him now. He was acting very strange. No attempt at light banter, no further questioning her about the progress she had made finding out what could be hiding in the Armory's vault. He also didn't leave, like he sometimes did, when he only had time to quickly drop off some supplies, food for her, toiletries, and then had to go back to work for his shady family almost immediately.

"Enzo?"

Finally, he turned his head toward her, staring at her, and she noticed his breathing leaving his nostrils in erratic short bursts. Something was really really wrong.

Bonnie hopped off the couch so quickly she made the laptop topple over, and she had to extend a hand to catch it before it clanked on the table, hard. She did it without paying much attention. She was too focused on the vampire.

With a few wide strides, she was by his side, touching his forehead lightly. He flinched, but other than that, he didn't show much of a reaction. He was burning up.

"Okay," she said, "you need to tell me what the hell happened to you."

"Lovely," he breathed, "do I hear a trace of concern there, love?"

She glared at him, but said, "Yes, actually." And her scowl softened into something milder. Warmer. "What can I do?"

He had trouble talking, she could tell. "Nothing dramatic, just… a couple vervain soaked wooden bullets… couldn't… get them out myself, so…"

"So you figured you'd just drive yourself over here and nonchalantly sit and wait till I notice that something is off?" She scolded him, exasperated. That man was unbelievable.

He smirked a little, but she could see the pain beneath it. "Sorry, love. Didn't mean to annoy you. Just needed to… catch my breath for a minute. I thought I'd hold out till…" he trailed off. His eyes closed again, he let his head drop back a little. He was clearly at his limit. She sighed.

She could picture it now. She'd come to know him quite well after all. He'd probably gotten himself shot at on some dangerous mission or other. He'd tried to take care of his wounds himself, but obviously hadn't quite succeeded. He'd decided it was best he kept up his usual routine and make sure everything was okay at the safe house before giving the treatment of his injuries another try.

But then his body had failed him, or the pain had gotten too out of control; something or other. And here they were.

Bonnie pressed her lips together when she realized she was honestly worried about him. And not just because he was her only contact to the outside world. There was something there, a strange concern that came from a place deep down in her heart. Why?! She was slightly annoyed with herself.

"Where did you get hit?" She asked him, all business. Because she knew they needed to get those vile nasty bullets out of him. ASAP. And because it kept her from dwelling on those disturbing feelings she was starting to develop.

He murmured something, but she couldn't understand it. He was drifting off into unconsciousness.

This was not good.

"Enzo. Talk to me. Come on," she cajoled him, and her hands went to push his jacket open and away, before she began gently patting him down.

Suddenly he sat up rather abruptly, with an oddly guarded expression. He evaded her touch, and tried to stand up, making her rise in turn. "I'm… I'll be fine, love, just let me try and-"

He almost passed out then, and she hurried to catch part of his weight as he leaned heavily against her.

"Bullets," she said, briskly. "Where?"

And finally he pointed, just as she saw the bloodied backrest of the sofa chair.

So that's why he couldn't get them out himself.

…

Bonnie managed to walk him over to the bed. It was a slow and painful process for both of them. He was barely able to put one foot in front of the other, and had it not been for her functioning as his human crutch, he would have never made it. But she was determined. She did not want him passed out on the floor. She didn't quite know why it mattered so much, but she wanted him somewhere more appropriate for an injured person. She couldn't bear the thought of him just lying on the cold floor while she tried to get the bullets out.

So when they finally made it over to the bed, she helped him sit down first, and when she was about to help him lie down, he suddenly just fell back, and she gasped.

He was out cold. It was probably for the better, she thought, as she hurried to find supplies to get the bullets out of him.

She had to get him to lie on his stomach, easier said than done. She found herself pulling at him and briefly wondered how ridiculous they probably looked right about then.

When she had him in the right position, she pushed his jacket out of the way and gently pried his shirt off of his back. It was stuck to him where the wooden projectiles had penetrated his body.

She grimaced. It looked gastly, the vervained wood had done a good job at tearing through skin and muscle tissue. One had punctured a lung. No wonder he'd lost consciousness.

She felt a sudden pang of sympathy. She remembered that he was no stranger to pain, and that, somehow, made it worse. Poor guy couldn't catch a break apparently.

Tenderly, she went to work. Absentmindedly, she placed one hand where his back was uninjured and found herself marveling at the softness of his skin.

She shook her head. She needed to concentrate. She needed to be quick.

Just as she was almost done, she felt him stir. No, not yet, please, Enzo, she begged. If he moved too much this would be so much more difficult.

Or maybe she was just worried that she was causing him even more pain?

An hour later, he was lying passed out again on her bed, his back still exposed where she had just finished getting the last of the pieces of wood out of him. Thanks to the vervain, the holes in his body took their sweet time healing up, and he'd eventually succumbed to the strain and pain again, and Bonnie was ridiculously relieved about it.

He'd been very conscious through the last part of her "surgery" on him, however, and it had been unnerving and unsettling. She'd seen his face, how he'd clenched up against the pain, but never once made a sound.

And she'd remembered then that he was quite possibly no stranger to being operated on while wide awake.

She'd felt horrible. Like she was torturing him. And she'd had to shake her head and actively remind herself that she was helping him.

She even heard him whisper a "thank you" close to the end. At least he saw it as her doing him a favor.

…

The next morning, when he slowly walked out and over to the kitchen, still very obviously not back to normal, he looked at her somewhat sheepishly. "Thank you, for last night," he said, the beginnings of a smile on his face, but nothing full fledged, as if he was keeping it back. Staying guarded.

"You're welcome," she allowed. She was busy making - or trying to make - some eggs and sausages for a hearty breakfast because she figured he'd need something more than bloodbags.

She definitely did.

"My apologies. I shouldn't have exposed you to… I would have gone somewhere else if…" He was generally never one lost for words, but this time was different. He looked almost shy, and rather awkward. Embarrassed?

Bonnie couldn't help but smile. "But there was nowhere you could go," she finished for him, understanding, and he nodded ever so lightly. "This is your safe house, after all. I thought it best to keep you safe," she said, still smiling. "But please try to not get shot again so quickly. I'd rather not make this more than a one time thing."

He smirked and put a hand on his chest, over his heart. "I solemnly swear that I'll try my very best to not get shot at again, Ms. Bennett."

She grinned. "Okay," she allowed, "that's settled then. And now: hope you like… uh…" she stared over at her pan and her face fell a little. The eggs and sausages looked rather burnt and not at all like anything anyone would want to eat. "Burnt breakfast?" She asked, apologetically, and suddenly he heard him laugh a full blown laughter.

It was so different than anything she'd ever heard from him that she was startled. Mesmerized.

He had a ridiculously handsome laugh.

"Bonnie Bennett," he said, "thank you for saving my life yesterday. But please, let me make us breakfast or your efforts will have been for naught."

He'd slowly walked over to where she stood and got the piping hot pan off the stove and tossed it in the sink. He grinned widely at her. She slapped him playfully, he pretended to duck away, but then she let him take over gladly.

As she sat down across from him, watching as he went about his cooking, she wondered what else their strange arrangement might bring with it. She'd already stopped hating him. She'd secretly grown fond of him. Just a little bit.

And she had no idea how to handle that...