The world was a giant mess, some catastrophic shit storm within a shit storm within a hurricane, and after living as long as Damon Salvatore did, there was no denying this fact. Bad things happened; people died, lives were ruined, cities were destroyed within days. That was just how the world worked, and it was never, ever going to change. Through to this bitter conclusion, Damon's shell had begun to form. It started with Katherine, sure, but just because he didn't look it didn't mean that he wasn't old. There were humans that he had met who, over only a period of eighty years or so, had seen so much evil with their own eyes that they just grew tired of living. At times, the vampire felt that way too, even through the evil of his own actions. They were there, despite his attempts not to feel them, crushing down on every fiber of his being willing him to give up; some natural intuition of the universe seemed to every now and then just nudge, telling his body that it wasn't supposed to be animated anymore. Damon Salvatore was supposed to be dead, long dead.
Yet, here he was. Hurting others most of the time at that, while other people who had years ahead of them died far before their time. It was something that most humans wouldn't be able to handle, but for a vampire it was a little easier. Putting up a wall wasn't natural even for them, but it was there, and Damon used it constantly. Hell, he was even know to use it on Elena, the girl he was sure he loved, for a fair amount of the time. It was just habitual, and he was actually comfortable in not having to put forth effort anymore, he just had a permanent mask.
At least he should have (why didn't he?), nothing should have bothered him (why did this bother him?), but there was this odd tingling in his mind. Were it an audible action, it would've been an odd crackling, like a blank film that didn't know which scene to play. Damon didn't know what emotion to fake, he was just completely blank, but there wasn't anyone for him to fool here. It was only him and her, the vampire and the witch, the puppet master and the doll with eyes looking up and seeing nothing. He thought he would relish this moment, the witch was usually insufferable after all and right now he was in control, he was hers to play with until he took her to her little Gilbert puppy. There was zero satisfaction to this moment, though, instead he kind of just felt a little sick. She was dead; sure she'd come back and he very well knew that, and death otherwise never phased him, but there just seemed to be something wrong with the whole concept. Bonnie needed her spark, her fire, her life. She may have still been pretty as she was, but her life that was what made her beautiful.
The thought sometimes passed his mind when he saw Elena, what kind of vampire would she be? The thought of turning her was not one that bothered him, not in the slightest, but with Bonnie that idea just seemed wrong. It would be like ruining a flawless design, the witch needed her magic, and magic needs a source of life, and vampires are very much lifeless. To turn Bonnie would be like turning her into something that was completely unherself. She needed to be that way, she needed to be that way right now. Blinking, breathing, talking, even trying to kill him would be okay. She just had to be doing something soon, because the thought of her staying like this much longer was bothering him.
What bothered him more was that he didn't know why. She was just the witch; he didn't want the witch. Did he? Either way, he'd had enough of this, the few seconds of watching her that seemed like hours. He leaned close to her, touching her face as softly as he could manage before leaning closer unconsciously. His lips brushed against hers and at first he had the intial idea of pushing into them, until he looked into her eyes. This wasn't right, and he wasn't even sure why the thought passed his mind in the first place. He didn't want the witch, he didn't want the witch.
The vampire leaned back into his previous position, running a hand down her face to close her eyes. It was almost comforting, more like she was sleeping, and that really was all it was, she would come back. With her eyes closed that felt more certain. Damon allowed himself a small, sad smile before picking the small, fiery beauty up in his arms. "Up we go, uccellino."
The nickname was another unconscious action, as was the Italian rather than English. Italy had always been his favourite place in the past century or two, and sometimes when he wasn't really thinking Italian tended to fly out of his mouth. As he carried Bonnie, Damon went through his mind trying to place the word. It didn't take him long, little bird, a nickname he wouldn't have actively thought of for her but one he found fitting nonetheless.
He rather liked it, perhaps it would stick.