pillow talk, let the secrets die
Disclaimer: These characters are the creative property by the writers of The Vampire Diaries and CW. No copyright infringement is intended. Only the plot belongs to me.
Author: TLC
Rating: M
Word count: 1, 173
Summary: Sometimes Bonnie talks in her sleep. Damon loves to remind her but he never tells her what she says because he's selfish – and he wants to keep this little piece of her for himself.
A/N: An AU peak into prison world.
Prompt: 'Sleep, sweetie.'
Sometimes Bonnie talks in her sleep.
Damon loves to remind her about it but he never tells her what she says because, well, he's selfish – and he wants to keep this little piece of her for himself.
It's no surprise that the little witch is selfless, she sacrifices every little part of her until she has nothing left and maybe Damon just wants this untainted – almost innocent fragment of the glass case she surrounds herself with.
No – that's not right.
Bonnie isn't fragile, nothing about her says 'handle with care'.
No. She's stubborn, when she falls she gets back up, she's the red flower that burns through anything that stands in the way.
She's a fortress, iron gates, and brick walls that rise endlessly to the sky cause they've been under seize for so long, have been attacked and violated so many times that they've learnt it's easier to hide within the castle.
And he likes that he can get close to the impenetrable Bonnie Bennett – he's selfish in how much he needs her.
Still, sometimes it feels wrong to listen, but it's harder not to, where this whole town is too damn quiet while Bonnie voice echoes, and the steady hammer of her heart beat is comforting, reassuring and real. So he eardrops from his bed upstairs, taking note when she falls asleep reading in the library or in one of guestrooms down the hall from his which now feels right to call 'Bonnie's room'.
Ironically, he listens to her more when she's sleeping than when she's awake and becomes an annoying, depressing reminder of this hell hole. And it's funny, what she says sometimes, other times it's sad, and sometime it's just (he can admit it) cute. And it reminds him really how young she is.
"No fish," Bonnie mumbles in her sleep one night, and it turns into a whine, "No fish, they scare me." Damon also gets more of the honest-to-God truth out of Bonnie when she talks in her sleep (she's scared of fish, she hates the colour green, and she likes it when Damon plays the piano).
She kicks a foot out towards Damon's ankle, flings an arm over his chest and whines again, "No fish."
Damon pets a hand over her hair. "No fish," he agrees, flipping a page in his book as they lounge on the floor in front of the TV.
It's inevitable how they're closer now. Not in just a metaphorical, 'let's hold hands' in a – bff's together kind of way but physically. Physically, they move around each other just close enough for their skin to brush, they now sit across each other so that their feet are touching, and he's constantly trying to find ways to put his hands on her – make sure she's still with him, 's not gonna disappear into nothing and leave him all alone. While sometimes, rarely really – she'll brush the hair off his face when she's assumed he's sleeping, she watches him cook, clean and play and there are nights where she'll come into his room to check on him and Damon would move to the side of the bed for her and she doesn't hesitate at the invitation.
Those nights make it easier for when she's sleep talking and it's sad, urgent, and Damon feels the need to comfort her and protect her. "Grams," Bonnie will say frantically in her sleep, fingers curling around the edges of the sheets, knuckles turning white, a frown etching into her face even in sleep. "Grams, no. Don't leave me." Damon will stroke a hand down her back, lie next to her and watch her carefully.
He'll say, "I'm sorry," lips brushing against Bonnie's jaw, fingers trembling a little as he tries to comfort her. He'll listen to Bonnie's words turn from Sheila to cries for her parents, and Damon has no idea what that feels like but sometimes he wants to cry for Stefan. But he used to know the desperate pain of calling out for his mother in the night and not receiving a response, not expecting one. He knows the frantic tone in Bonnie's voice, the one that says she keeps calling for them, but she can't find them, where are they? So he will slide closer, press his body against Bonnie's, and whisper against her, "I am right here. Right here."
Sometimes Bonnie will cry, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and Damon will shake his head; make sure Bonnie can feel it against her back.
"Not your fault," he'll say, and he'll wonder if Bonnie understands any of this in her sleep, and hope she does, before he presses a kiss in to Bonnie's hair and says again, "Not your fault."
And Damon at times wishes that he never felt the need to burst, shatter and pull down the walls Bonnie has up. He wishes that he left well enough alone so he could ignore her deafening presence and the intense crippling guilt that is heavy in his heart and can no longer ignore.
Then there are nights when talking in her sleep, Bonnie makes Damon feel – just makes him feel. When Bonnie unconsciously reaches a hand out and taps her fingers against his chest, breathes out, "Damon," and clutches at his shirt. Where she says, "It's okay. You're okay. I'm here. I'm here." Damon feels – warm, safe, accepted – and he doesn't ever mention it to Bonnie because… he doesn't want that feeling to go away.
Not yet…
During the day, Damon pushes at Bonnie –prods and digs in about her lack of magic over pancakes and crosswords. At night, he listens, he pays attention to the little witch and he lets himself comfort her because he likes to take what he wants while Bonnie would never ask this of him. She would never take anything he could offer.
On the nights when Bonnie says these things, when she makes him feel something other than anger, pain, loneliness and self-hatred, Damon will hold her tightly, and he'll wait until Bonnie stops with her words for moment before he will whisper back, "You deserve better," and falls asleep to Bonnie's huff of breath.
But the nights like tonight, when she's adorable, sleep rumpled and snuffling her nose into the pillow while she bats at the mattress with her hand, they are oddly Damon's favourite, though. "No fish," Bonnie insists again, and Damon smiles. "Big eyes," Bonnie mumbles, hitting the mattress and turning into Damon a little.
These nights are Damon's favourite because he'll talk back and listen, but also because Bonnie is cuddly, turning into him at every odd moment, and so Damon will sit in bed and read a book, stroke Bonnie's hair, talk back to her, and try to refrain from bursting into laughter that will wake Bonnie up and force her to question Damon or worse - kick him out of bed with a threat to light his ass on fire again.
"No fish," Damon agrees. "Maybe a cat though."
Bonnie kicks at his shin.