He hadn't thought he'd ever meet someone who'd be a perfect match for Stefan's eternally brooding forehead, but - surprise! - here she was. It should have been eye-rollingly funny the way they geeked out over arcane bits of supernatural lore. It shouldn't bother him, the way Stefan leaned over Bonnie's shoulder as the two of them examined some dusty old book they'd found in the boarding house library. It really shouldn't.

Damon swirled the ice cubes in his glass.

On the other side of the room, Elena watched and didn't watch her friend and boyfriend interact. She'd tried to join in, but when Bonnie and Stefan slowed their blur of conversation to explain something for her, it was obvious that Elena's questions were more of a hindrance than a help. She'd retreated to one of the large overstuffed couches in the room and had plugged herself into her iPod, effectively drowning out the voices around her. Between covert glances at Bonnie and Stefan, she pretended to read a book of her own. Damon's focus sharpened, and he made out the words on the cover of Elena's book: Wuthering Heights. He nearly choked on his bourbon and coughed to hide his laughter. Ah, tortured, tragic youth. He itched to be inside Elena's head right at that moment, to know what she really thought about Stefan helping Bonnie with her training. He'd bet a stake to the heart that it wasn't the least bit supportive or caring.

Stefan and Bonnie, two words Damon didn't like in the same sentence. He was the Bennett protector, not his brother, and if anyone should be training the witch, it should be him. He was indignant all over again, remembering Bonnie brushing off his offer of help. He'd made the gesture in front of Stefan and Elena, hoping they'd see it as proof of his growing trustworthiness. He should have known better, should have known that when Bonnie gave him a polite, chilly, and very definite, No thank you, that St. Stefan would step in to save the day. When Stefan had offered his help, Bonnie had given him a grateful smile that had Damon seeing red.

Stupid brother. Stupid witch, not knowing where her loyalties should lie. Damon's eyes narrowed as he watched them, and it was a good thing he wasn't a witch because they'd be a couple of smoking chunks of charcoal right about now. Assholes. Bonnie suddenly looked up from her book, directly into his eyes.

"Hey. Dial it down a notch, we're trying to work over here."

Surprised, Damon said, "What are you talking about? I've been a good boy; I haven't said a word."

"What are you talking about? No one said anything," Stefan said, looking irritated at the interruption. He glanced at the glass in Damon's hand and arched an eyebrow. "Maybe it's time to give the bottle a rest, Damon."

"Give your face a rest," Damon snapped. "All that martyrly suffering is giving you wrinkles." He looked at Bonnie suspiciously.

How long have you been in my head, witch?

Long enough, vampire. We're trying to come up with a way to save all our lives, so can you put the jealousy on the shelf for a few hours?

Damon scoffed.

Jealous? That's beyond ridiculous. He turned away and stretched out on the couch, getting comfortable. I suppose I should watch my thoughts from now on, he mused. No more imagining you in that little car washing outfit you wore. What was it? He looked up at the ornate ceiling. Shorts and a bikini top, yeah. Imagining you bent over my Porsche, getting it good and soapy, rubbing and sliding and getting all wet...

It was totally worth the spike of pain that Bonnie sent his way.