A/N: Free write. A short fic to unblock some Bamon energy. Inspired in part by Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald. In the meantime...
This is no modern romance.
They've been at it for awhile. Bickering. Sidelong glances. Threatening immolation here, exsanguination there. It's all for the kids though. A fabulous act because, as he likes to remind her, they are the best actors.
She usually brushes him off with the same dexterity she slips on and off her shirt or pants or dress, but when she's not busy between being the Girl Friday and strengthening her craft (school is a joke), she pockets the dog eared copy of Tender Is the Night and reads it, cover to cover. She reads his notes and underlines his underlines. The ending leaves her empty. It must be a sign.
A sign he does not like. Her smell imbues the pages with the Bath and Body scent of the week. He made sure none of her muddled with his private private life. The rest of the world in one corner, Elena in one hemisphere, and the witch in a room with no windows and one door. But the best laid plans of mice and men (and vampires) oft go awry.
This is no modern romance.
They've been distant for awhile. The silence balloons like a distended belly, starved for some sharp retort or some well-drawn playacting. Everyone notices, but how do they phrase it? "We weren't supposed to know but we do and we don't really approve but we do approve and now we're all awkward and perfunctory for real."
She hears it, blah blah blah, out one in ear, short detour through the brain, and out the other. Does she miss him? No one is around to hear her say yes. But what girl stands a chance against Leondardo's muse, against a love that eats up and eats away identity to the point of obscurity? No chance. A snowball has a better chance. She does her duty, time goes on, and she falls asleep on the right side of the bed and she wakes up with pajamas on and she walks around without feeling so cumbersome.
This is no modern romance. He can't abide the gimmicks of sentimentality, banality of affection, the conceit of love. Scratch that, the conceits of attraction. To be clear, he does not love the witch. He does, however, regret the lack of physical contact, from the full body pressure cooker of sex to the occasional light pat on the cheek (both instances of the word). He capitulates too easily and she defers too hastily and it gives them, yes 'them', a bad rep. He can't read his top five favorite book without Black Cherry and Vanilla clogging up his senses.
This is no modern romance.
Months go by. They forget and wham! banter. High banter too, since she's reading Macbeth and he catches a glimpse of the jacket during the daily Supernatural Anonymous meeting.
"And here I thought you full of the milk of human kindness."
Eyes fly to her face. She smiles sweet, with all her teeth, and lips glossed. "It turns to gall when dealing with vampire douchebags."
There's a chuckle from Saintly and Saintlier and the choir. Close, he knows they are close, but then and now don't align and she leaves first, like she used to before the a priori argument of 'Damon is a fucking asshole all the time.' He managed to replace 'all' with 'most of'. And it happened without him even planning it. She stood there, he stood there, they hated each other, tolerated each other and then they made out regularly and had sex often. Can't they do a little reenacting?
She mulls it over. It might be nice to slap his ass again. And complain under the sanctity of silk sheets about his facial ticks. It might be nice to touch him without reservation, to slide her hands over his stomach and back and sides and through his hair until the electricity jumps off her fingertips. It might be nice, but. Her mulling ends.
This is no modern romance.
Except it kind of is. It's ultra modern. Maybe even postmodern. It is definitely absurd. Absurd in that he shows up unannounced and seemingly divorced from reality with 'What the fuck am I doing?" scrawled over his features as she opens the door. She looks at him with an identical expression save for the super brows.
He has no flowers, no box of chocolates, no speeches and is certainly dry-eyed.
She doesn't like flowers, prefers chocolate chips, thinks speeches are only good word vomit exercises, and will never cry in front of him.
He doesn't know how to do it properly. He stands there on her porch instead of being a charming worm and inching past her and into the house and up to her bedroom and playing with her bras. This feels new and sharp and serious. No funny stuff.
She stares at him, both of them feeling doltish but who's driving the shortbus and who calls shotgun?
It takes some time to figure it out, but they figure it out. Double dates are a no-go. Dinner dates in another town are negotiable. No heroic bullshit-if the other gets caught by the baddie, get the fuck out. Fighting is normal and encouraged. Supernatural powers and abilities stay at the door unless they benefit a more pleasurable experience (i.e. creative gymnastics, long distance mindfucking). Verbal communication outside snark and foreplay necessary, but not all the time. No labels, use 'we' sparingly. The future is limited, the world is shit, and they don't hate/tolerate/love each other.
This is a (post)modern romance.