"You know Bon", he begins and makes a great show of rolling his eyes and exhaling loudly as he sits on the dressing room bench, "the next time you hesitate to agree when I tell you that we are BFFs I'm going to be really pissed."
"Uh huh" a muffled, obviously distracted voice replies from behind the change room door.
"Like 'decide to forego my hospital hook-up and get my needs fulfilled straight from the source' – level pissed."
The door pops open and a perfectly coiffed and made-up head pokes out. Green eyes meet blue in a challenging glare for a beat.
"I'll roast you, Damon." The head disappears just as quickly and the door snaps shut.
Damon is undeterred. "I actually think you're being pretty ungrateful, bestie. What is this, the fourth store we've been in this afternoon? How many other guys, bestie or not, would do this? Hell – how many besties would?"
It is late afternoon, and, okay, actually it's their third store, but it's also their third mall today and Damon wants to just grab the first dress he sees, pay for it, and get them the hell home. But Bonnie has been invited to some high-class corporate shindig for blah-blah-blah and yadda yadda will be there and she really wants a job there so, well, there you go. She knows the invite is actually an interview, which makes it that much more stressful because the usual 45-minute interrogation has been overthrown by a five-hour networking session comprised of an eight course meal, four-digit attire, discreet yet unchecked gossip and suitably restrained dancing.
The upside of it all is that Bonnie has asked Damon to be her plus one.
The downside is that plus one status extends to shopping for her outfit.
A salesclerk approaches, tailed by a customer carrying a floral skirt. Damon sits up and smiles at the salesclerk, making no secret about his thoughts as he slowly rakes his eyes up her legs to her face. When he makes eye-contact, just as he predicts, he is not met with a look of derision but a slight flush of shiny-eyed encouragement. Damon winks at her just as she walks past, then turns his attention to checking out her backside. The customer who trails behind her makes a point of looking over her shoulder to scowl at him.
"Really."
Bonnie has the door open, a hangered dress in her hands. She is not amused.
"What?" Damon counters, feigning wide-eyed innocence.
The salesclerk returns, alone, and her attention unmistakably on Damon.
"Is there something I can help you with?" Her words may be benign, but the tone and intent is obvious.
Damon opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by a less-than-impressed witch.
"Actually I would appreciate it if you could bring me this dress in black". She thrusts the garment towards the young woman.
In his mind's eye Damon suddenly sees what's left of his afternoon evaporate in a train of wrong colour/size/cut/shape-ness and intervenes. "No, not the black one, the navy one, with the deep v in the back and the covered buttons on the hip."
The saleswoman smiles at Damon, obviously impressed by his eye for detail, obviously thinking of other details she'd like his eye to see. She looks back at Bonnie. "That colour would look amazing on you," she tells her in an over-excited voice, her eyes darting back to Damon in search of approval.
Inane flirtation quickly loses its appeal for Damon. "I agree it will. However I also think it would look much much better pooled on the floor in front of our fireplace as I –"
"Damon." There was a time, once, when Bonnie would be mortified. But she knows this Damon, and knows she has to reign him in.
The saleswoman does not know this Damon, however, and the mixed signals she's getting are so all over the place that she mumbles something about being right back as she scurries away.
Bonnie's indignant glare is countered with a satisfied smirk.
"You're an ass" is all she says as she firmly shuts the door again.
"But such a lovely ass it is!" Damon sing-songs loudly. The customer with the skirt walks past him again, and shakes her head in undisguised disgust.
Five minutes and an exceptionally awkward interaction with the salesclerk later, Bonnie is putting on the dress Damon chose behind the once again closed changeroom door. She utters a curse.
"Bonnie Bennett, mind your tongue," Damon scolds.
"I just realized I can't…ugh…I can't reach around to finish doing up this stupid zipper." The door opens again and Damon is summoned by a succinct: get in here.
Damon is in the small space in a flash, closing the door behind him. It's one of those rooms with the trifold mirrors and bright lighting so there's nowhere he can look, it seems, without either seeing Bonnie in the flesh (Bonnie's flesh) or a multitude of angles and perspectives of Bonnie in the flesh. And Bonnie's flesh. And Bonnie in the flesh looks like a damn goddess, a damned fucking goddess, even though she's not entirely in the dress and Damon knows he won't be able to hide how he is feeling about it for long.
Bonnie turns so her back is to him, and twisting slightly, points to the draping material that sits like a cowl just above her ass.
"Under the material there – there's a stupidly placed zipper and I can't get to it. Can you zip me up?"
Bonnie's frustration prevents her from sensing Damon's hesitation. And discomfort.
Bonnie is not wearing a bra.
Back in 1984 it occurred so often that it should not affect him anymore but damn-it, it did and does and Damon realises he has missed that look on her. Distressingly he knows he'll have to lift up the folds of the material, find the zipper and place his hands on her ass in order to hold the bottom of the dress flat as he does the zipper up. He also knows that at some point, the knuckles of the hand pulling up the zipper are going to graze against the danger zone of Bonnie's tailbone – an area she admitted one drunken night back on The Other Side was one of her favourite erogenous zones. And as Damon glances down the back of the dress he sees a tiny birthmark just above the swell of her left cheek. And he sees the lace band of her panties which his mind realizes she will not be able to wear with this dress. All of this he processes in the few seconds it takes for Bonnie to do a little shrug to properly align the dress.
"So…". His swagger has fled and he suddenly feels like nervous teenager still trying to chase away his virginity. "…down here?" He wants to stand straight, keep some distance, but he can't do that and do this, so he bends his knees, slightly leaning in to find the 'stupidly placed zipper' and get his virility back.
"Yes Damon," Bonnie huffs, "just lift up that band of material and –"
Damon finds the zipper and places his hand flat against the top of her ass as he begins to drag up the zipper.
Bonnie gasps. Not a 'man, your-hands-are-cold gasp, but that kind of gasp Damon has fantasized about as he indulged not-so-bestie feels for his BFF on certain frustratingly lonely nights. Worse still, Damon can hear her heart-rate increase and see the gooseflesh that breaks out across her bare back. He leans in so his chin is on her shoulder, his lips by her ear. He wants to crack a joke but the words come out all kinds of different. "Sounds like you want me to go down not up."
The double-entendre is not lost on Bonnie and bloody hell doesn't her body betray it. Every part of her goes on alert, and the prickly sensation that had washed across her tailbone as Damon grasped the zipper has now spread all over her body, enticing her nipples to join in too.
She clears her throat because she knows her voice is going to come out husky. "Your hands are cold." She looks at him in the mirror and catches his eyes. A slow smile graces her lips as she turns to face him. "Like your heart," she finishes as she shrugs in feigned innocence.
"Rude." Damon steps back but knows he has affected her in a way besties don't – all his senses are picking up the cues. It stokes a pride he should feel guilty for having. "Maybe if you weren't so short I wouldn't have bend over so much, Witchy Smurf."
Bonnie kisses her teeth and the tension is gone. She grabs her tote off of a hook and pulls out a shoe bag. "Thank you for reminding me. This is all pointless if these shoes don't go."
Out come an indecently high pair of strappy sandals. Damon thinks they may not be appropriate.
Bonnie drops them to the carpeted floor, kicks off her slides, and toes the sandals over so they're upright. Impressed by her podiatric acrobatics, Damon watches as she steps into one of the sandals. She balances on one foot, hand braced against a wall and raises her heel in effort to reach the straps. But the dress won't let her raise her foot high enough (damn straight, Damon thinks) and there's no way Bonnie is bending over (damn it, Damon thinks) to do it up.
"I can't believe this place doesn't put benches in their change rooms considering how expensive their clothes are." Bonnie grumbles in frustration.
Damon steps around her to face her.
"Here, let me."
He gets on his knees, then sits, patting his right thigh in indication. Bonnie hesitates for just a moment before she raises her foot and places it there. As her heel digs into his thigh Damon's thoughts once more go into dangerous terrain, led by a rampaging thought that the slight pain that she unknowingly causes is not unpleasant, in fact far from. And it conjures up an almost visceral image of a dimly lit swanky hotel room and her wearing nothing but foresaid sandals as she uses her foot to push his chest back back back until he's prone on the floor beneath her. But Bonnie is oblivious as she continues to go on about the store, throwing shade at the sales staff, while Damon fastens the strap of her heels.
It occurs to him suddenly that these shoes are inappropriate after all, especially the way they bare her feet, secured by nothing but a series of flimsy straps of leather and a tiny feckless buckle. There's too much 'naked' about them and while Damon is far from a prude, he channels it well with all things concerning other people and Bonnie Bennett. In fact, he is down-right pious when it comes to anything concerning naked and Bonnie Bennett, even though the hypocrisy of his feelings prods at his conscience.
Although Bonnie is a dancer and has the poise of a queen, she wobbles a bit in her precarious position and absent–mindedly places her hand on his shoulder for balance, but finds herself leaning too much and quickly repositions her hand to his head.
The sound of her giggled apology makes Damon wonders what new hell he'll have to endure. As dexterious as vampires are, and he is an excellent vampire, he is all fumbling inefficacy.
"Hmmm...I forget how soft your hair is," Bonnie muses, fingers combing through his silky onyx strands. He looks up to make a witty comment, but her attention is on what her fingers are doing, and in truth, so is his. She smiles to herself as she arches her hand and momentarily scrapes her nails across his scalp.
Damon cannot suppress the groan that escapes, but recovers by turning it mid-iteration into a sound of irritation. Averting her concerned gaze, he looks down, makes busy with his hands.
"Keep still Bon Bon. I'm sure you don't want me ruining your knock-off Aquazzuras by ripping off a strap or something because I got distracted.
"You're a knock-off" she retorts, lightly swatting his head. She knows that he knows that these shoes are far from knock-offs - over a week's salary away from knock-off territory - and that if he ruined them, she'd do the same to him.
In light of so many things, all of which are unspoken, Damon is now absolutely certain these shoes are inappropriate. Indecent even, as his hand smooths across the top of her foot, finger tucked beneath the ankle strap as he makes sure it lays flat against her. Suddenly he remembers a time when a woman's ankle was considered a seductive thing, that even the mere hint of exposed flesh made a woman a vixen, in favourable terms or not. And it hits him that Bonnie is very much the vixen, but the most dangerous kind, the one who has only the slightest comprehension of the power she wields by merely giving a person the gift of her attention, let alone letting him sit at her feet, hands becoming familiar with the smooth undulations of her arches and ankles. Fragments of some long ago anatomy lecture materialize in his mind: anterior, medial, lateral, mid-foot, navicular, cuboid, metatarsal…
"…do I look fucking awesome or like an awesome fuck?"
What?! Her words jolt him out of his reverie. He looks up at her, his mouth slightly open, his face a mask of confusion.
"Is it too much? I want to look powerful but I also want to make a statement, you know, that I know how to dress to impress but not to seduce." Bonnie is looking at her reflections, checking herself out from all angles. "It's so much easier being a man. Put on a suit -
"a well-made suit," he corrects.
"Fine - a well-made suit, throw on a decently pressed shirt, wrap a tie around your neck and you're all good. But women –"
"Women get to be stunning. You, Bonnie Bennett, are stunning."
Bonnie looks down at him now – really looks at him – and notices the certainty and the reverence of his words is reflected on his face
Damon cannot resist and lets his fingertips momentarily lightly trail up Bonnie's calf as he stands.
Suddenly all the talk about stores and parties and gender inequality becomes trivial as Damon practically coils his body around her so that he is behind her, his body pressed to the back of hers. He does not break eye-contact with her, even when he is directly behind her, staring at her in the mirror.
There's a moment of tense silence then a nervous laugh.
"So is this where you turn that compliment into an insult?"
She is trying to laugh this off, tamper this rollercoaster of tension that has been roiling for the last 15 minutes. Because even though this might be an opening, a sliver of a hint that those feelings she has for her bestie are not bestie feels – that perhaps when she falls asleep on his couch, leaning into him as she dreams, those nocturnal imaginings are often not just illicit, but explicit; that perhaps those times when he has picked up on her unspoken anxiety and fears, and insisted on 'sleepovers with the option for shameless sexytimes', she hopes that maybe his signature flirty sexual teasing will lose the flirty teasing part; that the guilt she should feel does not rear its ugly head, even when the fantasy face imprinted on her inner lids as she brings herself to orgasm is his. That despite all of these things, as much as she knows he loves her, he loves her more, and that is permanent douse of cold water.
He stares at her reflection. Hard. He does not break eye-contact as he reverses his earlier actions. He locks her in his sights as he places his palm on her bare back, as he smooths it down to the once elusive zipper. As he drags the zipper down, making a conscious effort to drag his knuckles over the hill of her tailbone, stopping and staying at the cleft. He has not heard Bonnie take a breath this entire time, although the machine-gun pace of her heart-beat and the way her perfect lips have fallen open assures him that he won't get his brain liquefied. He leans into her as he flattens both palms against her back and pushes up until his fingertips touch the shoulders of the dress. Closing his eyes, he runs his nose across the base of her neck, inhaling. It's Bonnie and more he scents, the more an unspoken invitation he has been waiting for longer than he will admit.
Damon's fingertips are simulataneously lead-heavy and gossamer-light as they slide towards Bonnie's collarbone. The speech centre in her brain has shorted out and her sensory synapses are frantically trying to make up for the deficit. Bonnie is all feeling right now, and it's made all the more overwhelming by the fact that Damon's gas-blue eyes are boring into her jade ones. She can't breathe nor look away, and the way Damon is watching her now, chin down, lips at her throat, eyes peering up through perfectly tousled dark locks…
"Say no and I'll stop," Damon promises, his voice low and gravelly, breath cool against her clavicle, his heart not at all behind his words.
Bonnie licks her lips and clenches against the wetness making a delicious mess of her underwear.
Damon smiles then, but his eyes burn.
"I just want you to know, BonBon, that what is going to happen here is no one-off fling, or me taking off an edge. I just want you to know that I have wanted this," his fingers extend and carelessly flick the dress off her shoulders so that is slides down her body to catch at her hips, "for so fucking long". Damon's hands glide down her arms to rest on her hips. Not once has he broken eye contact: as much as he wants to let his eyes rove over the smooth expanses of her flesh, he has visually grappled her to him. He bends his knees to a semi-crouch, hands still at her waist, nudging her so she turns to face him, her back flat against the mirror.
Bonnie looks down at him through hooded lids. She is breathing in short, humid puffs as she waits for her conscience to kick in. For her inner voice to raise the banner of logic and history and put an end to this madness. She waits to hear her name, the name of the sceptre that haunts them both, to rise wraith-like and bring this all to a stop.
But nothing like that happens. There's a vague sense of this being an inevitability, that whatever was about to happen was going to happen and had to happen. And an overpower sense of want.
"I just want you to know," Bonnie's smile is all sultry sin as she lifts a leg up and over Damon's shoulder, "that you have no idea what you're in for, Damon Salvatore. And that tongue of yours better fulfill its promise."
Damon groans as he leans in and noses at the lacy strip of cloth in his way. His grip on her thighs tighten, and Bonnie knows there will be marks there after. He looks up at Bonnie and once again there is a laser sharp connection neither can break. Eyes locked, Damon slides one hand upwards and uses his thumb to pull the undergarment aside. Too tempted to not look, Damon's eyes flit down to take in the heaven that is before him.
"Witchy juju this room up, Bon, we're gonna be here a while. And we're going to make some noise."