A/N: So, episode 6.06 dumped sugar in my bitter brew. This fic may have a happy ending. Enjoy!

Two Months

Bonnie burst into his bedroom. Damon felt rather than saw what he came to call her 'impotent rage shakes'. He focused on an oval spot on the ceiling. It barely moved in four hours. Had the hours and minutes and seconds stopped as well? Might as well. The same day, over and over, same eclipse, same night, same dawn, same paper, same breakfast, same arguments, same music, same books, same same same. He breathed in and smelled her scent, oats and honey.

Out of all the soaps in the world, Bonnie used the one that existed in 1994. Elena used a brand that did not exist in 1994. None of Elena existed in 1994. Not her scent, her handwriting, her pictures, her clothes, her favorite lipgloss, nothing. He was forever dependant upon his memory, but memory tortured him. It was all he had.

"O Fortuna" reached its crescendo. So did Bonnie. The phonogram scratched, abrupt silence filled the room. The record sailed out of the window a second later. Damon followed the arc with a twitch of annoyance.

"That was an original press from 1940."

"Why did you do it?"

Damon sat up. This was the third day of no makeup, wild hair, and baja hoodie/short overalls combo. This was the first time in the two months they've been stuck here where fury propelled her to seek him out.

He thought of what he could have possibly done. Nothing came to mind.

"Really? You didn't see the cookbook open next to the stove, the cookbook you conveniently splattered all over with bacon grease?"

Damon flopped back onto the pillows. "I apologize for whatever family heirloom I ruined by leaving it next to a stove. So sorry. Now, go simmer and boil somewhere else."

"No."

Damon sighed. "No?"

"You think you know everything. Or maybe, because you're use to doing shitty things to people, you chose one of the many shitty things you've done today and thought your attempt at an apology would 'placate' me."

He sat up again. "It's almost eclipse time. I doubt I've done anything worth-" Ah. The bacon grease. Damon smiled. A little early morning jog to the grocery store, a little mass destruction.

"That?" Damon waved his hand. "You can make your carbonara tomorrow. You can make it forever."

"Just not today. When I wanted to."

"Look, if you're going to bitch-"

"I hate you," Bonnie said. She didn't yell it. She enunciated each syllable with an almost lethal softness. Her eyes fixed on his face with such sheer ire Damon was sure flames ate his skin. But no fire. Only the promise of it.

Damon got to his feet. "So you hate me." He approached her. "I hate you. I hate that you're consulting cookbooks instead of grimoires." He entered her space. She straightened. "I hate that we have schedules. I hate that you do the crossword. Every. Damn. Day. I hate everything. I hate not being dead. I hate not being alive. I hate it. But not as much as I hate having you as a living reminder of a Hell I can't escape."

He backed Bonnie into the wall. The hook of her overall rubbed against his shirt. They were both breathing hard, he couldn't help but to match her, breath for breath. He meant to intimidate her but instead she overwhelmed his senses. Her smell, the way the light hit her neck, her pounding heart, its every beat shaking the strands of her hair. The room darkened. They stood locked in this battle for a minute, determined to win something. Her hazel eyes shimmered for a brief moment, then went black.

Damon turned away in an abrupt twist, darting to the phonogram and smashing it to the ground. He demolished anything his hands touched, rent sheets, ripped books, destroyed mirrors and ornaments. Blood smeared his hands. He felt the tightness around his eyes, the acuteness of incisors.

Damon inhaled. When he looked back, Bonnie was gone.

He didn't think anything of it until the next day at breakfast. Some sense of contrition made him put blueberries in the batter, and he drew pointy teeth with the Reddi Whip. When Bonnie didn't come down after he hollered her name ten times, Damon sped up to her room.

The door was open, the bed made, the window closed. All of her stuff was gone. In the bathroom, the towels were dry, and the sink, and the shower. Her toothbrush was missing.

Damon went back to the kitchen, sat at the table, and ate. He washed it all down with coffee, then with bourbon. Bonnie had done this before. She managed an entire day before she returned and ensconced herself in her room for two days, Depeche Mode on a continuous loop.

Damon went to the study and read. He finished two bottles of bourbon by noon. The Manor felt unclean so he aired out all the rugs, a chore he liked because it was the only time he could productively beat the shit out of something, and polished all the wood, a chore he hated because apparently coasters weren't cool enough and there was never enough Old English. He replenished the pantry and the refrigerator, which reminded him to ask Bonnie about this wonky magic restocking thing.

Evening descended. He ate Chef Boyardee and corn on the front porch. He drank a bottle of whiskey, ate a box of chocolate chip cookies, and went to bed.

Day Two happened like Day One.

At the end of Day Three, Damon lay in bed but did not sleep. He realized something momentous, more momentous than all the other times he realized it, primarily because nothing and no one could distract him from it: Bonnie had become a friend. A miserable, antagonizing, morally superior, disgustingly self-righteous, begrudgingly cute, absolutely useless friend. Those friends were the most dangerous kind. They tore chunks out of you and doused the wound with vervain when they left.

Day Four. Damon toured the town. Not to look for her, but to keep the body fit. The arcade had some interesting games. He played each of them. He ventured into the bookstore but it was devoid of anything interesting. He found a skateboard and rode around the neighborhoods, passing the Gilbert and Forbes residences, the charming Bennett house, even going out to the less populated, older part of Mystic, where the academics stayed.

By evening, Damon admitted to the bottom of his glass that he was worried. He was a vampire, not a witch, there was no way he could get back without her, she was important, he pushed her too hard, it had been a bad couple of same days, he missed Elena, he missed Stefan, he missed the noise and confusion of people. All these reasons amounted to what Bonnie would classify as a shitty excuse.

Damon made his pot of Boyardee and corn, took a bottle of brandy, and sat out on the porch. He ate slow, eyes peeled to the darkness. When he was finished, he went inside, washed up, trudged up stairs, fell onto his bed.

A minute later Damon left his room and went to stand in the doorway of her room. Bonnie lay on the bed, fully dressed, mud caked boots hanging off the edge. A weekender rested on an armchair in the corner.

"How did you get in?"

Damon counted her breaths. Fifteen before she answered, "Through the back."

"When?"

"Not long ago."

He nodded even though she kept her face pressed into the pillows.

"See anything interesting?"

A beat. "No."

Damon suppressed an angry retort. He thought of what might best be said in this moment to smooth things over.

"If you're going to apologize, don't. It's not what we do."

He released a breath. "Good. Because it wouldn't mean anything."

"I know."

Her head moved. Her eyes flashed in the dark. "I still hate you, though. For thinking you're the only one who wants to go back."

Damon held her gaze. Hate was better than nothing. Hate was fuel.

Bonnie turned her face away. "Goodnight, Damon."

Damon returned to his room. He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He let himself feel relieved. Even his anger was relief. She came back.