It's quite fascinating to her eyes to watch his body healing-the red marking the skin losing their dark color to go back to a fair, transparent complexion, the cut blisters being absorbed back, the wounds closing themselves like the mouth of a carnivorous flower. Damon lays there, right next to her, immobile, his chest does not rise, nor fall and her instinct is to reach out and place her hand above it, where his heart should beat.

The inability to feel the contact shatters the quietness she was experiencing and her light smile falls. She used all her breath to spell for him, in as many ways she could conceive, how desperately she wanted him to stay away from her, and now she is as desperately wishing the opposite as she could never imagine.

Where she could only see selfishness, now she finds his strength. His body, his whole being – Damon – for all his faults, is stubbornly refusing to die. Even if in his sleeps he is still and limp, everything about him holds on to life, sucking it out of thin air, and even if she always doubted his ways to live, now more than ever she admires his determination in surviving each century that arrogantly approaches.

Every day he resists death with the same resolution she used to chase it; like life was just a thing to throw away, a pair of boots from the past season, something you can replace. Now life has replaced her, and she can't argue with that, for her voice has no sound and her will no substance. If only it could be the same for her feelings, she would not find herself so helpless.

I will send you out a message
I will telephone a love song
I'll collect all of your stories
I haven't seen you for so long

Desperation makes her breathless – never mind the fact that she stopped breathing a long time ago – clouding her mind, and even if she's supposed to let him go, now, her fingers try and grip him. Her nails and fingertips don't disappear inside his flesh, swallowed in his body, instead they suddenly press against his white skin and she can feel his heartbeat – so slow that it hardly beat at all – and his long lashes flutter. She can see his eyes moving under the eyelids and his hand reaches up to press against his chest. Like he's keeping her hand there, above his own heart.

Bonnie looks away, trying to push back her tears, and pulls her hand away.

"Why are you holding on to me like this?" she asks, her voice soft and low as she watches him sleep, "This is not us," she reasons, refusing to accept, to recognize her own blindness once again. "We never liked each other, really," she tells herself, unable to understand. "Really!" she insists, "So, stop, Damon. Do you understand me?" she asks, anger building up inside of her, a reaction to her own vulnerability, to his horrible timing to let her know that he actually means something, because he can't and he doesn't.

But even when her body is buried and her soul is fading away, Damon can still get to her. He can get on nerves she's not supposed to have, boiling blood that ran dry long ago, tie her to a place she doesn't belong anymore. He's troublesome like that, and now more than ever he can so easily ignore the inconvenience of her.

Bonnie sighs, closing her eyes for a moment, wishing she could find a hiding place inside the dark, but behind her lids there are people and rooms and words hard as concrete and she must look at him again, to anchor herself to that bed, to him, and end this for good.

Do you wonder what I'm up to?
Do I ever cross your mind ?
May we love the things we cling too
There is never enough time

"I'm not supposed to be anything more than a glitch on your radar," she says, sobered up from her little burst of emotion, "And despite … all, in a few days I'll be just that," she explains, almost like she's reassuring herself. "You have eternity ahead of you and someone to spend it with, and it's okay if you let me go, now," and it hurts to tell him that. She has asked the same thing to all her loved ones, and it did hurt but she was ready for that. This, on the other hand, she was unprepared for; unprepared for Damon's hand, and his burned skin and the empty place he's reserved for her. "Don't you see? This is your shot at happiness, the girl you've always wanted is right next to you and chances are that she might really love you, and you are just… thinking of me."

She blinks to keep her eyes from watering up but it's useless, because, consciously or not, he's really doing that. It's the first time someone chooses to think of her before anyone else, and she wants to erase her words and beg him to hold to the thought of her a little bit more, just a little bit, so that she can feel him.

Only, she can't do that.

She wants to ask him why, of all times, he picked this to care. There were little signs along the road, short moments during the years she's known him that sparkled and disappeared just as fast, leaving her to wonder if the genuine interest she had read in his eyes was just a trick of her mind (there's no way to increase your odds? And I'm team Bonnie on this one; and the relief on his face because I could actually hug you right now, and his smell and his arms around her, and his voice where have you been? How did you find me? Which comes back now, in waves, overwhelming her.)

I would watch as you was sleeping
To make sure you were still breathing
You live so fast without seeing
This eternal youth is fleeting

"I didn't even ever care about you, you know," she forces herself to say, so that pride at least will tear him away from her ghost. Bitterness makes her tongue feel heavy in her mouth. "And let's admit it. It was a mutual indifference that worked just fine for both of us, so I really don't know why you should waste so much energy over my death," she can rationalize this, and she can find his weak spot and poke at them until he will want to kill her with his own hands. "Maybe we could have been friends, if you could manage to be less of an ass, or if I didn't know any better," she adds, her voice as caustic as it can be, "But we weren't. I can give you a chance in my next life, though…" she concedes, careful not to choke on her tears, "If you ask me nicely," she adds, trying to sound cheerful, "Just, let me go now. I'm dead, I'm supposed to rest in peace, but I can't rest at all because I have to save your sorry ass from auto-combustion and I'm not happy about it," she tells him, watching his immobile face. "I didn't sign up for you."

Oh Take care of my Baby
Take care of my Baby

She wishes he would say something, anything, like her father did. Like Matt and Jeremy did, but he doesn't even flinch.

"I know that following anyone's advice is not your forte, and that you hate when things don't go the way you want them to, but I believe you can handle it," she says, her voice has got an awkward, soft edge when she adds, "I'm team Damon on this one."

Bonnie smiles at him, before leaving his side.

Take care of my Baby
I don't think he can do it himself

#

He wakes up with a pair of cool lips pressed at the base of his neck and the crashing of the shower head against the stall's walls resounding in his skull.

When Elena's hand brushes over his nipples as it travels down his chest the bell ringing in his head forces his blue eyes to snap open and his hand traps her tiny wrist before it can go any lower. This is not the kind of x–rated show he'd often thought about offering to the witch's eyes.

"What are you doing?" he asks nervously as he looks around the room in the most casual manner.

"What does it seems like I'm doing?" she asks giggling, before starting to nibble on his earlobe. He blinks, grimacing, as he tries to come up with something plausible to say to interrupt her ministrations. He hasn't got laid in a while but fulfilling his sexual appetite is not high on his list. Besides, Bonnie is probably in the room and he doesn't want to drive her away.

Once she's back for good he can just lock himself up into a room with Elena and make up for all the time they lost, but until the world is back at how he likes it, he can't indulge her.

Elena and her needs will have to wait, he decides, pushing her so that she falls on her back on her side of the bed.

"Sorry, I'm already late for a thing," he says getting off the bed to pick out some clean clothes.

"What thing?" she asks, pushing herself up on her elbows and looking at him with a curved eyebrow.

"Ah, well, that's… a surprise," he manages, offering her a wide smile. He's a lot better at bullshitting when there's something that depends on it, but Elena is not a suspicious person, in fact she's pretty much clueless when it comes to anything not related to her. She's simple-minded like that and he always liked it, because from her comes no surprise.

"You were wearing pajamas?" she asks, as he throws the silk pants on the bed to slip inside his black jeans.

"Yeah," he says, nodding, "I was trying to be thoughtful of a lady's sensibilities," he explains vaguely, not looking at her in the eyes as he busies himself with buttoning his jeans.

"Well, the lady thanks you but she likes it when you're not wearing anything."

Damon turns his face to smile and wink at her, letting slip the fact that he was not referring to her.

Maybe it's not fair to deceive her like this, but he's not exactly lying to her either, he'll just let her take his words the way she likes better. After all, he's looking out for her, somehow. He needs to be sure he can find a way to bring Bonnie back before he gives her any hope to hold on to, or disappointment could break her heart.

It's not that he wants to hide Bonnie's presence for a very selfish reason, like wanting to keep her to himself, because he doesn't. That would mean he cares more than he can admit, and that's clearly not the case – he thinks, turning his eyes to the side to catch a movement that will confirm that Bonnie is still there.

Everything is quiet and he slips one arm inside his shirt, anxious to be alone so that he can speak to her; he needs it, for very practical reasons. He wants to have her lash at him for all the things he's surely done wrong while she was away, just so that they can find back their dynamic, and then find a solution to this mess. To this absence made of night-rose granite and stubborn silence, bleeding inside of him from a hole he can never quite plug.

He'll be the superior one and forget she ever went away - leaving him to stare at an emptiness that screamed in his face every night and every day until they were switched and unrecognizable - because he's that generous even if she'd die – again – just to not admit that.

Truth is that there's no point in being the black sheep if there's no one standing up to him. And everyone else has such a lack of spine that she can't really blame him if he refuses to adjust to her departure.

And he bets she missed him. Yes, she had to, a bit – because she's all about being fair and right and how fair it would be if he was the only one to go insane over her absence? – and he's doing her a favor by refusing to sit back and let her go graciously.

"I can't wait…" Elena's voice murmuring against his ear as she slips her hands under the shirt he's buttoning "…for your surprise". It takes him by surprise, since he'd completely forgotten her presence, as his senses were trying to discern Bonnie's presence in the room.

Damon fakes a smile, turning around to press a quick kiss on her pink lips. "Me neither," he offers taking himself away from her hold.

"Why don't you spend some time with Barbie? I think she needs you, with all that's happened lately."

"I know," she says, nodding, "We need to talk about it."

"Yes, do that."

It's funny how he still can't say out loud that Bonnie has died, unless, of course, he's talking to Bonnie herself to scold her and mock her stupid decision, or if he's accusing someone for her absence. It's always what happened and you know what. But that's not some silly way to hide from what happened and what that means, because with all the people he buried himself, death is pretty much a boring playmate to bully around, only it would be useless to talk about it because she's not going to stay dead.

She won't dare doing such a thing, right?

He feels suddenly nervous thinking about the things she's always been capable of, how many times she dared to say 'no' to his face, just for the pure pleasure of denying him. Doubt creeps in like a worm inside a carcass, starting slowly to eat at his bones.

Elena leans against him from behind, standing on tiptoes and resting her chin on his shoulder. He can see their image in the mirror and he can't smile to it, even if he tries and curves his lips to try and fool his heart.

"You know," she says, voice so soft he thinks it's going to slip inside his body making him rot from the inside out, "Sometimes I must remind myself that she's in a better place, because when I think of her, lying in the dark, so alone, six feet under the earth, putrefying… I just can't take it," she sounds breathless and pained, but he still feels the urge to snap her neck and punish her for the image she just burned in his mind. Yet he can't move.

The worm is eating.

He shudders.

#

"It's a gift, you see. I inherited it from my grandmother. I'm from a stock of Salem's witches and so there are things I can do, despite my will. Life is a lot easier when you're not a magnet for spirits. I could have lived a better life but my duty is to serve the restless soul and help the living to find their peace," she says, her fake humbleness barely covering her haughtiness. If only it could at least cover her horrible make up.

Talking to dead people is not an excuse for afflicting the living ones with this exhibition that he prefers to blame on a form of early arthritis. Like, really, how hard can it be to draw a straight, thin line or blend a decent amount of color on her eyes?

"So you talk to the deads," he repeats.

"Yes, gorgeous," she says, attempting to flirt with a smile that puts more on display the ring on her lower lip, "I know that's hard to believe but there are more things in heaven and earth, than are in the sci-fi programs."

"Shakespeare has just revolted in his grave," he informs her, matter-of-factly, more darkly that he meant to.

"You have powers, too?" she asks, wide eyed and suspicious, looking at him with new interest. Maybe she's thinking about in front of what tree to have their pagan wedding and how to name their supernatural babies right now.

Damon closes his eyes to stop himself from killing her on the spot. She could still be useful, he reminds himself.

"Let's try this again, shall we?" he asks, offering a saccharine smile, making her respond in the same way, "Do you really speak to the deads?" but this time as he smiles, his canine elongates and his eyes become dark as black veins bloom around them.

She screams with a voice more powerful that he had guessed and he flinches at her high pitch. He sighs and waits for her to stop, counting the seconds in his head. He gets tired at eighty-four and orders her to stop screaming already.

It turns out she has no kind of power whatsoever, if one doesn't count her ability to scare men and vampires away with her heavy, Halloween-esque make up, but it's not like he would really expect for someone named Fonda Cox – which seems like it came out of the porn star name game - that sells ashtrays owl-shaped in a shop called The Magic Rod, to be a reliable ally. Or mentally stable.

In truth, he was looking for an old, blind woman that lived in the neighborhood and had developed a peculiar sensitivity after surviving brain cancer and a three-year coma. It turned out she couldn't survive 'til her ninety-eight birthday, or at least until his visit.

Just his luck.

He feels stupid enough having given a try to the living Picasso's painting, and he supposes he can't feel worse than this, so he buys an Oujia Board. Well, he was clearly wrong, he realizes as he watches the stupid thing lying on his desk.

#

Bonnie is reluctant in looking at him as she appears in his room; the words she so cruelly fed him in his sleep have been on repeat in her head and she's sure the one way for him to cut her out of his brain is to tear her away from his thoughts at once, in the same way you take away a sticking plaster, because otherwise you know it will hurt more.

Still, he doesn't look hurt at all. Maybe mildly disgusted. She can't believe it, with all the pain and effort that had cost her to say those horrible things, he looks like he didn't hear a single word.

"Didn't you hear what I told you?" she asks, "Stop thinking of me. Stop calling me."

"The things I'm doing because of you…" he mutters to himself, fists on his sides, "If you tell a soul I'm going to kill you."

She's confused until she sees the board on the desk. Bonnie can't help but laugh at the scene, until the fact that he meant for her to use it reaches her brain.

"You're kidding me!" she says, insulted.

"Com'on," he says, eyes fixed on the toy, "Do your… thing."

"What's my thing?" she asks, irritated.

"Do I need to send you an official invitation?" he says again, speaking to the board.

Bonnie crosses her arms under her breast and taps her foot on the floor. Was she really worried she had hurt his feelings? He's too stupid to have any!

"Judgy, I can feel your righteous indignation trying to burn this work of art of a body," he tells her, "But you can't do it unless you come back to life, and you can't come back to life unless you speak to me. See my point?"

"That's stupid, Damon. I will not come back either way."

"I'm giving you the opportunity to rectify your little slip, you should take it," but the planchette remains immobile and his heart sinks a bit in his stomach. "Jeremy went away to search for himself or something, he'll probably find trouble. He's a Gilbert, they are programmed for that. And Caroline barely talks. Not that I mind," he says.

"It's called mourning," she informs him.

" And Elena really misses you, she's… she's a mess."

"Oh, we're resorting to the secret weapon," she says, ironically, mocking his attempt to manipulate her into amusing him.

Well you only need the light when it's burning low
Only miss the sun when it starts to snow
Only know you love her when you let her go

"Elena is… very angry at you," he says, his face hardening as his eyes get restless, "And she…she keeps seeing you everywhere, imagining the things you'd do or the things you'd say if you were still alive. It's quite pathetic if you ask me, but she's always been the pathetic kind," he admits, so concentrated on putting his effort on keeping a blank expression that the rest of him is bare in front of her, "Selfish and impulsive, too," he adds, "and she wasted a lot of chances and told you a lot of things completely meaningless and untrue instead."

She walks to him, hypnotized by the tone of his voice, and the depth of blue his eyes have taken. He stares into emptiness, like he's following a path inside his mind, and she wants to follow him, wherever he's going. Even if it means dying all over again.

Staring at the bottom of your glass
Hoping one day you'll make a dream last
But dreams come slow and they go so fast

"It was easier then actually thinking about what you meant to her. I suppose she never considered the possibility of losing you. You were always there, always unbearably right, unavoidable one way or the other, and so she took you for granted. And she could say that she didn't give a crap about you because at the end of the day, you were still there. Only, now you're not, and she's resorting to silly methods to find a way to you..." he grins bitterly, "because you're not here now, and no one ever bothered to tell her it would have felt so… wrong."

His eyes glisten, her tears fall. It is as bizarre as horribly beautiful, for them to be like this, in a place where his mere thoughts give her weight and substance.

You see her when you close your eyes
Maybe one day you'll understand why
Everything you touch surely dies

"So, I think…" he swallows, trying to assume a light tone, "I think you should say something."

The planchette slides on the smooth wood surface, traveling along the chiseled word goodbye.

She inhales, his breath breaks. It is as bizarre as horribly beautiful, for them to be like this, in a place where the mere tip of her finger gives him everything.

Only know you've been high when you're feeling low
Only hate the road when you're missin' home
Only know you love her when you let her go

The planchette rests on the word hello.

And you let her go.

#

Note: The songs I used in this chapter are "Take care of my baby" by Dum Dum Girls and "You let her go" by Passenger (which turthfully was what ispired this fanfiction, other then the complete disgust for the season 4 finale)