ship: bonnie/damon
genre: romance
rating: high teen
word count: 1,115
prompt: "Just once." - absentlyabbie (Tumblr)
summary: This wasn't love in the messed up way he'd experienced before, no; it was better.

maybe we found love (right where we are)
-1/1-

According to Bonnie, it was a one-time thing. It was a 'get it out of their system' situation. It was 'one last time.' But Damon knew better. Damon knew what was happening, and he wasn't playing dumb to it. He'd been in love; chaotic, toxic, tear-him-apart love. This wasn't that. This wasn't consuming in the same way. He wasn't blind to his own mistakes, even if he tended to repeat them. What he and Bonnie had was something different. Built on a foundation of friendship, on trust that had struggled its way out of mistrust and deception. He'd screwed up in the past. He'd hurt her and the people she cared about. And she had every reason not to care about him, not to give one iota of her attention to anything about him. But she did. She cared. She saved him and supported him and picked him up off the ground with that exasperated look on her face. She never turned a blind-eye to the worst of him, but she knew there was good in him, knew that, if he tried, he could be better than even he knew.

Falling in love with Bonnie was never in the plan. Elena had been his be all, end all for so long, sometimes he wondered if there was ever anyone or anything else. But that love hurt as much as it healed, sometimes more than it healed, and as hard as it was to let her go, he had to.

He and Bonnie were as complicated as they were uncomplicated. They were bickering over bourbon and board games. They were honesty, even when it burned to swallow the painful truth. They were yin and yang and all of the miscommunication and disagreements it came with. Their relationship had him waking up in the middle of the night, worried when he couldn't hear her heartbeat in the house. It was pancakes she would never willingly eat again, no matter how much whip cream he put on top. It was 90's music and flannel and fire and aneurysms. It was the curve her mouth made when she was trying, and failing, to find him annoying rather than funny. It was the way her eyes darted away from his when she knew he was right and didn't want to admit it. It was how naturally he reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear and how simple it was to rest her cheek in his palm.

He loved her. Loved her like that first breath of air after coming up from water. Like the first sip of bourbon after a long, trying day. Like waking up on a Sunday with nothing to do but rest. It was easy and earned and as simple as everything before it had been hard. This wasn't love in the messed up way he'd experienced before, no; it was better.

"Just once," she said, mumbled it against his mouth as he kissed her, as his hands pulled her top from her jeans. Her head fell back as his lips traveled down her neck. She didn't flinch; she never flinched anymore, and something hopeful always unfurled in his stomach. She wasn't scared of him, of what he could do to her, of the easy temptation of having her neck so close to his mouth. Instead, she furled her fingers in his hair and arched up, wiggling her hips as he shoved her jeans down her legs.

He raised his head, nipped the edge of her chin, and told her, "More than once."

And her eyes, at half-mast, blinked open, staring at him.

He pulled her top up, over her head, half-smiling when she raised her arms to help. Reaching behind her, he unclipped her bra and dragged the straps down her arms, staring into her eyes as he did. "I want tomorrow. " He ducked down, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "I want tomorrow morning…" Her neck. "And afternoon…" Her chin. "And night." Her lips.

Tucking his hands under the back of her thighs, he lifted her, carrying her toward his bed as her legs wrapped around his waist. "We can get breakfast at that little café you like, the one that charges too much for a basic cup of black coffee." His brows arched. "And we can see that Sandra Bullock movie you keep talking about. The one I have literally no interest in seeing." He shook his head. "And for dinner, I will personally make you anything you want, and I fill feed you every damn bite. As long as you don't sneak out in the morning, or in the middle of the night, or ever." He stared at her searchingly. "No more 'one more for the road' or 'this is the last time, I swear.' Just… stay."

He dropped her down to the bed, her legs tucked under her, and she stared up at him as he pulled his t-shirt off and tossed it away. He stripped down slowly, taking his time, watching her as she sat, chewing on her lip, her brow furrowed. And when he had nothing left to take off, he reached for her, cupped her cheeks in either hand, thumbs brushing over the arch, and he leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips. No tongue, no teeth, just the gentle pressure of his mouth against hers.

She was still for a moment, completely and unnaturally unmoving. But then she pressed back, she leaned in, she raised her own hand, fingertips pressed to his jaw. And when their mouths finally parted, she tipped her forehead down to meet his, her eyes closed. "Okay," she whispered.

It wasn't a declaration of love or a promise of forever. It was just tomorrow. It was a beginning. A chance. An opening to prove that this, they, could be good, right, together. He laughed, rough and happy, as he kissed her once more, pressing her back against the bed. And she answered with a grin, staring up at him, content and hopeful.

The love he'd known before, it was a fire that burned him up from the inside out. Ate away at him, the good and the bad. This was not a fire. It was still hot; a simmering warmth that settled into his bones and promised to keep the cold out. But it didn't destroy him, didn't chew him up and spit him out. It held onto him. Took his hand and squeezed. It was a love that would give as good as it got. And he would give; as much as she did, as completely as she would. This was a partnership; strong, balanced, and true.

[End.]