Chapter 7: Bonds of the Bereft
Long years pass. A decade and a half, maybe more. It's hard to tell. They are years that I'm not supposed to have, but wouldn't trade for anything.
We travel a lot.
Rome. Paris. Dublin. Berlin. Moscow. Rio. New York.
He likes the big cities, plenty of people to feed on without drawing attention. Nightlife to keep him busy. Shopping for more leather jackets and black shirts and dark blue jeans. Some things never change, and I love that.
He runs into people, other vampires, he used to know. They'll share a drink and maybe a dance, even a hello kiss on occasion. I try to give him his privacy just in case he wants to take it further, but he never does. It doesn't really bother me because I think, maybe, it's just his way. What he's always done, like how he kissed Bree when we first got to Atlanta. And I'm still with him the whole time. I know who he loves, and it's nice to think that maybe they're hugging him for me.
It's fun and interesting to listen to them laugh and reminisce about how out of control he was, talking about the fights he started, people he threatened, and I listen in awe of the authority he commanded. They ask if he really took on the Originals and when he shrugs, pride and gratitude flows through me. And somewhere in the conversation, their glances at his face will linger a little longer like they all seem to know something has changed in him, but they never ask.
I wish their visits would last longer. That he had more people telling him to take care of himself. It's so ironic: the vampire who wanted to be hated by everyone is loved by all that truly know him. I wish they heard my voice and saw my smile when they leave, always expressing how nice it was to meet them. But they don't.
And when he eventually gets tired of the noise, the crowds, when he stays in more often than he goes out, we move.
Kinbrace, Scotland, where there is nothing but land for miles; rocks and cliffs and hills and grass and wild, roaming animals between distant farms.
Wejherowo, Poland, to a cabin in the woods that reminds me of Mystic Falls, a few miles from a town that looks medieval when it is lit up at night.
Kristianstad, Finland, where he rents a house on the beach.
A remote island in Indonesia. A hut in Tobago. Another cabin, but in Alaska.
And every time we move, the first thing he does is take a long drink of bourbon and whisper that he wishes I was there. And I always respond with a smile and a hug, promising that I am.
We went back to Mystic Falls once, a few years after Jeremy's college graduation.
For Tyler's funeral.
Klaus had dragged him into a fight that no one escaped from except for Klaus himself. And the only reason we didn't lose Caroline along with Tyler was because Klaus had her detained beforehand as a precaution. When Jeremy called Damon to tell him the news, my heart broke. For Tyler. For Jeremy. For Matt. Mostly for Caroline. I didn't know how she would ever survive his loss. And I never expected Damon's reaction, but I guess I should have.
He thanked Jeremy for calling him and then packed the house faster than I've seen him move in a long, long time. He couldn't cross the oceans quick enough in his race to get back to Virginia. And I didn't understand why until he got there.
I arrived a day ahead of him with a pull from Matt, and Caroline was barely holding it together. It reminded me so much of how Damon ceased to function the first few weeks after my death. She couldn't speak at the funeral apart from her heart-wrenching recitation of Funeral Blues*. She couldn't seem to register anything: not the pleas of an adult Bonnie begging her to eat, to speak, to show any emotion whatsoever.
When Damon showed up she burst into tears. Screaming that she couldn't take it, that she needed him to end it for her because he was the only one that could. He listened to her beg, her voice saying over and over that she couldn't do it herself but he was her sire and she'd never asked him for anything, but she was asking for this. To take her pain away.
I watched his jaw wind tighter the longer she went on, hoping that he wouldn't grant her wish. In the end, he said my name. That he couldn't do it because it's not what I would want for her. Caroline's grief blasted into a rage.
Caroline swore that even though she knew he never cared about her, mentioning me was beyond cruel, even for him. Then she did what I think he expected her to do all along, why he rushed to get back so quickly. She cursed him and said that if he wouldn't take away the pain, she'd find another way.
No one was able to do anything but watch as Caroline flipped the switch on her humanity.
It's something I never want to have to witness again.
But Damon was there, and he was prepared. And when we left Mystic Falls, he brought Caroline with us.
Six months of moving from city to city. He took her feeding but stopped her before she killed. He looked the other way while she satisfied every basic, primal urge she had, even sometimes compelling the men for her that came stumbling out of her bedroom in the morning. Six months he let her run from her pain, her grief, her denial, everything, except his watchful eye.
Until he got her to turn it back on.
The night it happened, I followed them to a rundown shack of a house, boards over the windows and a notice of it being condemned on the front door. He took her around to the back where they snuck inside and I never expected it to contain what he showed her, and I don't want to know how he found it.
A group of teenage girls sat huddled on the floor, some of them bruised and bloodied and all of them dirty, dangerously skinny. One by one, he compelled them for their names and how they had gotten there. The stories were all slightly different, but still startlingly the same: they either had no parents to look for them after they were taken against their will or just ones that didn't care to find them. Some of them had been sold into the prostitution ring. They all had been forced into a life of abuse.
I still feel sick every time I think about it, but by that point Caroline was so far gone, I don't know if anything else could have reached her. And there's no one but Damon who could have gone through with it. I know I couldn't have.
Caroline started to wince and shudder more with each girl they talked to, and soon she was holding back tears, commanding Damon to help them. He looked her straight in the eye, and he told her no.
I listened to her gasp as I covered my mouth in horror, and I know she believed him because I did.
He said the only person that could save them was her, but why would she want to if she didn't care about anyone, anything, anymore?
She was shaking with her inner battle to keep her humanity off in the face of such heinousness when the man holding them hostage arrived through the back door.
Caroline killed him, and Damon didn't stop her.
When it was over, they helped the girls out of the house, and after the last one ran to freedom, Caroline collapsed, overwhelmed by it all. She broke right there on the decrepit lawn, screaming and crying and clutching at her chest.
Damon carried her home.
He kept her with him while she waded through the storm of emotions she was endlessly slammed with. All her guilt. Her fear. Her shame and always, always, the pain.
He was tough on her, he always has been, but I think that's because of the respect he has for her. The hope. That she'll be better than him, and better than Stefan. That even though he didn't plan on turning her, he saw her as one thing that maybe he did right because Caroline is an incredible, strong vampire. She has control and she has heart. She can take care of herself and she never gives up on those she loves. She is the best of everything human and supernatural, all in one package.
She came back to herself in time, laughter replacing tears and bickering with Damon over a thousand things that didn't matter, instead of all the things that did. Instead of men stumbling from her room in the morning when she was sad about Tyler, it was empty shopping bags and her closet full of clothes being tossed over the banister as she complained that once again, she had nothing to wear.
He'd grumble and tell her to be quiet and leave already, that the sound of her voice was worse than Bonnie's witchy migraines. And when he would inevitably get up to refill his glass of bourbon, she would blur down the stairs and swipe his credit card from his wallet, left on the table by the seat he just vacated. He'd shout a curse and her name as the front door slammed behind her on her way speedily out, but every time she started to get a little down, taking out her loneliness on her wardrobe, his wallet would end up on the side table instead of his back pocket.
The bond they formed defies labels. Not quite friends, but not enemies. Secretly protective, outwardly dismissive. Like a brother and sister who despise being stuck together, except they are together by choice and neither of them ever acknowledges that. They wouldn't dare. But I know that every time they swear they hate each other, it's the exact opposite.
I think at first it was a relationship of obligation, and then convenience. Eventually, it's become a comfort. Because even after Caroline moved out, just two years shy of Tyler's death, she and Damon still keep in touch. Every few years they find each other when the isolation becomes too much and they never outright ask for help, but they never turn each other away. It'll be months of arguing and threats, maybe even a brawl or two, but mostly it's just someone to share the silence with. The hours that stretch into forever.
And she's the only one that's ever gotten him to talk about me.
It was only once, both of them roaring drunk on tourist blood and Ouzo** as they tripped and sashayed back toward the villa on Santorini that we were staying in. They were still passing the bottle back and forth when Caroline pulled him in the direction of the beach, plopping down on the sand and tugging Damon down beside her.
"Tyler would've loved it here."
"Buzzkill," Damon mutters, swiping the bottle back from her.
"You don't think Elena would've liked it? The girl loved to party." Caroline stops and tilts her head. "Well, maybe not as much when you knew her. But before her parents died? Whoo…" she says dramatically and sweeps her arm over her head.
Damon snorts a laugh and takes a long pull, and I have no idea how either of them are going to get back to their respective beds if they keep this up.
"You never talk about her," Caroline says with narrowed eyes and Damon shrugs.
"It's not like it's going to bring her back."
Caroline scoffs. "That's so not the point. You could, at least, say something nice. Come on, one little memory?"
"Why? You knew her longer than I did. Tell your own memories. Silently."
"Please?" she pouts and I know that any second he is going to tell her no and then he'll leave; it's only a matter of time.
But he takes me by surprise when after a minute, he hands her the Ouzo, offering with a small grin, "She was afraid of needles."
Caroline smiles, shrugging casually. "I never knew that."
He clears his throat and hardens his expression and voice when he tells her, "Klaus, that Original hybrid, pathetic excuse for a walking creature, may he die a painful and drawn out death—"
"Hear, hear!" Caroline cheers and raises the bottle approvingly.
"Twice," Damon continues, picking up steam, "he kidnapped Elena and tried to drain her of her blood. The first time he had her in the hospital so a nurse could keep her drugged through the whole thing. After that, no more needles."
"Wow," Caroline mutters and doesn't even protest when Damon takes the bottle from her. "Wait, how do you know she was afraid of them?"
Damon cocks his head with a smirk. "Because…" he eventually says after a long drink, Caroline looking at him pointedly when he fails to continue.
"Seriously, Damon?" she says, irritated. "'Because?' That's it?"
"Have you always been so nosy?"
"Yes," she tells him proudly, seizing the liquor and I laugh heartily. "Now spill it. How do you know she was afraid of needles?"
I tuck my knees under my chin, watching his hands sift through black sand and gather it in his palm, holding it for a moment before he lets it slip through his fingers and fall back to the earth
"That last summer," he starts, his voice low as he dusts his hands off, "she started doing this thing where she would wince every time she'd eat or drink something. And in true Elena fashion, she'd brush it off and tell me it was nothing whenever I caught her doing it."
Caroline snorts a laugh. "That sounds like Elena," she says and Damon tilts his head in agreement.
"After a few days of that going on, I told her something I can't even remember just so she'd get in the car, and I hauled her stubborn ass to the dentist."
"I bet that went over real well," Caroline deadpans and I blush, dropping my face to my knees.
"You're not kidding," Damon chuckles, and when I look up to enjoy in the sight, he takes the Ouzo from Caroline. "I had to threaten to eat the receptionist just so she'd let them check her out because she was terrified they were going to drug her." He shakes his head and Caroline's grin falls a little bit.
"So, what happened?" Caroline prods gently and after a long swig, Damon passes the bottle back to her.
"Needed a root canal."
Caroline cringes and I shudder.
"Oh, it gets better." Damon smirks, and it's really not fair that I can't be irritated about him spilling embarrassing secrets when he's talking about me with that nostalgic look on his face. "So we make the appointment for something like two in the afternoon a week later, her swearing up and down that it wasn't even necessary because she would be fine by then. Which I pointedly ignored for obvious reasons."
Caroline laughs and holds up her hand for a high five. Damon just stares at it.
Her grin fades into a scowl, her hand dropping back to the sand. "Fine, be like that," she grumbles, and I can't help but laugh. "Did she go back
I smile at what I know is coming next, even though I thought it was the furthest thing from funny at the time.
"Yep. Although not exactly by choice."
Caroline grins. "Oh, this sounds good..."
Damon leans back on his elbows with a sigh, watching the waves roll in under the moon. His eyes close with a sloppy smile as his head lolls back like he's soaking in the sun even though it's nearly three a.m. "I knew there was no way in hell I was getting her back in that office without her throwing the world's most dramatic hissy fit, so I took care of the 'being conscious while it happened part.'"
Caroline sputters through her last sip. "What does that mean?"
His grin grows to pure mischief. "I got her wasted the night before."
Caroline throws her head back laughing. "You didn't!"
"Elena may have been able to hold her liquor while she was drinking," Damon says, "but once she passed out? There wasn't anything that was going to wake her up."
Caroline cocks an eyebrow.
Damon rolls his eyes, and I snicker.
"Which means," he tells her, insulted, "that when I loaded her in the car at six the next morning, having brilliantly re-scheduled the appointment without her knowledge, she was still passed the fuck out." He takes the bottle from Caroline, and I swear he's only doing it for a dramatic pause—he looks way too satisfied when he finishes with, "At least until I put her in the dentist's chair. And that was when she decided to wake up."
Caroline gasps, covering her mouth with her hands.
"It was five full minutes of threatening to stake me," Damon continues, "much to the confusion of the nurses before they came in with the anesthetic. Packaged in a nice pointy needle."
"Oh no…" Caroline mutters.
This time, I cover my face with my hands, remembering.
"Oh yes. Her little tantrum went to an atomic level bitch fit until I suggested to the nurses that they take the easy way out and just gas her into submission."
"Wait, what?"
"Nitrous Oxide." He grins, and I smack him on the shoulder. "Elena couldn't handle anything that didn't come out of a glass bottle with a proof count on the front. Hell, she'd be cartwheeling down Main Street after a couple of aspirin. And the stuff they used…" He shakes his head. "It's not for the lightweights."
"Please tell me you recorded this." Caroline smiles and takes the liquor from him, and Damon shakes his head with a laugh. "Why not? I would have…"
My mouth gapes as I stare at her.
Damon's quiet for a little longer than makes me comfortable, and without warning, he groans and sits forward, his arms draped over bent knees. "She wouldn't have wanted anyone to see her like that. Because it was bad," he drawls, snatching the bottle back.
"How bad?" Caroline asks, and I still can't believe that she is getting him to talk like this.
"The beginning of one terrible joke blending into the punch line of another, so an entire conversation was like a puzzle of match games trying to piece together what was supposed to go with what. Plus, she kept asking me how they got biscuits to taste like chicken."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I still have no idea," he says, shaking his head with another laugh. I wonder if I could die all over again from mortification. "She wasn't supposed to have anything solid to eat, but she wouldn't stop talking about food. So when we got back to the house, I figured I'd make her a shake so she'd have something to keep her occupied. And more importantly, quiet."
"Uh huh..." Caroline grins.
"Little did I know, there is a right way and a wrong way to make one."
"Gonna need a little more info here," Caroline says.
Damon passes her the Ouzo. "Neapolitan ice cream. Chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla, right?" Caroline nods. "So since it's all going into the blender and it doesn't make a damn bit of a difference, I'm just scooping it in there without paying attention to the fact that I was getting all three flavors per scoop. Until Elena walks in and starts losing her mind."
"Why?"
Damon looks at her with a completely dead-serious expression, like whatever he is about to tell her is the most obvious thing in the world. "Because, you have to put it in one flavor at a time, in a particular order, otherwise, it doesn't taste the same."
"What?" Caroline screeches.
"You're fucking telling me," he says. "She would not quit nagging, pouting up at me with her puffy cheeks and mouth all swollen. I thought she was going to cry until I threw it out and re-did it the 'correct' way."
"And you really made it again?" Caroline teases.
My heart melts. Because he absolutely did.
"Shut up." He takes back the bottle while Caroline giggles uncontrollably. "Got her to be quiet, didn't I?"
"Whatever, Damon," she says, snorting.
They fall quiet, and I wait, but he doesn't tell her about suffering through endless Disney movies with me the rest of that afternoon, or how he took care of filling my prescriptions and giving them to me at the right intervals. How he listened to me whimper about the pain and made me perfect milkshakes for days, always in the right order.
"So, I have a question," Caroline says, and we both turn to look at her, Damon handing her the Ouzo. "You said this was in the summer, right?"
"Your point?"
"Why didn't Alaric or Jeremy take her to the appointment? Or make her OCD milkshakes afterward?"
Damon narrows his eyes.
"I just mean—"
"Yeah, I got it, Blondie." Damon turns back to the water, his jaw tight.
"I don't think you do, Damon," she says. "Because she had a list of people that would have jumped to take care of her, and she chose you."
Damon scoffs. "She didn't choose me, Barbie. Maybe you didn't get that memo."
He holds his hand out for the bottle and she slaps his hand away.
"Wake the hell up," she snaps, and my eyes widen. "She could have sent you off and called me at any time, and did she? No. I didn't even know about this!" She shifts to sit up on her knees, gesturing in his face. "And something tells me this wasn't the first time something like that happened, and you, not anyone else, were the one who took care of her. Am I right?"
Damon doesn't answer, the muscles in his jaw flexing under the strain of his glare.
"Thought so." She huffs out a breath, her body sagging. "I mean, I know I didn't exactly condone you hitting on her all the time, but do you really think she didn't care about you?"
"Fuck you."
She crosses her arms. "Is that because you know she did, or because you don't?"
He blasts to his feet. "You don't know shit about me and Elena, so stay the fuck out of it."
He turns to leave, and she scrambles to follow. I do the same, really hoping this doesn't end in violence, but it's not looking good.
She grabs his arm to stop him, and he throws her off but rounds to face her.
"What the hell do you want from me?" he yells. Caroline flinches, but then that same steely resolve I've always known strengthens the line of her spine against his fury. "There is no point in questioning whether or not she may have ever cared, because she's dead, Caroline. She's fucking dead, and that's it. I watched her take her last breath, I heard the last beat of her heart, and I put her body in the ground. There is nothing left of her except for a journal and a necklace, and you know what they both tell me? How much she loved my brother!"
Caroline's face softens, and I'm not sure if it's the effect of the alcohol, but her eyes look a little mistier than they did a second ago.
Without a word, she wraps her arms around his chest and squeezes him, tucking her head under his chin, and it reminds me so much of when I hugged him after we opened the tomb and again after Rose died. He didn't respond to me then and he doesn't to her either, just standing there and looking shocked at the display of affection.
"You're right," she tells him, and he blinks a little too quickly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I don't know anything about your relationship with her. But let me tell you what I do know." She pulls back to look him in the eyes, holding him by his shoulders. "I know my best friend, and yes, I know she loved Stefan."
Damon swallows but doesn't reply.
"But Elena's heart was too big to love just one person," she tells him. "And no matter what anybody says, she wouldn't spend that much time talking about someone who isn't her boyfriend, spending time with him and trusting him to take care of her, if she didn't love you."
"She's right," I whisper, unable to stop myself. I watch Damon's face, knowing Caroline's doing the same, seeing his emotions war between wanting to believe her and unwillingness to let himself hope.
"So put that in your blender and mix it." She smirks and lets him go, Damon chuckling a bit before he scrubs a hand over his face.
"I really can't stand you, you know that?"
Caroline smiles. "Don't worry, I hate you too."
He nods once and together, they make their way back home, me behind them the whole way.
I'm sitting on the couch beside Damon when Caroline comes in through the front door. We're currently at the apartment in New York he keeps, the three of us staying here for the past two months after Damon's depression took a turn for the worse and I asked Jeremy to call Caroline, telling him to hint at whether she had seen Damon lately. She showed up on the doorstep a week later, much to my relief, and has been pissing him off enough to burn some life back in him. He hates looking weak in front of anyone so when she's around he eats better and takes care of himself more than when she's not. It's so backward but I don't even care as long as he's getting out of bed.
His eye twitches at hearing the door close, and I sigh. Here we go.
I glance back at Caroline and she has a proud look on her face, hip jutted and a plethora of shopping bags in hand, fanning herself with a black AmEx. His name printed on the front.
He's up and towering over her in a second, snatching his card back before I can blink.
"Hope you had fun in those dressing rooms because all that shit is going back tomorrow," he growls, stomping back toward the couch and not seeing as she rolls her eyes.
"Sure it is," she mutters, and I bite my lip against a snicker.
He says that every single time and never has he followed through on making her return any of it.
"What's got you in such a delightful mood?" she asks, dropping her bags by the front door and coming into the living room.
She plops down into a chair across from him and rests her designer-heeled feet on the coffee table, which he immediately kicks out of her reach so her feet drop to the floor ungracefully.
"Hey!"
"Deal with it," he grumbles. "Or, you can get out."
"You really need a hobby, you know that?"
"What, like shopping with someone else's money?"
"Ugh," she sighs and gets up, chucking a pillow at him, which he immediately bats away. She struts back toward the entryway, picking up her bags and going to put them in her room.
"I don't know why you always have to pick fights with her," I mumble and rest my head on his shoulder, waiting for him to reopen his book so I can pick up reading where we left off. He opens the cover and stops, his head turning toward her room.
"Stop cutting the tags off!"
"Too late," she calls back sweetly and he curses under his breath, turning back to the page we ended on.
"Just ignore her," I tell him.
Suddenly Damon's whole body stiffens, Caroline blurring out of her room to stand next to him.
"Did I just hear…?" she whispers.
"I think so."
"What's going on?" I ask. Damon stands, striding around Caroline so he's positioned between her and the front door. I notice she has a stake in her back pocket, and I have no idea where it came from.
The doorknob twists slowly before it opens, and I gasp.
"What are you doing here, brother?" Damon asks, shifting his weight so a peeking Caroline is more fully shielded.
There hasn't been a word spoken between them since Stefan left the boarding house all those years ago, and I know Damon's been worried about Stefan and how deep his downward spiral would continue to go. Not knowing what would have to happen for him to hit bottom. We've all been worried.
But right now, Damon looks more concerned with trying to decide whom he's seeing: Stefan or the Ripper, and he's not willing to risk Caroline being used as a pawn if it's the latter.
Stefan's eyes narrow as he takes in their position but then seems to cast it off as he focuses on his brother.
Stefan's face falls and pain lances through his eyes. Damon takes a step forward.
"Stefan?"
He swallows as though he's preparing himself, his voice broken when he utters, "Katherine's dead."
*Funeral Blues
By W. H. Auden
by W H Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
**Ouzo, a well-known traditional Greek drink, is very strong liquor. It is best sipped out of a shot glass straight, on the rocks, or diluted with water. It is famous for the major hangovers it produces.
