Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize here. If I did, this would be canon.

Chapter summary: Damon and Alaric have been living in Mystic Falls for over ten years, and they're not getting any older.

Chapter warnings: Slash. O_o shocker I know.

"You look… dapper," Alaric says, from his place there on the couch.

"I have a date." Damon waggles his eyebrows, lewd, and Alaric laughs.

"A date."

"A date."

"Are we Mormons now?"

Damon shrugs. "You're not going to ask who with?"

Alaric puts down his book, amused. Alaric looks good, amused. It suits him well. "I'll bite. Who is your 'date' with?"

"The Mayor." Damon sticks his nose in the air, like he thinks he sounds impressive. The Mayor. Alaric snorts. Perhaps he's remembering, as Damon is, a night couple of years back when Carol got drunk enough to admit that while she hadn't actually grown up in trailer park per se, she'd lived in one for a few years. Part of what made her set her sights on marrying well. "Come on. You gotta admit, she's still smoking hot."

"I really don't have to admit that. At all." Still Alaric looks amused. "Just tell me I don't have to come."

"No. We can do without a chaperone."

"Don't get her pregnant," Alaric warns. "You know how that turned out for Richard." He returns to his book.

Damon stands for a long moment, and then crosses to the couch, bending to rest his arms against it. Alaric looks up. "Am I supposed to be acting like the jealous husband here?"

He looks a little tired, but happy, comfortable in his second favorite place in the world (because you can't stay in bed all day, can you? Well, not every day). Things are good. Better.

"No," Damon promises, and leans to land a brief, firm kiss on Alaric's mouth. "Love you," he says.

"You too," Alaric says. "Everything…?"

Damon nods. "Don't wait up," he singsongs, sauntering across the library and out of the front door.

No real reason to drive but no reason not to, and anyway, Damon loves making everybody look at his car. Because it is a cool car, no question. He glides into a park outside the Grill and quickly finds Carol Lockwood, looking nervous, smack in the middle of the room. Wearing her usual elegant dress and jacket combo, pearls and all. Hair set perfectly. Damon takes the seat opposite.

"You know I'm married, right?" he smirks. "It's not a Green Card thing."

Carol smiles a wry, twisted smile. "Very droll." She pours a glass of wine. "We need to talk."

"We need to talk at the Grill?"

"I'm making a point." She fusses with the cutlery, rearranging it, and then again. "That you're a part of the community, and of the council, and that I… trust you."

Damon snorts. Still, whatever, she wants dinner. They order.

"What's on your mind, Carol," Damon asks.

Carol fusses with the edge of a napkin, breathing quite deliberately, a little too deeply.

"Spit it," Damon says.

Carol takes a deep breath. "You know I – we – the –"

Damon waits.

"You and Alaric have done a lot to keep this town safe," Carol says. "I know it. Liz knows it. And a couple of the others."

"If you want to give us the key to the city, Carol, that's cool. No parade, though."

Carol shoots Damon a withering look, but can't hold it. She looks pale. Sick?

"Tear the band-aid off, Carol," Damon warns.

Carol spins the stem of her wine glass between two fingers. "You have to leave. Both of you. You have to move away. And soon."

And of course they do. In one hundred and fifty-something years as a vampire Damon has never stayed in one place this long. People have started to comment that he and Alaric are ageing altogether too gracefully.

Truthfully, they should have left years ago. But undead existential crisis, tiny Donovan, torture, PTSD, blah, blah… yeah, fuck, no good excuse. Damon picks at his risotto.

It's not as good as Damon's own risotto, so there's that.

"I know," he says. "We'll go."

Carol looks ready to argue, and then seems to really hear what Damon has said. "You will?"

Alaric is Getting There. But he is just so fucking young. He has no idea about the life they have to lead. The deceptions. The changes they have to make. The changes Alaric has to make. This is going to be one of those fucking awful conversations.

The people who see them day-to-day might not be thinking too much about them (beyond the hilarity of the fact they do appear to be the only gay married couple in Mystic Falls) but anyone who has been gone a while and comes back is going to look at them and immediately think: those guys are aging altogether too well.

Damon shrugs. "We'll go. Soon." The problem might be the stock. Risotto is soul food. You can't use powdered stock. It has to be the real thing. You should want to drink the stock by itself before you even start to add it to the Arborio rice, which should by then be beginning to cook in butter and drowning in garlic and telling Alaric he has to leave Mystic Falls is going to suck so badly Damon feels like killing something instead.

Still. Yes. Has to happen. Before they get a fire-wielding mob of Virginians burning the boarding house down, with Damon and Alaric inside.

"Dessert?" Damon raises his eyebrows. "Or is that taking the date one step too far?"

Carol cocks her chin. With that expression Damon would have no trouble believing she'd been born noble. "At my age, I see no reason to skip dessert," she says.

Before leaving the Grill, Carol shakes hands with prominent citizens. Damon loves that expression. Prominent citizens. For some reason it sounds like a euphemism for dick. There's something sort of cute about small town life.

Outside, he thinks for a terrible moment that Carol is going to hug him. There's a hesitancy in her step.

"I'm asking you to leave. But I'm… asking you to be ready to come back, if we need you."

Fuckety-fuck.

Because they'll do it. Damon has managed to avoid all this complicated caught-up-with-humans bullshit for a really fucking long time but no question, he has a goddamn family, now. A family. Alaric is his fucking husband, however the hell that happened. The Donovans, Jesus, he has a goddaughter, of all the ridiculous things. If vampires return to Mystic – or werewolves or a crooked cop – they'll be back. It makes him almost, but not quite, physically sick, makes him long for the days when he killed people when he was hungry, instead of coaching Alaric in Sage's snatch-eat-wipe philosophy. He frowns.

"We'll come back."

Carol nods, and waits.

"Can you give us a few months?"

Carol pauses. "A few months can't make much of a difference, now," she says. "But Damon… months. Not a year. You have to go."

They shake hands, and Damon climbs into his car, and drives away.

The night air is pleasantly cool, Alaric thinks, though it is hard to tell, sometimes; here is air, and it is pleasant. It's dark in this alley, light struggling through the gloom of the heavy cloud. It will rain, in an hour or two.

Alaric realizes slowly, and then all at once, that he passed hesitancy a good ten minutes ago and has entered the realm of procrastination. Damon rolls his eyes.

"Come on. You can do this. You have to, or Bonnie will stake you."

Alaric is not amused.

Damon frowns. "I don't want to remind you that you were fine in the early days."

And it's true. He was. So Alaric turns the woman's arm in his hands, lets his fangs descend, and bites down gently.

It's true, he has no desire to kill her, even when he can taste her blood, feel the way it rushes his mouth like it wants to be drunk; fresh from the source is just so much better, makes him feel stronger. And it tastes so fucking good.

And realistically, a pint every few days is enough. He can do this. Alaric withdraws his fangs, and licks away the last of the blood that seeps from the wound. Lets his features settle back to human, before he meets the woman's eyes.

"Hello," she says, and it seems like a weird thing to say; still, rude not to answer, so Alaric says hello back.

Also; "You won't remember this."

"I won't." She agrees.

Alaric swipes a fang across his own thumb, and pushes it between the woman's lips. Just enough of his own blood to heal her and send her off feeling sort of awesome, the way Alaric remembers he used to.

As she wanders away, Alaric shakes his head, trying to clear the rush, and licks his lips. Feels his eyes open and close, and when they open again, Damon's eyes are on him.

"Alright?"

Alaric nods.

Damon narrows his eyes.

"I'm fine. How long are you going to treat me like a powder keg?" But he's grateful.

"Haven't decided," Damon says airily, and then they head to the Dog and Pony for some adolescent-free drinking.

In a booth, they tangle their feet together, out of sight, and Alaric can't help but cock his chin a little. He does feel okay. It's been over a year since… okay, so he can't quite make himself think about it, but it's been over a year since it happened and yes, things are… okay. Okayish. No animal blood in months and he's managed to drink from the source for the first time since…

Yes, that.

Alaric finishes his drink quickly, and calls for another.

"Why are we here?"

"Booze," Damon says. "And, y'know, humans. They're fun to watch."

Across the room, a terrible first date is unfolding – the guy is leaning halfway across the table and gesturing madly and the girl is sitting very straight against the back of her chair, hands folded neatly in her lap. The guy has gravy on his sleeve. The girl looks concerned she will end up covered in it.

Damon has a strange look on his face. Alaric doesn't feel up to deciphering it. That particular Look has been present too much lately. Clearly, there's something on Damon's mind. Alaric leans back into the lush cushion of the booth.

"You seem good," Damon says at last.

Alaric shrugs. "I feel okay.

"Not planning on marching into the sunrise without your ring on?"

Alaric has to smile. "No time soon." He watches the girl pretend she's had a message on her phone, and make an excuse to leave; he listens to her apologize, and truly, it's terrible. She's a bad liar.

Damon is still watching Alaric.

"What?" Alaric meets his eyes. "Come on. Didn't I just make major progress?"

"Yep. You did."

"So…?"

Damon shrugs. "You look hot in black."

Alaric laughs out loud. "Then maybe we should be at home, drinking in front of the fireplace?"

Damon nods. "Maybe we should."

It had taken a while, getting back into their old rhythm, but they had gotten there; Damon coaxed Alaric back gently, and then less gently, until they were back to fucking in every corner of the boarding house again. Elena would never walk in without knocking ever again. Ever. Ever.

They've made it to a bedroom, their own, apparently, and torn themselves from each other for long enough to strip down, and meet again. Alaric, it should be said, feels fantastic; much as he would like to deny it fresh blood, straight from the source, is far and away the best way to go. He feels full, strong, heavy, his cock impossibly long and impossibly hard, crashing over Damon on the bed.

Easy to just bend Damon over and fuck him, but maybe he wants to take his time.

Alaric presses his lips to Damon's neck, scrapes his teeth across the skin, there, tastes bourbon and sweat and Damon. Sinks his teeth in, a little, and feels Damon's moan better than he hears it. Runs a strong hand over the musculature of Damon's chest and stomach, over Damon's erection, pressing and palming and rubbing his thumb over the tip.

"Jesus fuck, Ric, that," Damon mutters, and Alaric chuckles, rocking against Damon's body, feeling him warm by steady degrees, the edges of Alaric's vision going foggy.

The world isn't quite right, yet, maybe, but it's getting there. Alaric is still uncomfortable around people, too aware of their scents, but that's getting easier with time. Harder to get used to is the sense of being un-tethered, of not fitting in any more; really comprehending, for the first time, how different he is now. Alaric has started to understand why vampires are so often solitary, why they leave families behind; perhaps it's easier to feel so alone and separate when you truly are alone, and separate.

He had caught sight of himself in a mirror in the bar, the other day, and would have mistaken himself for Stefan, a few years back. The grim posture, something of the cock of his chin. The way his arms across his chest gave him the look of someone trying to hold himself in.

He'd uncrossed his arms instantly, and stood up straighter. Damon had noticed, too, given a little smirk.

Balls deep in Damon now, with Damon's legs over his shoulders, almost bent in half so they can keep kissing, too perfect. Alaric quickens the pace, and bites into Damon's neck, just a little. He licks away the blood.

"I fucking love it when you do that," Damon says, voice breathy. Lips swollen.

Yeah, things are getting better.

And this, this is definitely awesome. This is like the old days. Better. There's a new equality to it. Damon lets out a moan, and Alaric eats it, the rough velvet texture of Damon's tongue against his own.

Alaric feels his balls swell and tighten, and Damon tensing beneath him, one hand on the back of Alaric's neck, eyes wide and glittering. Face twitching gorgeously as he comes, hard, digging his fingernails into Alaric's flesh.

Alaric follows, moments later, and it feels so good, because it always feels so fucking good, but there's a loss, too, in a way. Stupid, really, because they can go all night, but now is always better than soon.

Alaric lets Damon rearrange himself – Damon is like a contortionist, but sated, now, it's nice to just lie together, covered in each other's bodily fluids, sweat and come and a little blood, too.

"It's a good thing we didn't manage to kill each other, in the beginning," Damon says.

"Indeed," Alaric agrees, still breathing hard, stretching out.

Alaric breathes a good long time. He doesn't need to, he's not speaking. He just breathes, and enjoys the odd calm that brings.

Council meeting. Endless fucking things.

Once a month or so, since the beginning of time. Everyone gets together to talk about how great it is that there are no vampires in Mystic Falls and pretend that two of their number aren't, y'know, totally failing to age.

The adorable human tendency to ignore the obvious.

Alaric leans against Carol Lockwood's desk, arms crossed over his chest, and shakes his head when asked if there is anything he wants to contribute. Damon smiles a touch, from his place, standing by a bookshelf.

"Well, I guess that means things are still quiet. Good work, people. A light supper and drinks will be served out in the parlor." Carol smiles broadly.

And really, though he'd never go there, Damon thinks, Carol shouldn't still be alone. The legs alone. For a woman in her fifties, she really is still smoking hot. Whatever Alaric thinks. Damon lets his gaze drift to Liz Forbes. Her, too. There was a time Damon thought very seriously about going there. Just for kicks. Good looking woman.

Before Alaric showed up, of course.

Maybe a touch of compulsion, just enough to give it a shot, and Liz and Carol could share a bit of a sea-change. Very interesting idea.

The rest of the council drifts out, and Damon moves to follow them, when a young man – perhaps a touch younger than Jeremy – knocks on the door.

"Mayor Lockwood?" he asks.

Carol smiles. "Can I help you?"

"You don't recognize me." It's not a question. The guy puts his hand out, and Carol shakes it. "Jackson Fell."

Oh, a Fell. They're like Catholics. Thousands of them, breeding like rabbits. They tend to be wiry, and small, where Lockwoods are hulks. Most of them look at least a little bit stupid, too, whether they are or not; though this guy has a knowing gleam in his eye.

An eye pointed at Alaric.

"Mr. Saltzman?"

Alaric blinks. "Do I know you?"

"Freshman American History. My family moved away at the end of the year." Jackson has his eyes narrowed. "You're… looking well," he says.

Shit fuck balls ass cunt fuckety fuck.

"Kind of you to say, Jackson," Alaric says, and he and Damon excuse themselves. With little fanfare. Alaric starts to veer towards the parlor, but Damon steers him to the door.

"Let's just go," Damon says. "Visit casa de Donovan. Go to the Grill. Dog and Pony. Let's just go," he says, and can't quite hide the thud in his head.

Alaric smiles, a little worry crossing his face, but with Damon's hand on his hip, he doesn't argue.

A pile of warm happy humans living on top of one another, as it always is, at the Donovan house. It occurs to Alaric that it's not a stretch anymore to think of it in this way. It hasn't been the Gilbert house in years.

It's a long time since he slept a summer on the couch, a longer time since he kissed Jenna Senior on the front step after dinner and a movie.

Jenna rushes to the door and throws herself at Damon's knees, trying – hilariously – to bite him. Damon doesn't bite her back. He lifts her into the air and holds her upside-down by the ankles, instead, and she shrieks, delighted.

It's a fucking gorgeous sound.

"Ric!" she shouts. "Ric! Help!"

When she calls him 'Ric' it makes Alaric's heart stutter and stop, and start again, although it's no longer a rare treat. Jenna is two and a half, and has two modes; talking, and asleep. And she loves them both.

Elena is sprawled on the floor, and Matt sits on the couch, marking papers. Alaric can't help but smile at this. He always preferred to mark papers at least a little drunk. Matt likes to do it with his wife and daughter playing on the floor in front of him.

Damon swings Jenna back and forth a moment, and then pulls her up onto his hip, presenting a cheek. Jenna kisses it, and squirms, and wants Alaric, who takes her.

"You can keep her," Elena says, by way of greeting. "Really. She's exhausting."

Damon sits on the couch. "You guys know Jackson Fell?"

Elena frowns. "He moved away. Years ago."

"He's back."

Elena shrugs, but a Look flashes over her features.

Jenna's eyes are nearly as dark as Elena's, though her hair is very blonde. She always wants to play with Damon but she likes to settle against Alaric's chest, settle her head under his chin, settle her little hand against him. Just settle. She's so small, so utterly perfect.

How Alaric could have thought, ever, that he could hurt Jenna, is a bit beyond him. "I wanna puppy," she tells his chest. Alaric presses a kiss into her hair.

The house smells fantastically like garlic and onions and five different spices.

They're well-matched in this as well. Gourmands both. Damon excels at Italian food generally and Alaric favors curries, middle eastern foods and Asian foods. Though bizarrely somewhere along the line someone taught him to make cheese, of all the ridiculous fucking things, and every now and then he gets bored enough to spend weeks making it.

Alaric, it must be said, makes excellent cheese. Spicy cheddar.

Credence Clearwater Revival is piping through good and loud from the library. It's nearly dark. This early in the year, it still gets dark so quickly. Alaric is humming tunelessly.

Also, Damon thinks, this kitchen. He loves it. He'll miss it. Wherever they end up will have to be somewhere with a great kitchen.

Damon shakes his head, and continues to slice the peppers.

Alaric looks up a moment before Damon does, at a knock on the door.

"Is that Liz?" Alaric is frowning, but Damon is already heading out of the kitchen.

Liz is halfway through her second glass of wine before she starts talking about what, exactly, has brought her to their door on an otherwise insignificant Tuesday night.

"Jackson Fell is a problem," she admits. "And he has a job. At the bank." She twirls the stem of her wine glass. "He's not going anywhere."

Alaric looks unperturbed. Damon wants to punch him.

He rubs a tired hand over his own eyes, instead.

Liz is about to say something else, but Damon silences her with a look.

"It's lucky you like it hot," Alaric says, agreeably, as he serves up the curry over piles of fluffy white rice.

It's much later, and Damon and Alaric are a little drunk, on a huge pile of cushions and blankets in front of the fire. Alaric looks lazy. Relaxed and only half-grinning, and entirely himself.

Some days, it's like Alaric can hear the cogs turn in Damon's mind. Damon must be looking at him strangely, because Alaric sighs. "What?"

There are a bunch of ways he can go about this; none will be easy. Alaric hasn't lived so long in one place since he left his parents' house for college. He's going to hate this. Damon is going to hate it too. Fuck, Elena's going to hate it. No more built-in babysitters.

"We have to leave." Damon looks away. "We've been here too long. That Jackson kid… once he starts asking questions and pointing out that we haven't changed in ten years things are going to get very uncomfortable. I've never stayed in one place this long. Never."

Alaric leans back. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't look upset enough, either. Denial, Damon supposes. Alaric's face. Damon can't look. He's just so fucking young. And yes the timing sucks but what is Damon supposed to do about it? Kid shows up in Mystic with that Van Helsing gleam in his eye and you just know, know, that he's looking to take up the family's legacy of brutality towards poor, defenseless vampires. Poor vampires. For a brief moment, Damon considers eating Jackson Fell, but somehow, he suspects the fallout from that might be even less pleasant.

And it's not even that. It's just that you can't stay put for so long, and fuckety-fuck. Damon hates being the adult.

"I suppose I knew this was coming." Alaric shrugs.

Damon says nothing, but he pulls Alaric closer again. A distraction, that's what they need for now. Damon can be very distracting.

And then later, lying on the bed, eluded by sleep, Alaric keeps breathing, and Damon splays a hand over his chest, rising and falling with the rhythm of Alaric's lungs.

"Where do you want to go?"

Alaric shakes his head. "No idea. I'm still getting used to the idea of leaving at all." He entwines his fingers with Damon's. "Leaving Jenna."

"We'll visit."

"I'm just getting the hang of this, you know?"

Damon feels a flash of irritation he tamps back fast. "You'll be fine."

Alaric nods, and lets his eyes settle to closed. "I know."

Alaric is… not exactly depressed, but he's unhappy. Brooding in the library, so Damon does the one thing he knows always rouses Alaric from a stupor. He hits the parlor, and plays the piano.

It takes less than five minutes for Alaric to wander in and join him on the bench. He doesn't speak, he just listens.

"I wouldn't have picked you for a classical music fan, before," Damon says. Voice low and toneless. He doesn't look up.

"I'm not, really. Just like it when you play." Alaric is silent a long time. "How soon do we have to decide?"

Damon shrugs. "We don't really have to decide. We can hit the road, just wander for a few months. A year. See what appeals." Pachelbel. Tchaikovsky. Damon flits through eras and symphonies, changing things up a little. "You know, we're pretty nomadic, mostly," Damon says, and this is true; he's never lived anywhere for longer than a couple of years, and even that's rare. "Vampires. Normal ones, anyway."

Alaric nods, and yawns, and stretches.

Over the next few days Damon regales him with tales of cities he has lived in, or spent time in. Alaric asks questions. Hits the Internet. Research has always been his refuge.

Elena cries, when they explain. Still she seems to have been anticipating it. "You look younger than me, Damon. I always knew you guys couldn't stay forever." Jenna seems distressed, too, and won't settle, even on Alaric, though she can't possibly understand what is being said. Alaric holds her close anyway, cards his fingers through her soft hair.

Damon feels his heart clench. It's a mistake, being close to people like this. Makes this sort of thing that much harder. Jenna squirms in Alaric's lap, reaching for Damon.

"Da-mon," she complains.

Of course, it's not a mistake he could take back. Jenna bites Damon's neck, and Elena makes a joke that they are never allowed to turn her, because if there was ever a natural born ripper, it's Jenna.

This is going to suck. Damon smoothes Jenna's hair down.

The boarding house will remain as is, of course, and Alaric arranges for caretakers. A cleaner and a gardener, just to keep it in good repair. Elena will stick her head in from time to time and anyone who wants to stay there is, as always, welcome to. It hasn't been empty since it was built. Alaric packs boxes of books he'll want on hand when they find somewhere to settle. Beyond their clothes, though, almost everything will stay exactly where it is. Mystic will always be home, in a way, and they'll come back as often as they want or need to, though they'll have to lie low.

Or maybe they could dye their hair grey?

No.

It's a totally unremarkable Wednesday when Damon and Alaric pack up Alaric's truck, lock up the boarding house and head to the Donovan house for a farewell breakfast.

"We'll fly back for Thanksgiving," Alaric says, with Jenna on his lap, watching her unzip and re-zip the mouth of a strange stuffed toy she is inordinately fond of. Damon is very, very excited about the thought of battling throngs of people in airports across the United States to be in Mystic in time for Thanksgiving but whatever.

Plenty of time.

Alaric is too quiet, in the car. No doubt there is some ridiculous Residual Human Crap.

"We're not leaving them forever," Damon says, and doesn't actually snap, and is sort of impressed with himself. Still Alaric takes a long moment to respond.

When he does, it's with a sudden jerk of his head, and manic, glittering eyes; a frantic desire in his eyes that is mostly not about sex or about Damon at all, and a thrilling sort of grin.

Totally inscrutable. And not what Damon expected to see. It actually makes Damon smile, though it's not a wide smile. It's a wary smile, and he doesn't like the shape it makes on his face. He's still unsure when he can trust this smile and when he can't. "What?"

"Let's go to Tennessee."

This is not a big enough declaration to go with the face. Damon narrows his eyes. "You want to live in fucking Tennessee?"

Alaric laughs. "No. Fuck no." Still the wide smile on his face says something. The tension in his frame, the tiny twitches in his muscles. "How long would it take to get to the forest? We could get there before dark, right?"

The forest? "Half of Tennessee is -" Damon straightens in his seat. "Are you talking about the pack?"

Alaric laughs, and fuck, but it is the most gorgeous sound; a real Alaric-laugh. "Do you remember what it was like?"

Damon does remember. The smells, the sound of a million paws against the firm earth. The way they ran, not in the blurring vampire way, just pushing, pushing hard. Muscles on fire.

"I remember."

Alaric is still smiling. Eyes on Damon. "Let's go."

With a shake of his head, Damon meets Alaric's eyes, and chuckles, and turns his eyes back to the road. "Fine. But if you get eaten, I…"

Alaric pushes himself halfway across the front seat to press his face into Damon's neck and suck a dark bruise into his pale flesh, to run a hand across Damon's chest, to palm over the front of his jeans, and Damon utters a groan, and mentally calculates the distance to the nearest decent rest stop; it's not for miles and miles so Damon just pulls a good way off the road and they meet in the back seat, like they sometimes do. They strip their clothes away quickly and Damon feels his eyelids swell, heavy. Fuck-me eyes. They fuck like teenagers in the back seat, legs tangled, rocking into each other's hands and wishing they had more hands. Kissing urgent and deep. Sweating, which always makes Damon laugh. Damon laughing makes Alaric laugh and soon they are clutching at each other, helpless with it, ejaculate cooling on the skin between their bodies and that, of course, is when Damon realizes they haven't brought anything to clean up with.

Who cares?

"Wolves, huh?" Damon is half-slumped against Alaric. "We could just goad them into a game of poker."

Alaric pulls him in a little harder. "Nope. I want to go running."

Cool, whatever.

It's the best sort of night for this sort of thing. Alaric can't help but notice that all of his limbs are loose and ready to move and eat up the miles, like they are waiting for it. Alaric feels flushed, cheeks warm. The night air has a chill to it, the earth is damp and green, and thirty-six men and women plus Damon and Alaric are standing in the clearing near the arrangement of trailers and shacks which makes up the bigger encampment. Everything smells lush, and anticipation lights every cell in Alaric's body. He is getting impatient. Strums his fingers over Damon's hand, and smiles when Damon squeezes back.

"Thought when I saw you two, Tyler might be on his way." Mitchell is looking older, now; still vital, strong, still very much the Alpha, ruling the pack with a stern, loving hand, but his hair is graying, and he eyes Damon and Alaric with something like envy, or pity. Perhaps there is always a little of one in the other.

"Just us," Alaric says, grinning, and perhaps something in the grin tells Mitchell why they are there, because Mitchell gives a soft laugh, and shakes his head. "Well, they're all used to you now. But given how many of them have lost money to you playing poker, I can't guarantee they won't bite."

Alaric isn't worried. Feeling oddly affectionate, he pulls Damon close, as the pack begin to undress, beautiful bodies enhanced by moonlight and mood.

"You're in a good mood, for a homeless guy," Damon says. Lips against Alaric's ear.

"'m not homeless," Alaric answers. Home is, after all, where the vampire is, be it a boarding house or a truck or the middle of a forest in Tennessee; and they'll find somewhere soon, or they won't, and home will be a series of hotel rooms and that's fine too. Alaric lets his hand slip to the hollow in the small of Damon's back, pressing their bodies closer together.

Damon looks a little incredulous. Perhaps he's looking for Alaric to snap, become maudlin or eat a rabbit, something. But Alaric is okay. He is. Yes, he misses Mystic already but he also has a new acceptance of who and what he is, and it's okay.

Alaric places a heavy hand on Damon's cheek, and guides him for a kiss.

"I think I like this look on you," Damon murmurs.

Watching the wolves change is always a treat; Alaric turns his focus on them, listens for the slips of muscle and the wrenching of bone, the snaps and snarls. Several of the wolves look over, but they keep their distance.

"Fuck," Alaric says, shivering; anticipating.

Damon settles his hand into Alaric's. "You're batshit insane, Ric."

"You love it."

Damon nods. "I do."

There is no sound that indicates that the wolves will all begin to run; perhaps it's something in Mitchell's lupine body language, something no one outside the species could read. They are still, and then they are not, and Alaric pulls on Damon's hand.

Long legs eating up the earth, and the scent of wolves and dirt and moss. The moon, perhaps three-quarters full, streaming uneven light through less even cloud. The occasional howl. And two vampires, smiling fit to burst, brushing against each other on every pass, blood rushing so they can smell each other. Dark eyes and pale eyes glittering both. All too perfect.

Storm's passed, for now, Alaric thinks.

A/N: Hilariously, several reviewers commented while I was writing this chapter that Damon and Alaric really can't stay in Mystic Falls for much longer. I actually thought it was a nice was to end this arc of Alaric being miserable with a big change. I promise - next week's chapter is well underway and Alaric is back to being Alaric, though changed by his experiences.

Thanks to afanoftvd for the hilarious suggestion of Damon going on a date with Carol Lockwood. PS I'm with Damon. I think she's hot too.