Disclaimer: Nothing is owned, only borrowed.
Summary: Set after 3x07. The ghosts from the other side have returned to Mystic Falls and desperate to find a means of killing Klaus to free Stefan from his compulsion, Damon is eager to follow deceased werewolf Mason into the Lockwood Cellar. However, when trouble inevitably finds him, Damon is left with no choice but to ask for help from the people he can only hope still care about him.
Hurt!Damon. Delena if you squint. Damon and Alaric friendship.
Warnings: Moderately graphic description of injury.
Chapter 11
The room seemed unbearably hot, nearly stifling. It was for this, that Damon had little inclination to open his eyes even when he'd awakened at last. The comforter previously covering him had been cast off, a heap concealing only his feet, and damp in some places from the sweat that had poured off him in his restless sleep. With a grimace, the vampire twisted to lie on his stomach.
"Damon?"
Footsteps within the loft, though muffled through the pillow Damon pressed his face to, seemed agonizingly loud to the vampire, still befuddled by the lingering haze of sleep.
I don't care if a plague has descended on this miserable town, I am not rising from this spot, Damon resolved to himself, but the practicality of his silent declaration diminished when the heartbeat of his companion, who he had yet to lift his head to identify, became clearly audible in their proximity.
The vampire knew it was only a matter of time before a hand, heavy with concern, would find its way to rest on his shoulder, pure in intentions, but nonetheless bothersome. To gather his bearings, Damon once again replayed the night's events in his head, the consistency of the memories grounding him with each fleeting image: meeting Mason at the Lockwood cellar, the agony of impalement, then Alaric, the loft, and Elena.
Elena.
The gentle touch of her skin against his as she'd dressed his wounds had done far more for him than any amount of gauze and antiseptic could ever.
"You awake?"
A whisper to his right compelled Damon to turn his head, and bleary eyes cracked open to survey its source. The vampire blinked to see Alaric, standing just beyond the kitchen island, armed with a tall glass of what Damon knew to be blood. Dark veins appeared at once beneath hardened blue eyes, for in his state utterly bereft of the substance he so desperately needed, no display of conditioned control could quell his instinct, stimulated at the blood's potent odor. Damon was hungry.
Blinded by his need, Damon hardly felt his fangs extend, nor did he hear the growl erupt from his throat as he shot up out of bed at inhuman speed to meet the teacher where he stood. Alaric jumped at the suddenness of the movement, and Damon smiled, running his tongue over the sharpened tips of his teeth. He could hear the enticing rush of blood through the teacher's veins as his heartbeat involuntary quickened, and at once the glass was forgotten. In that moment, any form of rational thought was overcome by what could only be described as bloodlust.
"Damon, stop." Alaric's voice was steady, yet still he took a lengthy, but nonetheless involuntary, stride backward from the vampire.
Damon persisted, stalking forward, predatory movements telling that he had absolutely no intention of stalling. For, a burn of fury that inevitably followed a vampire's commencement of a hunt, heightened further by what could only be deemed famishment, had all but overcome him. Truly, Damon did not see his friend, nor did he hear the fear creeping into his voice. At that moment, there was the blood, and that was all.
"Damon, you have to think." Alaric had abandoned the glass he'd held in his haste to move away, and the pair had since begun to circle each other.
"Control it."
Alaric's pace quickened to match Damon's fervor. The teacher had not much time. For, he knew well that had Damon wished it, he would have already be dead, drained, lying lifeless on the floor of his own home. Because, realistically, there was no way he could be evading, much less outrunning, Damon, despite the vampire's wounds, that, judging by the crimson beginning to seep through the fabric on the front of his shirt, had been torn open anew. At once, then, the teacher realized that Damon was hunting.
"You have to fight this." Alaric all but shouted at the vampire as he wildly threw his gaze around the loft, searching for a means with which to defend himself.
In his pressing instinct to survive, driving his avid search for a weapon, everything within the loft at once seemed that much more useless. Of all the time he spent fighting vampires, it appeared that not a single weapon was within reach. The notion settled heavily upon Alaric's chest, and his breath, corrupted by panic, quickened still. Though no sooner than he felt his face begin to burn with worry, did he find a solution, rather an escape, catching sight of the crossbow that still leaned against the door.
"Think Damon, think."
The last words were tossed carelessly over his shoulder as Alaric bolted toward where the weapon was set, though before he had it in his grasp, the teacher felt to rough hands seize his shoulders with such a force that he could not help but follow their motion.
As he was turned, Alaric could not keep his face from falling at the sight of the vampire that held him. Bloodshot eyes stared into him, set into an ashen face tracked with veins that grew with every flash of fangs. A crooked smile revealed just the points of the vampire's teeth, vicious and glinting in the low light of the loft. This, Alaric knew, was not Damon. Rather it seemed that his demon had overcome him.
A/N: At long last, dear reader, I give you what you've been promised. I thank you for your patience, but the deal is ever the deal. Your reviews, follows, favorites, for another chapter. I swear I will not tarry again with my delivery.
