Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize here. If I did, this would be canon.
Chapter summary: Damon and Alaric really need to do more with their lives than read, drink, and have loads of sex.
Chapter warnings: Slash (duh).
Paperwork. Massive huge piles of paperwork. One significant problem with this whole insane scheme is that they need someone human – someone who has an unbroken resume, and a social security number, and a history of running bars, preferably, to be the signatory on the liquor license application, and frankly, do most of the hiring.
So, roughly half the paperwork is forms to be filled out. The other half is job applications for a bar manager who can fill them out so Damon and Alaric don't have to.
"Is this crazy?" Alaric turns to Damon, smiling, though he suspects it looks less like a happy smile than one of outright disbelief.
Damon grins, too, and his grin is definitely of the 'fucking crazy awesome adventure' type. "Yes."
"Then why are we doing it?"
"Can I quote you, Ric?" Damon tips his chair back and raises his feet to the table, stretching his body in a long, lean line. "I may have to paraphrase. 'We should be doing more with our lives blah blah blah than reading and getting drunk and having sex all the time blah blah blah.' Something like that."
"I said that? Doesn't sound like me." Alaric closes a hand over Damon's ankle, there on the table.
"Surprised me too. Still. Who cares? It will be a completely fucking awesome bar and if we get bored we'll sell it. For cash, maybe. I'd love to fuck you on a bed piled high with hundred dollar bills."
Alaric studies Damon's face, quicksilver eyes, the grin shaping his features. He looks more than amused.
"Speaking of," Alaric says, squeezing the ankle in his hand.
Damon pretends to consider, twitching his grin into a smirk. "We should really make a start on those applications."
"I need my head cleared," Alaric insists, dragging Damon to his feet, and up the stairs.
It shouldn't clear Alaric's head, having Damon above and behind him, inside him, pressing a hot mouth to Alaric's shoulder – it should make his mind fog over completely – but it does, it always does. The thick, heavy weight of Damon pushing and taking and insisting and Damon's mouth muttering Alaric's name, his black hair growing damp with the sweat of lust and exertion. Settles him, makes him feel real. Damon's strong hand digging into Alaric's hip, his lips finding Alaric's jaw, Alaric turning his face so he can kiss Damon's mouth; too good.
Though it is the middle of the day and there is much to do, they lie together for a long time afterwards. Damon drapes himself half over Alaric's body with his ear over Alaric's heart.
"Having second thoughts?"
It takes Alaric a moment to parse this.
"Second thoughts?"
"The bar, idiot." Damon props himself up so he can see Alaric's face properly, detect any lie.
Alaric doesn't lie. "About every five minutes," he admits.
"No point in doing this if it's not going to be fun," Damon says, and his face is quite serious. Alaric thinks for a long moment.
"It's going to be fun," he says, and means it.
After a shower, they return to the pile of applications, and begin sorting them in earnest.
See, for a hundred and forty-five years, Damon plotted and schemed and searched for a way to get Katherine out of the crypt. It may not have been a full time job per se but it certainly kept him busy enough, always searching for pieces of the puzzle; and in the twelve years since Alaric turned, there has always been something, hybrid wars, babysitting, weddings, something, something to keep them busy. But San Francisco and their life here is idyllic, simple. Too often they do nothing, for days at a time, but contort each other into impossible positions on their great big bed, go out to feed, read book after book and work their way through the bourbon they purchase by the case. Looking after the investments takes a few hours a week at most and watching the money build up doesn't provide the satisfaction it once did.
Not exactly how Alaric envisioned his life, or his unlife. Though he's not sure what he envisioned.
Time to do something new.
Going back to academia was out of the question, as was teaching; partly because explaining a twelve-year gap in his work history would be rough, especially at his apparent age, but also, early mornings and inflexible schedules… no. Forget it.
And then six weeks back Damon and Alaric had been wandering aimlessly down Mission street, just off Sixth, both a little stoned thanks to the weed they had smoked with the street musicians they had fed from that afternoon (Alaric's mind was clear, though his eyelids were pleasantly heavy, and he couldn't stop thinking that Damon was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen) when Alaric noticed a For Sale sign over the window of a closed-down bar.
He had stopped quite abruptly, and it had taken Damon a moment to notice.
Why the thought of opening a bar held the intrigue it did Alaric wasn't sure. But he and Damon had called the agent and demanded that he come down right then and let them look at it. Damon's expression had been amused, though when they were inside at last and everything was dark, gleaming wood and shiny fittings and potential, he'd seemed excited too.
"Obviously, we'll have to get a pole installed," he'd drawled, and Alaric had laughed.
"I don't think so."
The kitchen was a good size, too; the thought of a bar with a reputation for good food and good music appealed and they had taken less than two days to talk about it before their 'investment firm' had wired payment for the whole amount.
And then suddenly Damon and Alaric owned a bar.
Elena had laughed so hard they thought she might hurt herself. "You two running a bar? You know you'll have to avoid drinking everything, right? Leave some to the patrons?"
"We'll be good," Alaric had promised.
"What are you calling it?"
"Bar None," Damon had called over Alaric's shoulder, into the video camera, and at his voice, Jenna had come running, spilling over with news.
Once she was bored it was grown-ups talking again; Alaric, insistent. "You guys will have to fly over for the opening."
"Make sure it's during the school holidays," Elena had warned, before disconnecting the call.
And now they have a pile of job applications a foot thick for a bar manager, and forms to fill out, but it's happening. It's really happening.
Fantastic. Terrible idea all round.
"You want beers that'll bring people back every week," says Harry, "plus a tap or two for specials. You thought about what sort of a reputation you want?"
Damon and Alaric share a look.
"A good one?" Alaric offers, helpfully, and Harry grins.
"Cocktails, awesome collection of spirits? I mean with a kitchen like that, food's a given, and I know a couple of chefs I'm gonna make compete for the head chef position."
Damon scratches his head. "We haven't given you the job."
Harry shakes his head, and turns, leaning against the bar; crosses his arms, with a lazy smile. It occurs to Damon that Harry looks rather a lot like Alaric, in many of the ways that count; dark eyes of an indeterminate and seemingly ever-changing color, wide smile. Sandy hair. Harry is tall, built. Damon suspects hairy, too, something about the smell of testosterone on him, maybe. Stubbled jaw and a lazy grace.
He even dresses a bit like Alaric used to.
Alaric is watching Damon watch Harry, with a strange expression on his face.
"You haven't. But neither of you are exactly dumb. You've never done this before, and that would put a lot of the best bar managers in Frisco right off even applying for this job. I have contacts; I've held a liquor license before. I'll want a say in decorating, but you get final word. The last place I managed had one of the highest profit margins in the Bay area. I'm not working right now – I just got back from three months touring gastro-pubs in Europe – so you won't have to wait for me to quit a job and play out my notice." He shrugs, and meets their eyes; clear and direct. "And honestly… I like you. You like me. So why the fuck not?"
Damon shrugs. Alaric tugs on his sleeve, and the two of them head out back to the kitchen.
"What do you think?" Damon says. "I think he's perfect."
Alaric's features are dark. "Perfect?"
"Yeah. What?"
Alaric takes several steps forward and pushes Damon against the edge of the counter, settles his hands over Damon's hips. Leans to kiss him, hard.
"Not that…" Ugh, how is he supposed to concentrate, with Alaric's mouth on his jaw, with Alaric's hand snaking around to the small of his back? "Not that I'm averse to christening the kitchen before we open, but he's out there waiting to hear."
Alaric leans against Damon, and utters a little moan. Breathing.
There is something new in it. Damon finds himself trying to understand. When Alaric meets his eye again, there is something longing in his look.
"Ric?" Damon's eyes frown, while his lips smile. Alaric shakes his head.
"Fuck. Okay. Let's hire him." Alaric pulls back, but half-clutches at Damon's wrist as he does; again, there is something odd in the gesture, something Damon can't quite interpret.
Damon studies Alaric's face a moment. "Are you alright?"
Alaric shrugs. "Of course I am." He tucks his hands in his pockets. "Let's go give him the good news."
Days later, at Chez Dalaric, the first of two of Harry's chef friends cooks a meal; risotto as the appetizer, and sure, it's appetizing, but not as good as Damon's own; an entrée of baked sole. Tidbits on the side to show off his range, and Harry has selected wines to go with everything. His eyes roam the room.
"How long have you lived here?" he asks Damon.
"Two years," Alaric says. "So how many staff -"
"One thing at a time, dude," Harry says, and Alaric bristles. Actually bristles. "So, you can see his range. Is this what you want?"
"What's your other guy do?" Alaric asks. Damon thinks he might actually be gritting his teeth.
"Different, really different. He spent ten years in Spain. Makes the best paella I've ever eaten. Fantastic tapas."
Alaric's leg bumps Damon's beneath the table, very deliberately. His foot hooks around Damon's ankle.
"He can come around and do a showcase Monday. It's his next day off."
Turns out Alexander really does make the best paella anyone's ever eaten. Spanish gastro-pub it is.
The bar staff and wait staff are a combination of college students needing extra cash, and professionals; Harry arranges everything, hiring and police checks, while Damon and Alaric choose bar stools and pick out a PA system. It's long days and long weeks and Damon and Alaric are frazzled, hungrier than usual, half tempted to feed on the delivery staff and carpenters who wander in and out all day.
Alaric is who-knows-where doing who-knows-what – probably a money thing, he seems to excel at that, and Damon isn't a fan of money, much, so long as there is plenty of it around. Alex has finalized the menu for the opening party (to which almost everyone Damon and Alaric have ever met is invited) and the eight weeks following, and Harry and Damon are experimenting with cocktails.
Damon has remembered cocktails aren't all bad, though he bans Harry from decorating with anything but fruit for all eternity. "These fucking little umbrellas, man," he warns. "And the mermaids? They are out."
Harry laughs. "Checks dig 'em."
"The chicks are wrong. Make me a whiskey sour. Haven't had one of those in ages."
Damon and Harry sit at the bar sharing a laugh and drinking whiskey sours – Damon with his back to the bar and arms crossed, congratulating himself on the choice of bar stool, and Harry leaning over the bar, pen in hand, still making notes about cocktails and marking wines he wants to try on a printed list. They sit maybe a little closer than they should.
"You and Ric," Harry says. "Not that it's any of my business. How long have you…"
Damon shrugs. "Thirteen years?" He curses silently, at Harry's skeptical expression. "Married for five. What? I'm older than I look."
"You'd have to be." Harry's eyes are bright and curious on Damon's, and they share some amused, not-quite wicked smile, and that's when Alaric arrives.
It must be a sight; a casual observer might imagine it is Damon and Alaric, there at the bar, such is the resemblance between Alaric and Harry; perhaps the body language, too, and sure, there's been flirting. No harm in flirting.
Alaric's eyes narrow, and widen, and he calls a bright greeting. Harry turns, just in time for Alaric to reach Damon, cup his hands around Damon's face, and kiss him, hard.
Not just hard. Passionate. They could be alone. Which is definitely odd. Alaric is affectionate enough, in public, certainly no one has mistaken them for friends in a very long time but there is more to this than that.
Alaric holds Damon's eye for a moment, and then turns to Harry.
"Have to borrow my husband for a minute. If that's okay with you." Alaric emphasizes the word 'husband' – a word he doesn't often use – and Harry nods, as Alaric leads Damon away, hands clasped tight together, which also new, in public – not that this is especially public, but yeah, there's something. Through the kitchen, past the walk-in fridge and freezer, back to the office, which is a total mess right now because it has become a dumping ground for everything they can't deal with straight away. They haven't started organizing anything at all back here though Damon did take the time to find a calendar for the wall, naked chicks lounging over classic cars, just to make Alaric laugh, which he did, when he first saw it.
Miss July is hot.
There is something very interesting happening. Damon forgets all about the calendar. Alaric pulls Damon close, lining their hips together, kissing Damon deep, hard, drawing Damon's tongue into his mouth. One hand reaching up into Damon's hair, and his eyes wide open.
Damon pulls back, just a notch, not enough to be discouraging.
"What?"
"Missed you," Alaric says, as he steps Damon backwards into an armchair tucked into the corner. Damon lets himself be manhandled into it, groaning in anticipation as Alaric tugs open his belt, and the fastening of his pants, still kissing hard, though he pauses to find the spot below Damon's jaw where the pulse is almost visible on the skin, and breathe Damon in; like a sommelier, Damon thinks, as he lets out a stuttering breath and lets his eyes drift closed. "Missed you all fucking day."
Alaric drops his knees to the ground, eyes black with want and yes and Damon.
There is something so deliciously tawdry about doing this while someone waits for them to get back to the bar, where there are still decisions to be made, where the whiskey sour is slowly warming. Damon thinks this twice; once when Alaric kneads and tugs and strokes and coaxes him erect, and then again when Alaric seals his hot mouth over that very erection, firm and determined, tricky tongue and wicked lips working in perfect concert, complementing beautifully the hands that are manipulating Damon's hips, driving him deeper into Alaric's throat.
Whatever is motivating this little interlude – Damon approves.
Something about the strangeness of it has Damon ready all to soon and he tangles his hand in Alaric's hair, anchoring him in place – as if he's going anywhere, Jesus Christ, he's committed to this particular task. Damon bites his lip as he comes, as Alaric starts to swallow him down, groaning, sending fascinating vibrations through the whole of Damon's lower body and down into his toes as he finally relaxes, satisfied and happy, into the armchair.
Alaric pulls back, giving Damon one last slow stroke and wiping his lip with the back of his hand, as Damon tucks his hands behind his head.
"Thanks," he says, flippant. "What do I owe you?"
Alaric laughs, and stands, and reaches for a bottle of water on the desk.
Damon tucks himself in and tidies himself up, re-buckling his belt. "You going to tell me what that was about?" He rises to his feet, a little wobbly.
Alaric shrugs, but his face is too still for it to be a real shrug. "Told you. I missed you." He averts his eyes. "You two got much left to do?"
Okay so maybe it occasionally takes Damon a while to realize what is going on but ultimately, yeah, he does tend to get there in the end. He grins widely, and tucks his hands in his pockets, grinning, until he has Alaric's eyes again.
"Are you… jealous?"
Alaric snorts. "What could I possibly have to be jealous about? I don't even like cocktails."
Damon nods slowly. "Well, I'll mix you a bourbon and bourbon. We're nearly done," he promises, and opens the office door, leading Alaric along behind him.
Not jealous. Not at all. Because Harry is human and will age and has never run with the wolves, or saved Damon from being tortured by a psychotic Original Bitch or travelled across the continent with him making essential repairs to constitutional law.
But when they are bent over catalogues of glassware and turn to catch each other's eyes for a moment, it doesn't matter that Alaric knows they are just working together; some great beast roars in his heart, makes him briefly irrational. This is no doubt why he can't resist putting an arm around Damon's shoulder, landing a kiss on his temple, as he walks past on his way out the door to a meeting at the bank to arrange automatic funds transfer, or at a linen supply company, or to meet the chef at a catering supply warehouse.
Aforementioned chef, Alexander, Alaric is extremely fond of. Alex seems even-tempered for a chef, though Alaric has no idea what he will be like with fifty orders up and a kitchen full of staff. Alex has hair far greyer than it should be – he's maybe 40, though Alaric takes a moment, thinking this, to remind himself he's pushing fifty – and dancing, bright blue eyes. He is a little overweight, as a good cook (Alaric believes) should be (at least, a good cook who is not eternal and unchanging). Means he actually likes food, Alaric thinks.
Alaric is more pleased than he should be that Alex has brought his wife and son with him today; Alistair is six, and full of energy, and swings off Alaric like a monkey, and Alex's Spanish wife, Greta, is curvy and bubbly with olive skin and thick black hair she clips messily away from her eyes.
"I hope you don't mind," she breathes, voice husky, still with a thick Spanish lilt to her voice, and slightly broken English. "We will meet my sister for dinner, and we didn't want to bring two cars. Some social time before Alex again works his crazy twelve-hour days." She doesn't look resentful. The spouse of a chef, Alaric supposes, knows what they are getting into when they marry.
"Not at all," Alaric says, kissing her cheek, and letting Alistair clamber onto his back.
Cutlery and plates and bowls and really, Alaric doesn't know or care which is eggshell and which is ivory. They are all white. It only takes an hour and a half – Greta takes Alistair to a nearby park, once the decisions have been made and Alaric only has to arrange for payments and delivery.
Alex and Alaric cross the road to a tiny bar to wait for Greta to return.
"How long have you known Harry?" Alaric asks.
Alex shrugs. "Ten years, I suppose."
"Good guy?"
Alex snickers. "Worried about your man? Don't be. Harry's just a flirt." Alex sips slowly at a Chilean pinot grigio, and jots down the details in a notebook he always seems to have tucked in his pocket.
And it's stupid, stupid, because Damon isn't going anywhere. They are in love. The sex is totally awesome and if it gets dull they bring someone else to bed with them and why for the first time in thirteen years Alaric is feeling these stabs of jealousy he doesn't know, only that he doesn't like it.
"Never really thought of it, before, but you look sort of alike."
Alaric grits his teeth. "Is that right," he says, and is quite relieved when Alex leaves, off for a nice normal family night with his nice normal family.
On the way home Alaric buys wine, a couple of bottles from a region they visited outside Sacramento late the year before. A loaf of the sourdough rye bread Damon likes from the bakery a few blocks from the house, a plastic tub of freshly made pesto. Olives. A small wheel of camembert. He wishes he had some of his own cheddar left but he hasn't made it in far too long and won't get time, now, for a while. Damon isn't at home, so Alaric takes everything to the roof, which is bathed in the soft orange of the sunset.
Alaric switches on one of the softer lights, and opens a book, and has been there for a while when the door downstairs opens. He grins, until he hears a second voice.
Fucking Harry. Alaric breathes, willing his muscles to relax, and heads downstairs to get an extra glass.
"Hey," he calls, and his voice is only a little scratchy. "I've got a bit of a picnic going on the roof." He pulls the extra glass from the cupboard, willing himself to smile. Harry seems about to refuse – apparently he is just there to sign something, but for whatever reason, Damon insists.
"Just have a drink. You'll be out of here before you turn into a pumpkin." And they head upstairs to the roof, and Alaric is sort of embarrassed, for a second, that he has set out a table, draped cloth over everything so it won't dry out. That he has lit a couple of candles that flicker attractively in the soft breeze.
It looks ridiculous, like he's trying too hard, or not trying hard enough, or something.
It occurs to Alaric quite suddenly that he might be a good best friend and a good husband and he might be the most fun Damon has had in bed in his very long life, as Damon has been known to declare, but maybe – possibly – okay, pretty much definitely he sucks at romance.
Shit.
And there's Harry looking like a very tasty human version of Alaric and fuck but Alaric can even smell him, from here, blood lightly spiced by whatever it is he and Damon shared at lunch – Szechuan beef? – and Alaric's hand moves suddenly to his own hip, to run over the scar he wears there, a year of bites from back when Alaric was still human.
He can't help but imagine Damon with his fangs in Harry, in his hip or his throat and oh fuck but why is this happening now?
Alaric turns his head before he can vamp out himself. He reminds himself briefly that he likes humans in general and yes, specifically, he doesn't mind Harry, except when Harry is within ten feet of Damon or they are laughing over something or speaking quietly together or Harry is darting a quick look across the room at Damon.
Alaric pours wine, and smiles, and tells them about the eggshell colored plates and the heavy cutlery Alex chose. Damon says the electrician did some fucking thing Alaric doesn't care about as he spreads a thick layer of camembert over a torn chunk of bread, sucking his thumb clean in a way that makes Alaric wish he had camembert on his own thumb, too.
"Fucking gorgeous, Ric," Damon says, winking across the table.
When Alaric goes to open the second bottle, Harry stands up. "I'm meeting friends," he says. "I'll see you guys tomorrow. One o'clock the booking agent is coming in to drop off demos and talk bands," he adds, grinning. Despite the cant of his chin and the way his eyes linger over Damon for an extra-long moment, Alaric doesn't punch him, simply waves goodbye as Harry opens the door that will lead him back down the stairs.
"Lock the front door behind you," Alaric calls automatically.
They are quieter a while, then, and Alaric swaps places so he is sharing one side of the table with Damon.
"I fucking love you," he blurts, and Damon looks up, grinning, but with his eyebrows set in a crazy, frowning line.
"I know."
"I just mean…" Alaric grimaces, and takes Damon's hand. "I fucking love you and I don't say it enough. You know?"
Damon looks surprised, leans in for a kiss. "It's cool. I love you too. Ric, what's…" Damon laughs, then, and sits up straighter. "I was right."
"About what?"
"You're… You're fucking jealous."
"Don't be a dick."
Damon nods. "You are. You're fucking jealous." Alaric laughs softly, as Damon shifts to straddle the bench and shift a little closer. "Admit it."
Alaric shakes his head. "Should I be?"
"Yes, you should be. This is… hot."
"Damon…"
"Seriously. This is an awesome look for you." Damon reaches for Alaric's wrist, and Alaric closes his hand over Damon's wrist. Linked, like one is pulling the other out of an abyss. Alaric collects Damon with his other arm and pulls him closer. Damon looks intrigued.
"Do I take you for granted?"
Damon doesn't look away, though he pauses for a good long moment to think. "Maybe. We probably both do it." He releases Alaric's hand, takes the glass, sips again. "After this long."
Alaric shakes his head. "We've got… It could be hundreds of years, Damon. We can't get lazy now or we won't make it."
The air is cool, and the smell of Thai food is wafting through the air – probably from a restaurant – some delicious combination of ginger, and chili, and lemongrass. When the direction of the air shifts Alaric can hear live music, from a few blocks away.
Damon places his glass back on the table and turns the stem between his fingers. "You've never been bothered by me flirting before."
Alaric splays a big hand over Damon's thigh. "No." He shifts a little higher, and thrills to the feeling of Damon's skin twitching beneath his hand, through his jeans.
"It's what I do. Flirt."
"I know."
Damon is strong, muscular; Alaric plays his fingers over Damon's stomach, wraps his hand around Damon's left bicep, grins when Damon flexes a little.
"Does it? Bother you?"
"No." Alaric shifts so he is straddling the bench as well, hooking hands beneath Damon's thighs, pulling him until Damon's legs are hooked over Alaric's. Damon's eyes glitter under the soft light, and his breath hitches, heart beating a little faster.
"So this, jealous, possessive, alpha-male posturing…" Damon moans, a little, as Alaric's fangs pierce his throat, just enough to draw blood. "What do I do to encourage it? I mean… this is…"
Alaric runs his hands up under Damon's t-shirt, explores the contours of his spine, his lower back. "What?"
"I like it," Damon says, and Alaric kisses him, deeper and deeper, until Damon makes soft little sounds in his throat that Alaric can't quite put a name to.
Alaric spends a good couple of hours showing Damon all the ways he doesn't take him for granted, on the bed, and then in the shower, and they sleep soundly, curled up together like cats until the sun comes up.
For the day of the opening party Damon and Alaric have hired cars to go back and forth from the airport all day, a babysitter for Jenna and Alistair, and a couple of bands. Everyone coming in from out of town is staying at a hotel near the bar. Damon is manic, thrilled, wearing an eight hundred dollar shirt that makes him preen, programming and reprogramming the playlist that will play between musical sets. He has even taken the special precaution of robbing a blood bank, since Stefan and Caroline don't drink from the source. It almost holds a little novelty; Alaric hasn't drunk from a bag in almost two years.
He finds, though, that he is not tempted.
Damon has the bar set up. He adjust and re-adjusts the bottles on the shelves, admiring in particular the twenty different bourbons they have stocked. Alaric polishes the wooden fixtures and the dark mahogany benches, with a fine grin on his face.
Damon turns with a smile and a series of crazy eyebrow movements and almost shouts, "we own a bar."
Alaric leans across the counter, and Damon leans too, so their mouths meet there by the shiny taps.
"We do," he agrees.
Stefan and Caroline arrive first, Caroline shrieking, a rainbow, as she always is; and Stefan looks more relaxed than he has in a long time. There's a lot of hugging, and Damon mentions quietly that there is bagged blood in the concealed fridge in the office.
The Donovans are next and it is a shock, to see Jenna so big. She's nearly five years old and it doesn't seem plausible.
"When are you gonna get her a brother or a sister?" Alaric wants to know.
Elena shrugs, and bites her lip. "We're trying. It could take a while. We have our name down for an older child, might make things faster, you know? But she's a handful all by herself." Apparently she is. She is trying very hard to punch Damon in the face.
"Her hair's getting darker," Alaric says. "And it's so curly."
"She might end up looking like Elena," Matt agrees, but he is quickly distracted by the arrival of Tyler and Jeremy.
"They're getting older," Caroline says, quietly, by Alaric's side. He lays an arm across her shoulder and pulls her closer, watching exchanged hugs, watching Jeremy hold his niece, who wrinkles her face at his offered kiss. "Just… they're getting older."
"I know." It is a little weird, no question. A by-product of looking at the same unchanging faces every day. His own, and Damon's. Still there is a very long time before anyone is old, so, whatever.
By eight the guests have mostly all arrived and Alistair and Jenna have been placated, and are willing to leave, as they have fallen instantly in love and have been running around the bar screaming in delight at the very fact of each other's existences for the last hour. Matt and Elena look relieved to have the break, as the babysitter arrives to take both children back to the hotel. Elena and Greta share tales of childrearing woes. Matt asks Alaric how to motivate uninterested students and Alaric roars with laughter.
Elena is damn near tipsy, and enjoying the tapas, when she sidles up to Alaric to say, "Your manager is great. But he can't keep his eyes off Damon."
It's true, he can't, he really can't. Alaric watches for a while. Impossible to know how aware Damon is of it; Damon is well-used to eyes on him, that's for sure, and doesn't seem to be paying attention, or playing up to it. Though since he plainly likes the jealous streak Harry brings out in Alaric, who knows.
Fuck.
By the time the second band starts at ten, the security guys have run out of flyers to hand people for the public opening two nights from now.
Harry is technically working, but not hard; it's his party too, and he has friends present. Mostly the casual staff are manning the taps. He just has to help make sure everything runs smooth. He jokes with Alaric that tending bar without handling money is a lot more fun and is in the middle of saying that when a keg runs out and he excuses himself to change it.
Alaric follows him.
"I'll help," he says, and Harry doesn't argue; he just lifts the empty keg. Alaric is about to lift a full one and place it in the space left, when Harry laughs.
"They weigh over a hundred pounds, man, you can't just…" Harry says, and stutters and stops when Alaric easily shifts and slots it into place. "The fuck do you bench, Ric?" he asks.
"No idea," Alaric says. "Listen."
He deliberately doesn't try to meet Harry's eyes; he's pissed, and Harry's been drinking, and it would be far too easy to compel him, by accident.
"Yeah?"
When Alaric looks up, Harry has a strange, nervous look on his face.
"You did an amazing job. Party's going great. Everyone's having fun. The opening night is gonna be awesome."
Harry shifts his weight from foot to foot and suddenly looks a lot younger than thirty-one. "Thanks," he says.
"Damon isn't my boyfriend," Alaric starts. "We're not dating."
Harry nods.
"We're married."
Harry nods. "Yeah, uh…"
"It's never gonna happen, man. So just stop."
For a second, Alaric is worried that he has slipped. Compelled him. But Harry looks too nervous to be under compulsion.
"Yeah. Sorry, man. Just… he's hot, you know, and I'm -"
"Yeah. I know." Alaric doesn't smile. "One of the many reasons I married him."
Harry shakes his head. "I fucked up."
"Don't worry about it."
"Are you gonna fire me?"
"Are you gonna stop?" Alaric pushes the tap fitting into place there on the top of the keg and releases the valve. Beer flowing up into the hoses makes a soft, satisfying rushing sound. Alaric shakes his hands, which have been sprayed with a little beer. He still doesn't have the hang of getting the fitting in place perfectly straight first time. "You're a good manager. I think we can run a great business together. But I won't have you treating us like this." He crosses his arms, standing up again. "It's disrespectful to me. Flirt all you want. I don't give a shit. Damon's a flirt. That doesn't bother me. But the moon eyes across the room? That stops. The excuses to touch him? There aren't any."
"I'm an ass," Harry says.
Alaric rolls his eyes. "You're not an ass. You're just a… horny thirty-something with a hard-on for your boss."
Harry hesitates.
"You sound… sort of older, sometimes."
"I'm older than I look."
It takes a lot for Harry to just suck it up and hold his hand out to Alaric to shake; but he does that, without so much as a tremor, and Alaric has to respect him for it. Alaric nods, and shakes, and decides that's it. Reaches for a dishcloth to mop up the small pool of beer that has collected around the lip of the keg – this bar will never smell of stale beer, never, if Alaric has anything to do with it – and lets Harry ascend the steps to the trapdoor behind the bar.
Alaric checks the rest of the kegs, and most will be fine for the rest of the night, just everyone loves that Bright Ale – new brewer just outside of San Francisco, and this is over now, so why Alaric is still pissed off, he doesn't know.
So he breathes a long while, and scratches his head, and the trap door opens.
A pair of familiar black trousers above shiny bespoke Italian-style lace-up shoes descend, slowly, topped by an expensive black shirt and one of the biggest smiles Alaric has ever seen on Damon.
Alaric laughs. "I take it you heard that."
"Standing directly above you. I think Stefan was impressed." Damon crosses his arms, too, an unconscious imitation of Alaric. "This might be the best foreplay ever. Tell you the truth, I sort of wish he'd hit on me."
Alaric grins, and plays along. "I'd have drained him dry and dumped his lifeless body in a trash can, and we'd be down a manager."
Damon nods slowly. "Hot," he says, and takes a step forward. "You know I wouldn't…"
"I do. I know. I just didn't like it."
"You could have compelled him."
"Kinda want to avoid that as much as possible," Alaric argues, and since Damon is close enough to touch, now, Alaric links his hands behind Damon's neck, and pulls him closer, kisses him. "At least with the staff. Let's go," he says.
There's catching up in every shape and form over the next day or so and since the bar is under control for the opening and Alaric insists, Damon and Stefan spend an afternoon, sort of bizarrely, doing 'brotherly' shit, which seems to mean mooching around in other bars (Damon figures he won't see the inside of one he doesn't own, for the next little while) and not talking about much of anything.
Though Stefan mentions Katherine showed up in Seattle, and it makes Damon shudder a little.
"You tell her where I am?"
Stefan shakes his head. "No. No way. When I told her you married Alaric she seemed way too intrigued." Stefan laughs. "She had that… look," he admits, and Damon doesn't meet his eye. "She's not on the run any more. I guess she has a lot of time on her hands."
Damon shudders. "Let's go back to the house," he says. "Don't have much time before dinner with the Donovans."
"There's time."
Damon leans back. "What?"
Stefan shakes his head. "Nothing." Stefan's casual face sucks. He shouldn't bother.
"You're not one for brother bonding. Let's go."
"Not yet." Stefan calls for more drinks. "Let's just hang out for a while."
Which is weird, but whatever, and when Stefan has checked his watch for the fiftieth time, he relents, and they return to the house.
Alaric is sitting on the stoop holding a mug of coffee with a good slug of bourbon in it, grinning, when Damon and Stefan arrive.
"What are you smiling about?" Damon asks, meeting Alaric's lips in a quick kiss.
"Been redecorating," Alaric says, climbing to his feet. Caroline comes to the door, giddy and excited, and gives Damon a quick hug, before joining Stefan. Why Caroline even gives Damon the time of day he does not know. She forgives so sweetly and easily.
"See you guys at the restaurant," Alaric calls, and they leave, looking every inch a far-too-young married couple in love.
"If anything's pink, I'm leaving you," Damon threatens, but once inside, he shuts right up.
Because Alaric has bought him a piano.
It's not a grand, it's an upright – no room for a grand – but it's a motherfucking piano, and though Damon hasn't said so, he's missed having one.
He should say something. He should. He can't. He turns the tiny key in the lock, and props up the lid, exposing the long red runner resting lightly over the keys. This, he lifts reverently and lets slip onto the coffee table behind him. He pulls the bench back, just a notch, and sits.
Damon is aware he is frowning. He shouldn't be.
Also he should say thank you or something but he figures Alaric knows.
Damon sometimes goes weeks or months or years, even, without playing the piano, but his fingers settle into position quickly every time as if no time has passed. A few bars of Clair de Lune, a couple of quick arpeggios, the introduction to 'Icicle' by Tori Amos.
Alaric puts his hand on Damon's shoulder.
"You…" Damon starts, switching to a unique arrangement of 'Hurt' he'd been messing with when they left Mystic Falls. "You bought me a piano."
Alaric gives the shoulder a squeeze, and then lets his hand fall away. Damon catches it, turning.
"You bought me a fucking piano. And you made Stefan bore me with stories about Caroline designing a new digital studio for her business so you could get it delivered."
Alaric nods. "Yeah."
Damon stands, feeling strangely young and very unsure of himself. They own a house together and a business together but this is the first really big thing Alaric has ever given Damon for himself only and it is so fucking perfect and the keys are so shiny and owning a bar will be stressful as fuck but they'll sit here in the sitting room after and Alaric will read, and drink bourbon, and Damon will play the piano.
Come to it, this is the first really big thing anyone has bought Damon, ever.
"Thank you," Damon says, and Alaric grins, nods.
"We should…" Alaric starts, when the standing and looking gets a bit much, and under other circumstances they'd be naked and getting busy right now but there's not a lot of time before they have to leave, so they kiss, instead, all too briefly, and head upstairs to change into nicer clothes.
At the restaurant everyone else is there first, so Damon says at the top of his lungs; "Ric bought me a fucking piano, how cool is that?"
Because there's more than one way to say 'I fucking love you, man, and I don't tell you enough.'
A/N: I've had quite a few people, now, say that they would like to see Damon and Alaric working - this one goes to you!
And a couple of people have said they feel like Damon loves Alaric more than Alaric loves Damon. This killed me laughing! So much of us is revealed when we write! I, of course, am obsessed with Alaric - and therefore identify most strongly with Damon. Hence, a near-worship. So time to turn the tables and writing Jealous!Ric was fun.
Also - one of you guys nominated me for the Energiser WIP award - thank you! It's amazing to be nominated. At the moment "One hundred years" is one of only three stories nominated in the slash category. Next week I will post details of how people can vote, if they want to! (I will give everyone who votes for me a free glass of bourbon next time they're in San Francisco... just drop by Bar None).