Abigail was pressed against Damon's chest, the lights off, their breathing finally evening out after HOURS of taking every single thing that they'd both waited decades to taste. She'd known, after reading the grimoire, after finding the key hidden in the words of the book her parents had left behind, under the intricately drawn pictures, the truth of her nature. Of their nature. Of what Damon and she were, of what they would be, of what they could be.
She'd read, in her parents' book, in her family history about what her blood could do in the wrong body. Katherine's, for instance, was the wrong body. It would force a purge. Taste like rot and death and bring up bile and blood that should have been long digested. In a body that was given permission to taste her blood, however, an important distinction, then subtle changes would take place. Over time, over multiple drinks, the changes grew and became permanent.
"Abigail Morgan," she bit her lip at the sound of his voice, a voice that she would know across time and distance. "Don't ever leave me again." Smiling, tired and content, she drifted off, letting the words go, even though they weren't quite right. Somehow.
In dreams, it's said, the truth rises to the surface. Perhaps she read that in her family's history, Abigail thought, trying desperately to make sense of what she was watching take place before her very eyes. A scene that looked familiar, yet so utterly foreign that it was a balancing act that could have been rendering her apart at the seams as she witnessed it.
Damon, the very man whose arms she lay cradled in in the real world, standing in the darkness on a bridge she knew vaguely from the trips that Alaric had taken her on to familiarize her with the town she had lived in once upon a time, but that had grown without her for so long. He was speaking to Elena, so like Katherine in appearances that Abigail's first reaction was to recoil and wish herself awake, but the subtle differences pulled her closer instead. The softness where one had been sharper, a kindness that shined through even in this clear memory from some other time.
"You want a love that consumes you. You want passion and adventure, and even a little danger." Abigail's heart clenched at the sound of his voice, the same tone she'd once hoped he'd use with her. The knowing way a lover would speak to another, of hopes and dreams. "I want you to get everything you're looking for. But for right now," was she imagining the slight catch, the yearning and the pain she heard? "I want you to forget that this happened."
Damon woke alone, arms empty, bed cold. If not for the lingering scent of her, of Abigail Morgan, he'd have thought he'd dreamt it. The taste of her still lingered on his tongue, but he could even convince himself that that too was a fevered imaging. Her warmth, her perfume? Those weren't something he could fake. Right?
Abigail took the time it took to walk back to the hotel to think about what she'd allowed herself to give into with Damon. What she'd naively embraced with the dream of her mother and the history that the book unlocked. Her parents had created a perfect storm by not telling her anything about where they came from, what they were, or what was coming, but they felt they could mettle after their deaths. That seemed fair.
As dawn crested, the beams spearing across the land, streaking through the dew and creating a sight that she'd not often been awake to appreciate, Abi considered what precisely she would do going forward. Damon Salvatore was NOT her soulmate. How could he be when he so clearly wanted to be with another, or one of a set? Taking a moment to stop and remove the gorgeous, but less than comfortable for long treks heels, she contemplated her other visitor. The dark haired handsome man who'd come to her before, in person during her grief when her parents' had died. Who was he? And why did it seem like he might be a key to far more than just a memory?
Cool, damp grass slid between her toes and she sighed at the simpleness of it. A joy she couldn't recall taking pleasure in last. Wiggling her toes, she looked down and sighed. Raised and reared to be a wife, in a time when it would have been terrible for a young woman to be out alone, wearing what she was wearing, much less looking at a future on her own. Perhaps I'll get a cat, she thought, shaking her head and starting forward not batting an eyelash when a fluffy black feline sauntered out of the brush as she made her way toward the town proper. Why not? Am I not a witch?
The cat, Abigail studied it as it stared back, slunk into her room behind her with no concern for any rules the hotel might have for animals. Its bright green eyes were ringed with blue and Abi found herself talking to the beast, and then catching herself doing it berating herself for the insanity. She had appointments to keep, and a house to move into, after making certain that the furniture she'd marked for removal from her former home was carefully relocated to her new abode.
Cat, since she had not a singular clue what to call the furry tagalong, seemed content to sun itself in the window of her suite as she went about her business. Money, she'd been happy to find, still greased all the wheels to get things running smoothly. Movers were found with the bank's help, assurances made that her family's heirlooms would be kept in pristine condition as they made the short trip from one house to the other. While Abigail finalized paperwork and plans, a knock sounded on her door and she took a beat to center herself, in case it was Damon who came to force himself back into the narrative.
"Ric," her smile came as easily as his name. "What a happy surprise." Standing back so he could enter, she heard his small inhale at the sight of her new roommate. "I see you've met Cat."
"Cat?" His lips were quirking as the onyx coated fluffy being barely batted an eye. "I would have thought you had more creativity than that, Abi."
"It followed me home," she shrugged, a foreign gesture, but one that seemed apt for this new world she found herself in. "I haven't had time to ponder a better one, and it seems to agree to it."
"It's asleep," Ric countered, stepping closer to the furry disk. "I could call it 'Spot' and it would go with it." Shaking his head he turned back to her. "How've you been?"
Abigail considered his question from where it came from, a concerned friend. "I could be worse." Biting her lip, she let out a breath that she suddenly felt like she'd been holding for hours. "I had dinner with Damon." Ric's nod told her what she suspected, which was that very little was unknown in Mystic Falls. "We spent the night together and I came home alone." The truth, more or less. "The movers are telling me I could be moved into my house by the end of the week." A change of subject seemed more than appropriate.
"That -" Ric ran a hand through his hair and inhaled deeply. Eyes narrowed as if he were trying to pick a thread from what Abi had tossed out, but he wasn't having luck at it, he sighed and took a seat. "How are you so -" Lips pursed he gestured at her from top to bottom.
Abigail's head dropped and she chuckled. Oh, that, she thought. How was she not like those women on the television, screaming and blaming everyone for the wrongs done them? Moping or crying, pleading with God or the world for more or less? "I thought you said you taught history," she offered instead, taking her own seat and meeting his gaze. "Surely you know how I was raised, Alaric."
Falling back into the easy comradery she had with Ric, the way they could tease and talk, was balm for her wounded pride and the hole she'd created by leaving Damon behind. And why shouldn't Abigail fill it with someone new? Hadn't Damon Salvatore filled his cracks with others even before she'd gotten lost to time? While Ric told her about the travails of working as a high school history teacher in a town like Mystic Falls, Abigail Morgan wondered if perhaps, maybe she should enjoy a time that neither of her parents could have fathomed when they set her life on the path they pushed her down before escaping to the afterlife. A time where women could dress as they wished, modesty be damned, and when they could choose to sit in a room with a bed, alone with a man who wasn't family, without a chaperone without a single worry to be had.