The lamp didn't light the room too harshly, and for that Abigail was thankful. Her words were going to be hard enough to take without the light cutting through them like knives. Cat was perched on the window seat, staring at Damon like he wasn't entirely sold on the interloper, but he wasn't making the infernal noise any longer, so that was an improvement.

"Abi?" Damon's voice was quiet, a breath and Abigail took a breath of her own to steady herself for what she needed to tell him.

Taking his hand in hers, she let the way their skin felt against one another calm her, and him as well. As the tension eased, she smiled up at him and began. "Earlier, when I was alone with Liz?" He nodded to show he understood and she went on. "She asked me what I was, since I'm still alive, but I'm not like you." Damon's fingers were linking with hers, as if he was seeking closer contact, as if he knew what was coming wasn't going to be easy to hear. "I laughed because no one really ever asked me that before. Not even you." Abi bit her lip and his eyes landed on the movement, his need for her still a current running through him. "Do you remember my parents, Damon?" Blue eyes, those eyes that she swore she'd remember until her dying day, flashed onto hers as if she were mad to assume he'd ever forget. "Eric and Madeline Morgan. So regal and proper. And so very old." Reluctantly she pulled away and reached into the bedside table for the book that she kept very close to herself since she found it the day she came home, out of her own mind and into this new reality. "When I opened this," she tapped the cover, leathered and weathered by age. "I thought it was just a journal. Something my parents left me to explain -" she shook her head. "I was a child, even at my age."

Opening the cover, she wondered what Damon could see. When she looked down, it was like the book was coming alive. Like blood flowing through veins, the lines appeared, growing and changing, adding to the tale. Each time she opened it, it added more information and told her more about who she was and what she could do. "My family has magic running through our veins alongside our blood." That was the first line, although she had doubts it was written in English originally. "If you can read the family tree on the back cover?" She flipped to the back and held it open, but Damon shook his head even while his eyes were locked on the pages. "The lines go back, supposedly, to the first witch." Her finger traced the line from her parents to the beginning. "My blood, Damon, the blood you drank, holds MAGIC."

He nodded, but she knew he didn't understand. "You're a witch."

"Yes," Abi agreed, hadn't she said as much to Liz and herself, time and again? "I'm a witch, Damon. And when you drank my blood the first time, unlike when Katherine drank my blood, you didn't feel as if you were drinking rot and death, did you?"

Damon shook his head, remembering the taste of Abigail's blood, the flavor that wasn't like anything he'd ever drank before. "No, I didn't." And tonight, he'd bypassed the cardinal rule of vampirism, he hadn't been invited in.

"There are other changes," Abi looked down at the book, easier than at those blue eyes. "You might have noticed that Ric doesn't feel quite as protective of me anymore." A sharp inhale from Damon told her that he hadn't noticed that particular piece of information. "I'm not as sure about Stefan, he's- he scares me." It came out in a hushed voice, one that pained her to admit to even herself. "And tonight, since you drank again, you can come to me, find me no matter where I am, and no matter if you've been invited or not."

The silence was deafening. So absolute. Abigail couldn't look at him, not now, because she was terrified of how he might take it, her failing to tell him something so important.

"Does it work if it isn't your house?" Abi looked up to see Damon studying her in curiosity, not anger. "Abi? Does it?"

She nodded, "yes." And that's all it took, Damon's mouth was on hers, his hands framing her face and they were right back to where he'd wanted to be when he crept into her bed and scared Cat.

Abigail laid back, pulling him with her, over top of her, and she forgot why it wasn't a good idea for them to try this again. As Damon's hands moved from her face, tracing down her body, pulling the nightshirt free from her, she fought to pull his shirt off. He pulled away and ripped it off, along with his jeans and then he was back, their mouths meeting and they picked back up where they'd left off, as if they'd bookmarked one another, as if they'd been bookmarked for one another for ages.

Damon was holding her, the lamp was flicked off, but the street lamps were giving just enough light to let them see one another even without the help of his vampire senses. If he added it in though, if he looked just a little harder, it was like he could see golden flecks embedded in her skin. How had he never seen how radiant she was? How she glowed, even in the darkness?

His fingers were tracing her bare skin, the lines of that mapped her veins, the curves of her limbs. Abigail Morgan was so much more than just a witch or the girl that he'd fallen so deeply in love with as a boy, then a man. She was - Damon thought he would have an eternity to come up with a word for what she was - to him, to the world.

Abigail was drifting off as Damon's touch soothed her into rest after their rigorous exercise had helped push her into needing it. Light as a feather, it felt almost reverent to her. As if he were worshipping her through his touch, and she sighed into it, her eyes drifting shut as sleep took her under.

Too bad that sleep was never simple for Abi, as the real world and Damon drifted away from her, she felt everything shift and sighed. Fog rolled around her, and as unwanted as rain on a cold day, she heard her mother's voice.

"I see you finally decided to listen to me," was it honestly necessary to have this conversation, Abigail wondered? "Yes, Abigail Morgan, it is." Her mother's face finally appeared, along with the rest of her body. "I know that you THINK that you want to flirt with this IDEA that you have OPTIONS for your future, but you don't." Abigail was growing tired of this dream and she wondered if she could push her way out of it. "Oh you most certainly are NOT going to do that."

"You're dead, Mother," Abigail asserted. "You're dead, and whatever machinations you think you put into play, whatever plots you plotted, they aren't up to you anymore." She turned away and closed her eyes. "And THIS conversation is OVER."

When she opened her eyes, instead of waking up, she was back in the Salvatore garden, the one of her youth. Under the willow tree, sitting on the bench, but instead of wearing the clothing of her younger years, she wore the jeans that she was growing accustomed to, her hair in a knot and the canvas sneakers on her feet that were her favorites. The sun was shining and she smiled as she tilted her head back to soak it up, eyes closing and happy to feel the warmth.

"There you are," the clipped tones that she'd only heard once, so very long ago had her eyes snapping open. Elijah, like herself, wasn't wearing what he'd worn then. Instead he wore a dark suit, the cut was modern, his hair clipped close and his air far more debonair. "You are a vision." Abigail said nothing, just stared at how the light seemed to glow around him. "Soon." He promised.