A/N: Hello again! Half of this chapter was meant to be part of last chapter, so that's why it feels a bit jarring to only have one flashback. I like the nice symmetry of having two.
Thanks for waiting, again, I was ill most of August and then when I was finally not ill anymore I got the second dose of the vaccine and it knocked me back down! But hey, I don't have to self-isolate now unless I live with the person or have symptoms/test positive myself, yayy!
Also, I rewatched TVD from the beginning when I was ill, and that episode where Damon's being all affectionate with Andy and Stefan judges him for it and he's like 'keeps me from going after what I really want', oh my god :( like it's not the right way to go about it at all but it's just the fact that he loves Elena and wants to be physically affectionate and cute with her (And f*ck her into the mattress but i digress) but he can't so he needs an outlet. Poor man big OOf.
I'd like to say next chapter will be updated faster than a month, but it seems each time I set myself to do something life goes nah baby, but I will tell you that I am working on this story whenever I have a free moment. Being and adult is tough :)
Dark Side.
Chapter 44: The Dinner Party. Part I.
"I wanna live in the hidden parts of your skin.
I wanna be inside, I wanna get locked in.
I just wanna dip you in honey."
—Dip you in honey. The Wombats.
The Kingdom of Navarre, Iberia, 1498.
Iberia was such a contrast from England. Cassandra's birthday had been but twenty days ago—a cold and short-lived celebration on the deck of the swaying ship that brought her here—the Spring Equinox just before it, and while her homeland remained somewhat shrouded in winter, Navarre had flourished into a bright rebirth.
Pasture a rich green blanketed either side of the pebbled path she and the lord Niklaus traversed, protected from the harsh sun by tall, blossoming cherry trees lining the path. White blossom petals flurried down around them, sprinkling the ground and catching on their hair as snow would in the wintertime. The air was rich with pollen, tickling her nose and sticking to her skin. This was a landscape she would not have the honour of witnessing until late spring in England, a land so enamoured with the cold it refused to leave it behind. It was beautiful, made all the more enjoyable by the company.
Lord Niklaus had definitely turned out to be what she least expected. Including that which he desired most: the breaking of a most ancient curse without one of its key ingredients. It seemed a most abhorrent caprice, a blatant disregard for that which was considered law in the world of magic, a balance that ought not be disrupted, least of all by way of cheating, but Cassandra could deny not her curiosity. Her name was already swathed in infamy, one more tally to her long list of sins would be no matter.
Only, of course, if she managed a way to turn the impossible possible. She had no idea where to begin or how.
Lord Niklaus needn't know that. No less than two days before, he had gathered everyone in his makeshift throne room to hold make-believe court and had ripped out the heart of a vampire who had dared oppose him. The vampire in question had been in the wrong, but the sight had still been brutal. Cassandra had no desire in knowing what his reaction would be if she failed.
"Forgive me, I oft forget the delicacy of the human nature." Lord Niklaus paused in his anecdote at the shiver that slithered down her spine. "You must be cold. The weather can remain unkind in this time of the year."
"No," Cassandra denied. She was not cold, more wary, though she would not allow herself the candour. "I am well. Scotland is colder, and I survived it fine."
"Of course." Lord Niklaus tilted his head in admission. "If I may, which do you miss most? London or your late husband's homeland? Or perhaps Amboise?"
Her uncle's favourite château, not Fontainebleau. She found it odd that he knew that, when he had mistaken London as a possible option for her true home. Of course, Cassandra's favourite château was Fontainebleau, but Amboise had gifted her with two most-faithful familiars, so perhaps he was not so wrong as to assume she missed it.
"Cambridge."
The word was past her mouth before she could consider the implications, the consequences such admission of sentiment might reap. The mischief glinting in Niklaus's eyes as sunlight would reflect off of the seafoam eased into petal softness.
"It is a beautiful land. You are right to long for it."
Cassandra paused, her footfall softened by the cherry blossoms at their feet.
"Have you been?"
It was a silly question, one his words had already answered. She could not reconcile her home with Lord Niklaus, however different he had turned out to be. Cambridge, lavish as her life was there, was a humble town, more woods than civilization. Were it not for the growing Studium Generale of Cambridge, it likely would be nothing but a speck in the map.
"Many a decade ago. I visited last for the founding of King's College." He explained. At her flabbergasted look, he carried on, "I am an alumni of the university, bearing witness to its growth is naught but a pleasure. Your family was none too pleased to see me return, but I behaved. You have my word."
Norns above and below. Sweet Morgaine. Mighty Tiw. Gracious Christ… Cassandra ran out of deities to defame.
Every man she knew received some sort of higher education from an esteemed establishment. Elijah himself had mentioned his tenure at Oxford. That was not shocking. Niklaus's age was.
King's College had been founded over a century ago, and he had gone, he had studied there probably decades before that. Conversing with him, strolling through this park, it was so easy to forget he was eternal. Laughing alongside him, befriending him… it was so easy to forget he was a monster. A wolf in sheep's cloth.
"I have always wanted to attend." Cassandra found herself confessing. "Though my gender impedes me, the study of mathematics fascinates me."
It was a terrifying admission. Her husband had laughed when she had requested to be present for his tutoring. Her lord father had exiled her from the library for a fortnight straight. Cassandra had all the knowledge in the world around the corner, up a mere flight of stairs, but how much of that knowledge she made hers was dictated by someone else. Another pair of hands that desired her to be well-versed in history and diplomacy, law and war, but not the curious science of medicine, so similar yet different to magical healing, not the study of the sky, or the intricacies of numbers, the study of deeper, more complex mathematics than the basic foundation she had been taught. Cassandra was only to appreciate another's art, never to embark in a study of her own creation.
It was suffocating.
Niklaus considered her for a moment with the same degree of intent that had sent her heart into a panicked gallop but a week ago. Now, she no longer saw it as a threat but proof that his sole focus remained on her, curious, interested.
"Why, you are a mighty huntress, a queen in the making. Lady Death herself need not stoop so far below as to sit in a hall with a bunch of stuffy masters who know nothing of the wonders of your world."
He meant it as a compliment to her prowess, Cassandra had no doubt. It still made her feel inferior, somewhat less intelligent. Niklaus noticed.
Stepping closer to her, his hand reached out, fingers tangling with the stray curl that had unravelled in the breeze from the long coil Arlessa had brushed Cassandra's hair into, securing it with criss-crossing lace and a fine linen hairnet. Cassandra much preferred this to the previous time the woman had grown creative with her styling. It was considerably kinder on her neck, and much more secure. Pretty much identical to what she was accustomed to back home.
Niklaus tugged gently at the wayward curl until it straightened its considerable length and then he released it, watching it spring back up into a ringlet. He tucked it behind her ear, the action more daring than any before.
Cassandra fingered at the curl, abashed, in an effort to hide it from his sight. She tried and failed to tuck it back into the hairnet. A wild fiery mane, Father called her curls. Mother had always lamented she had not inherited her manageable hair, so soft a short brushing rendered it free of any real texture. Though Lord and Lady Cambridge thought it beautiful, Cassandra knew it brought her parents shame, that their eldest daughter required more efforts to remain presentable than their youngest daughter ever did.
"Academia is in a constant yet slow state of change. You are more enlightened than they shall ever be." Niklaus told her. His sobered look was quickly replaced by that mischievous sparkle Cassandra so enjoyed, the one that made him unpredictable. "Though I must admit this ambition of yours adds to your ever-growing charm. We must do something about that."
She canted her head in interest, lips parting in feigned confusion. "My charm?"
Niklaus nodded. With a clear of his throat, he resumed his walking. Cassandra watched him go, relishing how his tunic braced his shoulders, the way the velvet outlined his strength and his belt accentuated his figure. Sunbeams trickling in between the tree branches overhead turned his tresses into burnished gold, anointed by the blossoms in the air. He truly looked like a king of old.
"Yes," he called over his shoulder. His pace never slowed. "I find you quite alluring."
Cassandra hurried forward, the train of her gown sweeping the pink-white petals at their feet. Niklaus spared her a fleeting glance alight with the same amusement sparkling within her chest.
"Oh, I must ask." She teased. "What else, apart from my ambition, do you find alluring, my lord?"
"Well…" Niklaus pretended to consider. "There is your quick wit."
"Of course."
He spared her another glance, this one just a tad judging. "Though I could do without your excessive pride and questionable propriety."
"Not that my lord is any better." Cassandra retorted with a bout of gravity.
He raised his eyebrows at her as if to say see? It was such an earnest look Cassandra could not help the breath of laughter that escaped her lips. He watched her until her laughter faded.
"Your incandescent beauty took me quite off guard. I had foolishly believed I would be impervious to it." He continued. The light spring breeze was no longer cool enough for Cassandra's body. Her neck was oddly warm. "Our every interaction is a delight. Though I admire them, and have done so for many a century, I never believed I would find my equal in a Grand Coven witch until I met you."
Likely because her morality was askew.
The words were both praise and hurt.
"I no longer belong to the Grand Coven, my lord father saw to that." Cassandra cleared her throat. The knot there would not dislodge. "Morrigan will not speak with me."
She had fallen from grace within her family, and her parents had assured she would fall from grace in the witch community by selling her hand to a vampire.
Cassandra supposed it could have been worse. A werewolf husband losing his temper the day of the full moon would be a decidedly more painful way to die than if Niklaus grew a little too famished. A Fae husband would drive her to literal insanity on accident. Witches, however, had a propensity to despise vampires. None so more than Morrigan. She thought them a joke to true immortality. Cassandra supposed she would know.
"What a terrible loss they have suffered," Niklaus said.
Cassandra looked up from where she was fiddling with the belt at her waist. Not a sign of a jest could be found in his expression.
"Thank you, Niklaus."
"Please—Klaus. Niklaus is the name my father gave me." He explained at her frown. "I have grown quite averse to it."
It was a beautiful name, though. Averse as he claimed to be to it, his siblings called him it. Only the lord Kol used the name Klaus. He and everyone else they interacted with.
"Perhaps I shall make you like it again." Cassandra proclaimed. She could sense an objection coming, so with a devious smile, she added, "Niklaus."
It was playing with fire. She had seen him kill for a lesser disrespect and yet here she was, unable to stop herself from toying with him, eager to discover how far he would allow her to go.
To her utmost surprise, Niklaus laughed. It was the loveliest of sounds.
His laugh dissolved. His gaze tore itself from the ground to return to her. They had stopped walking, Cassandra noticed, though when that had happened, she could not say.
"I must confess, my dear lady," the endearment stopped her heart, the softness in his gaze started it again, "you are not what I expected but you are what I have hoped for."
The smile faded from Cassandra's face at the same time Niklaus's fingertips grazed feather-light across her collarbones. A ghost of a touch.
Cassandra had not the words to tell him friendship was all she could offer. This would not be a love match; even wedded, she would carry out what was expected of her as wife but she would offer nothing more than companionship and friendship.
Cassandra would not afford herself the luxury of love. The mere idea of it had lead her and her sister to cruel words, nasty games and a jest fuelled by retribution culminating in death. Accidental, but a death regardless. All for the sake of a love based on politics and riches, the idea of a person and his prestige rather than who he was. Real, true love would kill her. Real, true, eternal love for a vampire would annihilate her. She could not, would not, do it.
She opened her mouth to confess, and faltered. Could she do this, when he appeared so honest and true? So full of light, finally halfway out of his perpetual night?
Niklaus confused her hesitance for nervous reticence. Quite easy to do, considering the wild hammering of her heart that had started the moment she realised this storm of a man had begun falling for her. Holy Hell.
"Come." He urged, placing one gentle hand on her elbow as guide. "There is something I wish to show you."
They resumed their promenade across the park. Cassandra slipped her hands behind her, once more finding comfort in fiddling with jewellery. Niklaus did not again mention his semi confession of love, yet she knew it would likely come up at another time. She kept her hands entwined behind her back and four feet between them just in case, lest he dare steal a touch again.
Mystic Falls, Present Day.
Stefan is going to have a stress-induced stroke and a head full of greys before his 163rd birthday. A concept Damon would have found funny a little over six months ago, but that now has his own stomach twisting into a possible stress ulcer.
He misses the days their biggest problem was Pearl. Actually, if he's being totally honest, he misses the days their biggest problem was the fact he and Stefan didn't stand each other, and he thought Cassie was dead. Mmm, the early 2000s, how blissful in their misery they were.
"I can't even look at her." Stefan continues. "It's been days and I still—she expects me to be okay with it. I'm not okay with it! Are you?"
Is he okay with Elena willingly offing herself 'for the sake of her loved ones'? Nope. Not that his opinion matters much to her. Or anyone's opinion, actually. It appears he and his brother share a common interest in women who make it a habit of not disclosing all of the important details.
"Nope," Damon says, slipping the phone between his cheek and shoulder. Phone secured, he reaches for the top shelf of his closet. "But I have the liberty of being as angry as I want over it. She expects that behavior from me. You shot that in the foot when you decided to anoint yourself saint."
Where the hell is that box? It was next to that expensive cologne he keeps for special occasions last time he saw it. Which was January, so a while ago.
"Fuck you, Damon." Stefan mutters, dejected.
"Language!" he mock-scolds, unable to hold back an amused half-smirk.
Stefan's muffled snort is a crackle of air and static through the receiver. Damon's fingers finally brush against the smooth side of the wooden box he'd been reaching for, finding it way to the back of the shelf. He almost drops his cell retrieving it. He catches it with one hand at the last second, his other hand folds the small box under his arm. If Stefan notices, he doesn't comment. In fact, his brother doesn't say anything at all.
"I don't know what to tell you, brother." Damon sighs.
His tone of voice unwillingly softens at the end. There's a beat where neither of them speaks, but he knows his brother is still listening. At Stefan's end, some sort of wild pigeon lets out a mix between a coo and a squawk that's loud enough to be heard clearly through the phone. It ruins the moment.
Stefan snorts again, the closest thing to a laugh he'll allow himself under the circumstances. Damon needs to get him a vacation or something before he really does start greying at a rate even vampirism can't keep up with.
"Just—" Stefan clears his throat. "Tell me, what's going on over there?"
Even though Stefan can't see him, Damon shrugs, the gesture noncommittal. He sets the box atop the stack of books resting on his bedside table, carefully balanced on Man and Wife by Wilkie Collins. The book has been sitting at the top of the pile waiting to be read for over a week. Stuff just keeps coming up. He'll start it tonight, if they survive. If not… well, a third reread is probably pushing it, anyway.
"Well, I woke up around seven-ish, showered, shaved, met Cassie and Ric at the Grill for breakfast…" he counts, absentminded. He can't remember which drawer he left the fucking key. Why did he have to keep the box locked in the first place? Stefan hasn't gone through his stuff in decades. "You know, usual Saturday. All very relaxed."
"That makes one of us."
Stefan's words are tense, his tone stilted. Damon can hear the profanity his little brother held back underneath the words. Trust Stefan to take his earlier scolding seriously.
"I did hear one piece of information that I think is going to brighten up your day," he says, abandoning this drawer and moving on to the other bedside table. "Tyler Lockwood ran away from home."
This bedside table is much tidier than the other one, making it clear which side of the bed he prefers. It also makes it painstakingly clear how alone in life he is, but that's a thought to entertain much later, in the dead of night and with at least one bottle of bourbon already coursing through his system.
"How did you know?" Stefan asks as Damon begins rummaging through the table's top drawer.
"I heard it from Liz who heard it from a very distraught Carol Lockwood." He explains, pushing away an old notepad and pen he doesn't remember owning. "Quarterback confirmed he's been off the radar since his little friends forced me to play their own low-budget version of Saw."
"That's wise."
Damon swallows his surprise at that. He hums, whole body perking up when he lifts the false bottom of the drawer and finds the old-fashioned key right there, a length of red ribbon serving as a key chain. The false bottom hid it from view but not from dust; the key leaves behind a perfect outline when he picks it up.
"And so, our werewolf chapter draws to an end." He comments on his way back to the box. "Which leaves us with…"
The keyhole is at the very front of the box, adorned by swirls of brass. The key slides into it with ease, like it hasn't been years since he unlocked it. Of course, he's treated the box with a whole lot more care than he did the key, checking up on it every few months to make sure it was there like some dumbass with anxiety issues and their home keys, so he supposes it makes sense that the keyhole be unobstructed.
"Killing Elijah." Stefan finishes for him.
A soft click declares the box unlocked.
"And you won't guess who's coming for dinner tonight." Damon quips, flicking the box open.
The contents were disrupted by all the movement; Damon is received by a mess of thin papers and old photographs, dried flowers tied with twine or blue lace. If Stefan had seen this sixty years ago, Damon would have been on the receiving end of a look filled with such pity, maybe even a steady hand on the shoulder, it'd drive him to consider suicide by daylight ring removal. Because the box—well, the box is the only way he had known to grieve.
There are only two photographs, really, black and white and faded at the corners by time. One of them was considered ruined by the fact he'd made Cassandra laugh at the moment that mattered most. Not enough that the picture was blurred beyond recognition, but enough that the smile she reserved for a select few had been immortalised. It took a lot of convincing for Mr Forbes to allow Damon to keep both pictures, the appropriate, serious one and the one dubbed ruined. The weathered slips of paper are every letter she had ever sent him.
A young, heartbroken Stefan had kept Katherine's picture. A newly-turned-every-emotion-heightened Damon had kept this. Which, in hindsight, is more telling than anything else, but Damon never prided himself of twenty-twenty vision.
"Elijah's having dinner at our house?" Stefan questions. "How did that happen?"
"I know how to utilise all of our resources." Damon shrugs, gently searching through the contents of the box. When he speaks next, his tone drenches with sarcasm. "He's masquerading as a historian, and my friends and I just happen to be obsessed with history!"
"You have to be careful, Damon. He's old and crafty." Stefan cautions.
It is true worry, not exasperation, weighing his voice. Though appreciated, it's altogether unnecessary.
Finally, underneath a bunch of heartsease wrapped tightly in red silk, Damon's finger brush against soft metal. He slips the locket into his hand, the silver chain slipping between his fingers. It sits comfortably in the heart of his palm, about the size of an egg, glistening in the sunlight like it's been recently polished. As it always has, the glinting silver is both cool and warm to the touch, alive yet dormant. He swipes a thumb over its face, across the two writhing snakes engraved there, the reptiles overlapping and twisting around each other above a sea of swirling runes Damon doesn't understand.
"Good thing I have a crafty, Cassandra-approved dagger," Damon says, only half here.
He twists the locket around.
Damon had once learned Katherine's real name by doing much the same with an old brooch, and while this locket also has an inscription in the back, it is four initials, not a full name, that stare back at him. C.M.G.W. He still has no idea what the G stands for, but he knows the rest.
Cassandra wore this locket day and night, even to sleep. She never took it off, much like her rings. After finding out the truth about her brother's ring, he's starting to think maybe this is much more important than he realized. If that's so, Damon can only hope she can forgive him for keeping it hidden, for being so selfish he couldn't give it up.
"She okay with that plan?" Stefan's question snaps him out of it. At his assenting hum, Stefan adds, "is she gonna be there?"
"She has to. Elijah's pretending to be her cousin. A lie he announced in front of everyone, by the way," Damon says as he locks the box again, slipping the locket with the key into his pocket. Stefan huh-s. "Don't start, Stefan."
Because his little brother has inevitably reached the same conclusion Damon has: Elijah and Cassandra were once a lot closer than both let on. Not that he believes it to be a real conflict of interest, but he does wish she didn't have to come to this dinner.
"No, uh, I'm not starting anything, just…" Stefan hesitates. "I'm worried." He's not the only one. "Is she okay?"
"I think so, yeah."
"Good." Stefan sighs, the sound a heavy rush of air. Damon scowls. "I should go back in. Keep me posted?"
They disconnect the call right after Damon assures him he'll let him know how the night goes. Stefan returns to the lake house, most likely to try and convince Elena not to lay down her life. He places the wooden box back on the shelf, begins idly browsing through shirt options for tonight.
His brother might be under a lot of stress right now, but he's fixing it. The wolves aren't a problem anymore, they're kicking Elijah off the gameboard tonight, all they have to do is figure out a way to stop Klaus before he breaks the Curse and feels like using Cassandra as the vampire for the sacrifice in some sort of poetic vengeance. Damon's on it. He'll fix it.
He's been staring at the same two shirts for over a minute.
"The charcoal one is nicer."
Damon lets go of the shirts, leaving them to swing from their hangers in a swish of fabric, and turns at the voice.
Cassandra leans against the bedframe, ankles crossed as she lets the poster bear most of her weight.
"How long have you been there?"
Her eyes are bright and a secret grin pulls at the corner of her mouth. It's all Damon needs to know she's been there for a while without his noticing.
"Enough to know Stefan's worried about me," she shrugs. Her finger points behind him. "And you keep a secret box at the back of your closet."
She pushes off the frame, using the momentum to walk closer. She's already dressed for dinner, exchanging the outfit from earlier for a black miniskirt and a midnight-blue top made of some soft-looking material, a matching waist-length cardigan slipped around her shoulders. Gone are the curls, instead, her hair flows down her back completely straight. Her heels are so high she's almost as tall as he is. Damon can't stray his eyes from the glimpse of thigh the slit in her skirt reveals.
She looks so pretty in blue.
Cassandra peers over his shoulder. "Is it porn?"
"What?"
With a dip of her head, she gestures to the closet again. "The box at the back of your closet, is it porn?"
"No, that's not—" Damon shakes his head, chuckling. She raises her eyebrows, expectant eyes glittering. "I don't need to—"
He stops. A grin unfurls across her face, full of trouble. It doesn't get any more fun with age, falling for her teasing, but it remains just as infuriating.
"Are you nervous about tonight?" he asks instead.
"Aw, look at you, changing the subject like you didn't get all pink." Cassandra juts her bottom lip out, eyebrows stitched together in a perfect pout. "You're so cute."
He is not. She is, though, half bathed in sunlight and that sweetness in her eye that does nothing to hide the mischief sparking underneath. She's a menace, an adorable, beautiful menace whose evasion tactics would work further if he didn't know her so well.
"And look at you, evading the question like you aren't nervous." Damon croons.
Cassandra shrugs, each corner of her mouth tugging down in a meh motion.
"I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine," she adds when he remains unconvinced.
And she looks fine, aside from the fact that she showed up two hours early already dressed. And she has some sort of friendship going on with Elijah that's too vague for Damon's peace of mind. And their collective survival tonight rests on Alaric not slipping and missing Elijah's heart by accident.
"Are you… nervous?" Cassandra asks tentatively, like she's dipping her toe in to test the temperature of the pool.
Damon scoffs. "No."
"Good!" Cassandra nods, emphatic.
Damon mhms. There's a beat of silence where they're both more than happy to ignore their very obvious lies. When he speaks, it is only because her gaze has once more strayed curiously toward the closet.
"I wanted to give you something."
Cassandra's attention darts back to him immediately, her eyes that pretty shade of green they turn when she's pleasantly surprised.
"Really? What?" she asks.
Damon clears his throat, ignores the way his heart begins to beat madly inside his chest, and reaches into his pocket. He pulls at the long, thin rope chain. Cassie realizes what it is before it's fully out of his pocket, her eyes clear, her eyebrows relax and her lips part in the softest of gasps. She looks up at him, a question that's half-hopeful, half-apprehensive plain on her face.
"I should have returned it sooner." Damon admits with a shrug that's more uncertain than anything else. "But I—" he halts, bites back the words that were about to leave him. He lifts the locket by the chain, lets it dangle between them. It twirls and twists on its own, slowly turning on itself, sunlight bouncing off the back, until the front faces her. Then, it stops. "This is what you were looking for, right? When we went to Duke."
"Yes." She whispers.
Her eyes don't stray from the locket as she gathers the necklace up on one hand. Her fingers trace the snakes on its face before twisting it around, as if needing to reassure herself this is the real thing and not a pretty good copy. Once her thumb brushes the G thinly engraved there, Cassandra clutches the locket to her chest like it's the most precious thing in this world.
"You—I mean, did you find it there? At Duke?" She breathes. Damon's chest tightens, an inexplicable knot forms in his throat. "I looked everywhere. I thought if it wasn't there, then it had been lost forever."
"No—I, uh," he clears his throat. It doesn't help the words come out any easier. "I found it in your room. Right after I turned."
Cassandra's face darkens into an expression as cold and distant as the winter sky, sad and harsh all at once. She takes a step back; her fingers tighten around the locket still in her hand.
"You went through my stuff?"
"I thought you were dead." Damon reminds her with a raised eyebrow of his own.
He's not admitting he took the necklace because it felt like a part of her would always be with him. Nor is he admitting the only reason he's giving it back is that she proposed they looked to the future together and it had sounded like a promise that she'd stay by his side for at least a couple more years. He hopes to turn those years into decades.
"I should have given it to you when you came back." He repeats.
"Yes, you should have." Cassandra admonishes, lips pursed. She studies the locket again, fingers playing with the length of chain, until Damon can't fight the urge to stand closer any longer. He takes the two steps necessary for him to be within her personal space. She glances at him from under mascara-heavy lashes. "You have kept this all these years?"
Her voice is tight with an emotion Damon can't discern. It sounds like disbelief. It sounds like heartache.
"I may have misplaced it for a little while." Her eyes widen, alarmed. "But I was able to track it down in the 60s to some museum in London," Damon rushes to reassure before she can say anything, lifting his hands. "They were not happy about its disappearance."
Cassandra narrows her eyes at him, her lips press into a stern line.
"You stole this from a museum in London." She deadpans.
"Recovered." Damon corrects. "It was mine."
He shrugs like it meant nothing, mouth sharpening into a smirk that smooths into a smile when Cassandra laughs like she can't help herself, biting into the corner of her cheek in pretend exasperation.
"Thank you," she says. "We should probably have a word later about what the right time to return lost property is, but I suppose if anyone was going to keep this, it should be you. No one else would look after it so well."
Damon's throat tightens. Never has anyone made him feel as appreciated as she does.
"Let me." He requests.
Cassandra turns on her heels, holding either end of the necklace up for him to do the clasp. Damon gathers her long hair in his hands, draws it aside and over her shoulder carefully. Lavender and vanilla mix with the same perfume she'd worn on her birthday, different to the one she wears daily but just as nice.
He takes both ends of the clasp from her, leans so close his breath ruffles the hairs by her ear. Or maybe she steps closer. All Damon knows is they're too close for him to really see what he's doing. All Damon knows is the sound of her breathing, the shiver that slithers down his spine, the color of her hair, the skin her neckline exposes, how this close he can trace the shadow of her freckles under the makeup. Her small frame pressed against his chest. All Damon knows is he can't breathe.
He fastens the clasp with fumbling fingers. It takes him two tries.
Cassandra presses a soft kiss to his cheek. A small, chaste kiss, lighter than a feather, that somehow steals the breath from him all over again.
"Thanks," she whispers.
His nose bumps against her cheek. Their eyes meet for the length of a skipped heartbeat, her nose brushes against the bridge of his before Damon captures her lips with his.
Cassandra steps until she's completely pressed against him, and her arms snake around his waist. Her lips part slightly as she kisses him back. The hand he'd kept on her neck glides until it drapes over her shoulders, pulling her closer. Nothing ever seems close enough. His other hand finds a home underneath her jaw, thumb rubbing at the spot before her ear. She sighs against him, such an irresistible little sound.
Their eyes meet after they part, breath mixes. Damon doesn't want to step away. He wants to keep her here, in his heart, and somehow make up for two-months' worth of wrongs. Make up for the day he decided to stop running after every redhead he saw who had the same shade of red hair as her. He wants to throw her on that bed, dinner party be damned, and kiss every inch of her body so when he finally says he loves her, she'll believe him.
"So, what else is in that box?" Cassandra asks, eyebrows wiggling and fingers twisting into the hair at the nape of his neck.
Damon rolls his eyes. "Will you shut up about the damn box?"
Cassandra tilts forward, chin lifted, and green eyes darkened with a challenge.
"Make me."
Oh, this woman is going to be the death of him. His hand finds the underside of her chin, fingers splaying across her jaw. Damon catches a glimpse of the silky heat darkening her eyes before he kisses her again. The box and its contents fall from their minds.
In a premeditated move, Elijah is late, which leaves them in the strangest dinner party Cassandra has ever been a part of for around thirty minutes or so. Andy was the first to arrive, fifteen minutes early, declaring she had to commandeer the kitchen or else this dinner would be a disaster.
She had not appreciated the fact Cassandra had already cooked—with Damon's help, after they'd finished one of their tensest conversation-slash-arguments to date, so it's a night full of firsts. Of course, dinner would have been a disaster if he'd been left to his own devices, but she's a good enough leader than he'd managed to transfer his only-Italian-oh-and-chili cooking skills into refined French cuisine. If this was to be Elijah's last meal in a while, it would be a nice one.
No, Andy was not happy about it, but Jenna was elated. Jenna, who had awkwardly not arrived with Alaric but with Andy and a paper bag full of ingredients that would somehow turn into dessert. Jenna and Andy were a little sketchy on the details.
Considering Elena burns water, and the only experience Jeremy has with baking involves recreational drugs, Cassandra doesn't have much hope for dessert. She'll be having Earl Grey.
Alaric arrived in time down to the second. His face had stretched into an awkward, tight-lipped smile when he'd met with Jenna in the foyer. Cassandra watched them tiptoe around each other and hold tense conversation where each word and phrase felt like a bomb that needed diffusing even with its nice tone, and retired to the library.
It is there that Damon and Alaric join her. Damon, cool as a cucumber, bounces down the stairs to the lower level, sending her a flirty smirk paired with that maddening eye-thing he does on his way to the bourbon. Alaric, so anxious he's thrumming with energy, follows.
"This is a bad idea." He grumbles.
Damon shrugs, blasé as he uncaps the liquor and begins pouring glass after significant glass. Alaric watches with an unhappy scowl pinching his features. He looks like a disgruntled bulldog.
"There is no such thing as a bad idea, just poorly-executed awesome ones," says Damon. Cassandra rolls her eyes, good-naturedly. That is just not true. "Ric?"
Alaric refuses the bourbon with a shake of his head. Damon tilts the glass, attempting to temp.
"No." Alaric shakes his head, unamused.
Damon rolls his eyes with his whole head, dropping the rejected glass on the tray and picking up the other two. He gestures to it with his head, letting Alaric know it'll be there when he changes his mind.
"I understand why I'm the one doing this, but Jenna wasn't supposed to be here when it happened."
Alaric angles his body so he can lay a stern look on both a sitting Cassandra and Damon. His hands find his waist in his best disappointed teacher pose. Cassandra swipes a hand, dismissing any blame put on her. She would have preferred for judge-y Jenna to not be a part of this, either.
"You think I want Cassandra here?" Damon scoffs on his way to her. Glancing at Alaric over his shoulder, he adds, "deal with it."
Oh, yes, he'd made his feelings about her attending perfectly clear, which is why she's having a little trouble believing this overconfident act, even if the plan they devised is pretty good, considering all the variables and loose ends. If Katherine were here, she'd laugh. Cassandra, however, has come to realize that somehow overly detailed plans fail in Mystic Falls and it is the loose, short-stepped ones that thrive.
"I thought we'd already discussed this." She drones, looking up at him from her propped up hand on the armrest.
She'd picked her favorite chair, a cosy wingback armchair right by the fire that was probably as old as the house.
"We did; I'm still not happy about it." Damon quips, handing her one of the glasses. "Here you go."
Their fingers brush. She smiles at him in thanks; Damon nods in acknowledgement before he makes for the desk, where the dagger is hidden amongst a pile of books and old documents.
"Elijah won't hurt Jenna. He's a man of his word." Cassandra assures Alaric. "You have nothing to worry about."
She takes a sip of the bourbon, eyes jumping back to Damon. He's got his back to them, but from this angle she can see what Alaric cannot. Damon dips the dagger into the white oak ash in a slow and controlled movement until the tip connects with the bottom of the bottle with a quiet tink.
"I have everything to worry about!" Alaric bursts out, taut.
Damon abandons the readied dagger, facing them by leaning on the desk. He looks neither amused nor surprised at Alaric's outburst, but terse in a cold and quiet kind of way.
The only other time Cassandra ever saw Alaric raise his voice was in that clearing, when he'd realized Stefan set him up as bait. It's a dark memory, one she's quick to brush off.
"He's still a vampire, coming to a secret vampire's house. Even if we don't consider the actual danger, do you have any idea of the amount of lies I'm trying to keep track of?" Alaric hisses, lowering his voice and gesturing with his hands. He brings one up to his forehead, fingers massaging his temples. "Not to mention John stirring the pot."
Cassandra straightens in her seat, stifling a sigh. If Alaric doesn't find a way to put aside his personal issues, they are going to fail. She refuses to die before she can break Niklaus' nose for not telling her he was a hybrid, dormant gene or not.
"Okay! Here's what we're not doing tonight. We're not going to panic, or spiral." She begins. With a flick of her finger, she bids Alaric sit down. "You are a vampire hunter, Ric, I'm sure you can handle a few little lies."
Alaric hesitates, eyes darting from her to the couch as he shuffles, switching his weight from foot to foot. She levels him with a look. The man sits down, legs spread apart and elbows on knees. His furrowed brows do not relax.
"Besides, I'll make sure Elijah thinks all this dinner is," Damon says from across them, "is a little fact-finding mission."
Gone is the playful air from before, replaced by a terse seriousness that means business. There's a lot on the line for him tonight. Elijah dead means he's managed to protect his home and the short list of people he cares about for another day. It's a win. He could use a win. Not to mention his trust issues are not enthusiastic about Alaric being the only one able to wield the dagger.
"A fact-finding mission?" Alaric repeats, dubious.
"You know, picking his brain for any clues as to how he's planning to take on Klaus."
Damon speaks with a tone that suggests Alaric should have already known that. Cassandra certainly has an idea, albeit vague, even if the mere subject leaves her skin prickling in the most uncomfortable way, like she wants to slip out of her own body.
Alaric sends Damon a half-hearted glare, before squinting at Cassandra.
"Will that work?" he checks.
"If done right, yes." With Cassandra's reassurance that she'd stay out of his way and that Elena would walk willingly to slaughter, Elijah will be willing to disclose certain information, maybe even enough for her to connect the rest of the dots. "Now, listen, here's how this is going to go. We'll have a nice, lovely dinner, enjoy the food, chat, all that. After dinner, you gentlemen will retire here, to the library."
"Where I keep the best liquor." Damon explains, sipping at his own bourbon. With raised eyebrows and a conniving smirk, he tacks on, "and where the fact-finding will happen."
Cassandra's eyes find the ceiling at the theatrics, she bites the corner of her mouth to stop a smile. It isn't funny, nor is it the time to joke around, but she can't help it if she finds him fun even when he's infuriating.
"Then, dessert." She continues. Damon winks at her. When she turns to Alaric, Cassandra has to clear her throat to ensure no laughter remains in her voice. "Elijah is charming, something Andy and Jenna will eat up. He'll get distracted, let down his guard, and probably talk about the civil war or some other moment in American history Mystic Falls is obsessed with, and that's when you'll strike."
Alaric nods along, soaking up every detail.
"He's stronger, and faster, than me, Ric. Than Cassie." Damon tells Alaric. He crosses his arms and points at Alaric in warning. A dark cloud settles over his face. "So, it's all about the element of surprise. You'd better not miss."
"Whatever you do, do not take the dagger out." Cassandra emphasizes.
Alaric looks from Cassandra to Damon and back around before running a hand down the length of his face.
"God, I hate this." He complains, groaning. "Why couldn't we schedule this for next week?"
Damon scoffs. "What, and give you longer to back out?"
"Fine. Okay."
"Yeah?" Cassandra checks, unconvinced. Alaric nods. "Great, because there's a tiny secret you need to add to your list."
That's enough for Alaric to groan and rise to his feet, walking to were the extra glass of bourbon sits by its lonesome on the tray. The glass of bourbon he'd supposedly been too fed up to claim.
"In exchange for some crucial information, I may have told Elijah I would remain quasi-neutral in this whole thing, and to even suggest I am in on this would reflect terribly on me." Cassandra continues.
Alaric pauses, tumbler glass halfway up to his mouth. After a beat of just staring at her, his eyes trail to Damon.
"To summarize, take her involvement to your grave, if necessary." Damon confirms this is indeed not a badly timed joke.
That's enough for Alaric to knock back his head and drain the glass in one swell gulp.
"Not that I will let it get that far." Cassandra reassures. The history teacher doesn't even flinch at the burn of the alcohol. She's torn between being impressed and concerned. "Just—pretend I know nothing. This conversation never happened."
The tray bangs loudly as Alaric sets the crystal tumbler down with a little more force than necessary. He uncaps the decanter, pouring another finger of bourbon into the glass.
"What crucial information?" Alaric asks, setting the decanter back. She and Damon share a glance. Alaric's hands return to his hips. "You two are hiding stuff."
Yes.
She'd felt bad about not being truthful about Niklaus. And Damon was stressing about Elijah having promised to kill her, and now pretending to be family and how he doesn't want you implicated in this when the man's just looking for a reason to kill you and so she'd talked. Not the truth about 1883 and New Orleans, but how she and Elijah had reached neutral ground because she'd discovered all the different versions of The Curse, how he'd been forced to confess the truth of it. In exchange, she'd agreed to stay out of Elijah's way. An agreement she broke almost immediately after when she told Damon to use the dagger.
Damon was somewhat mollified by this. And he'd once more promised to keep what she said about the Curse to himself. Cassandra pretending to be as clueless as Jenna about what this dinner is really about was the compromise they'd finally settled on. Which is absolutely fine, considering the only way Elijah wouldn't eavesdrop in on their conversations would be if they pass notes like in class.
"I think it'd be best if we all pretend this conversation never happened." She suggests. "And avoid any future conversations about the subject. Elijah has some pretty good ears."
"What are you hiding?" Alaric insists.
They don't answer. She sips at her drink, deliberately at a slow pace, not so much to give off an air of nonchalance but more as a subliminal reminder to Alaric to slow it down. Bourbon is a sipping liquor and he's not a sixteen-year-old breaking into his father's cabinet. If he wants to down liquid courage like it's water, she'll give him tequila.
When the silence stretches, Alaric huffs. He shakes his head, swallows another large gulp of bourbon.
By the front of the house, the bell rings.
"Oop, there's the doorbell." Damon pipes up, clapping once before he pushes off the desk. "Show time."
Cassandra and Alaric watch him go, with her rising to follow and Alaric hesitating, fingers twirling the glass as he contemplates. She stops, placing her empty glass on the tray beside him.
"If it's something important, I should know." Alaric tells her. "Jenna—"
"Jenna will be fine." Cassandra interrupts with a benign smile. She tilts her head, places one hand on his arm. "Don't worry about it, okay? You've got enough on your plate."
Alaric considers her for a moment, before nodding. He drinks some more; his glass lands beside hers on the tray, now empty.
"Let's go." He dips his head toward the steps. "We shouldn't leave Damon without supervision for too long."
"Understatement of the century."
Despite the situation, Cassandra and Alaric share a smile at the joke.
Despite it having been a joke, it is true that they shouldn't have left Damon without supervision for too long. Because the person at the door turned out to be John Gilbert not Elijah, and Damon and Jenna had floundered to come up with the perfect excuse as to why John wasn't welcome.
Alaric and Cassandra run into him in the foyer, finding him with a glass of red wine and talking with Andy by one of the Boarding House's many original artworks.
"There you are!" Andy calls, waving them over. "I'm not sure if you've all met."
Instead of continuing towards the door, where a sullen Damon remains, she and Alaric walk further into the foyer. Andy smiles flirtatiously at Alaric, and Cassandra decides it's not so much that Andy is interested in everyone and more that she's discovered the suggestion of sex can be a powerful tool in networking.
"Cassandra, Alaric, this is John Gilbert." She gestures between them and John. Her voice is the practiced tone of journalism that makes anything sound peppy and fun. "John used to be part of the Historical Society before he skipped town."
John chuckles wryly, playing into Andy's teasing undertone. "Ah, well, you know how it is, was trying to expand my knowledge in a hands-on way." His eyes land on Cassandra, ensuring she gets the double meaning behind it. As if she didn't already know he'd been expanding his knowledge by hunting vampires. "But I'm glad to be back, for however short a visit it may be."
The doorbell rings. There's a lull in their conversation where everyone aware of who and what Elijah is stills for a moment. Damon opens the door.
"Good evening," Elijah says at the same time Alaric mentions:
"John and I have already met before," to Andy, the group far enough from the door that the humans can hear voices but not discern words.
"Thank you for coming." Damon welcomes. "Please, come in."
"Oh, of course, Jenna!" Andy taps her forehead as if to say how could I forget?
"Just one moment," Elijah interjects, effectively sending Cassandra's heart into a frenzy. She glances towards the door out of the corner of her eye. This deep into the room she can only glimpse Damon's arm holding the door open. No Elijah. "Can I just say that I you have less than honorable intentions—"
"I also used to be friends with Alaric's ex-wife," adds John, breaking Cassandra's concentration with the unexpected declaration. "We went to school together."
Oh, so John's starting with his pettiness early. Excellent.
Andy gasps like this is the best and most exciting coincidence in the land. Cassandra's got to hand it to her, she's a great interviewer. John leans back into his spine, stands taller, faces Alaric with a smug expression. Poor Alaric looks like he swallowed a lemon.
"Well, I'll be!" Andy shakes her head, pops her hip. "What a small world."
Cassandra hums along, pretending to find this conversation as riveting as she does.
"No, nothing—nothing dishonorable." By the door, Damon assures. Cassandra wishes he sounded more certain. "Just getting to know you."
John continues to more or less ignore her, happy to entertain Andy with all his digs at Alaric. The history teacher, however, sends her a questioning look, tipping his head towards the front door only just. No doubt has he caught up on how this particular welcome has gone on longer than any other.
"Hmm. Well, that's good," Elijah says. With a tone that suggests it is everything but. "Because, you know, although Elena and I have this deal, and regardless of whatever regard I have for Cassandra, if you so—"
Shit.
"Excuse me a moment." Cassandra apologizes, cutting John off.
"Oh, of course. Go ahead." Andy urges, smiling at her with knowing eyes.
It takes a lot for Cassandra not to grimace. But, if Andy thinks she's clingy, that's absolutely fine by her, considering she's trying to prevent a murder. She meets Alaric's eyes for a moment before walking past John and out of the foyer.
"—kill you and I'll kill everyone in this house." Elijah finishes, placid, as Cassandra goes up the final step to the door. "Are we clear?"
Damon squints, taps the door with the flat of his hand. "Crystal."
"How droll." Cassandra remarks, sarcastic. She walks until she stands next to Damon, arms crossed. "Perhaps this is why you don't have many friends."
Elijah regards her with the same scrutiny she does him. He looks impeccable in a suit, every piece of clothing carefully selected and tailored. He has no weapons on him and neither does she, which is, no doubt, what he's checking for. Once he's done, Elijah spares Damon a fleeting glance before he steps over the threshold. Finally.
"Oh, I was merely making sure your latest boytoy and I were on the same page." Elijah drawls, the picture of civility. Her top lip trembles, she has to fight the urge to show him her teeth and hiss at the insinuation. "Dishonesty is hardly the foundation of friendship, or any sort of relationship, for that matter."
It's a slap in the face, so smoothly delivered only she is able to catch the message underneath. Damon hears it as Elijah alluding to his offer of friendship. Cassandra hears it for what it truly is, a reminder that she's a liar.
"Ah, Jenna!" Elijah calls.
The perfect gentleman, he strides over to Jenna, who appears a little lost. Likely because her friends are all huddled together making conversation without her.
"Elijah," greets Jenna.
In the other room, Alaric perks up at the sound of her voice, staring at her over his shoulder. Elijah offers her his arm, and the two disappear down the hallway in search of wine. If looks could kill, Alaric wouldn't need a dagger, Elijah would be dead from the sheer force of his glare.
"Tonight's off to a great start." Damon comments, pulling a face.
"Mmhmm." Cassandra peers at him, taking care to match his quiet volume. "You couldn't get rid of John, really?"
"Trust me, honey, short of snapping his neck, I was out of options." He grumbles. "Man would not budge."
Damon rolls his eyes, gently nudging her out of the way so he can close the door. She tries really hard not to linger on the endearment and fails. Her heart does a little ooh!
Cassandra twists to face him, arms crossed, finger pads sinking into the soft cashmere of her cardigan. "Murder is always an option."
She doesn't want John here, doesn't want him getting under Alaric's skin, or saying the wrong thing to Elijah. He's the worst kind of snake without any of the intelligence and Cassandra doesn't need him meddling when she's already trying to keep up four different façades.
Damon chuckles. Some of the tension that had settled on his shoulder since she refused to go home melts into nothing, washing away the sharpness in his gaze which becomes petal soft when he reaches her.
"Easy." He mock-scolds. Cassandra scrunches up her nose in answer. "He may still prove useful."
Damon puts his hands on both her shoulders, thumbs rubbing at the muscles right above her collarbones. It helps a little.
"When he doesn't," he whispers, leaning close. His lips brush against her ear with every word, shooting tiny tingles down her spine. "He's all yours."
Cassandra nods, straightening her spine and uncrossing her arms like the mere sentence didn't get her warm all over. Killing John Gilbert, my, what a gift.
Damon steps back, catching her hand as he goes. Cassandra lets him lead her towards the others, gathered exactly where she left them, and lets out a slow, controlled breath. This is all going to be fine. She's not about to waste time being angry at John, when that's exactly what he wants. Instead, Cassandra adopts the version of herself she always uses in situations where she plays human: softer edges, nice smiles, clever enough to partake in adult conversation but with a remaining air of naiveté attributed to her short years, English accent practically non-existent. Tweaked slightly to make up for those who know the truth, yet convincing enough for Jenna, and Andy to an extent.
Sparing her a final glance over his shoulder, Damon sidles next to Alaric. He gives her hand a brief squeeze. She squeezes back. They let go and slip into the conversation like they'd always been a part of it.
Let the games begin.
A/N: Here you go! I hope you like this chapter. Reviews have been a little scarce lately, so I hope you enjoy this chapter a little more than the last few.
Onto reviews:
Eennio: Thank you! x
Guest: Hi! She is not related to The Originals by blood in any way. Elijah only said that because he suspects Damon is planning something untoward, and to remind her that she was almost family to them all during the late 19th Century, early 20th, and even during her human years to an extent. It's sort of a 'if I have to go, then you'd best be there so I can keep an eye on you in case you betray me' but also a 'remember how close we were, you really want to ruin all that again?' sort of thing. So sorry for the confusion xx
Essay Guest: Thanks! I know but god how I frustrated I got when I realized it'd all been lost lol I know it is a filler but personally, last chapter turned out to be one of my favourites so far because of what you said, all the shifts in dynamics was super fun to write. I'm glad you liked it, and I hope you enjoy this one! Already there's a bit of polite snark going on xx