A/N: Here we are!
Again, another month-long wait :( I tried my best, and still did not succeed. Even so, I split this one in half because I didn't want you to wait even longer. Also, it was quite narration-heavy and I know some of you don't love that.
So, we'll wrap up the Dinner Party episode with this one chapter and next chapter will be a series of scenes that did not take place in the show, before maybe covering the Unwanted Guest episode. We may skip most of that one, and just jump right into the scenes that will cover Cassandra's arc, because I have such little time.
I am looking for a job that allows me more of a social schedule, because I genuinely can't keep working 12 hour long shifts for shit pay, it's killing me and affecting my health, which affects my writing. Unfortunately, that means what little time I have free I spend browsing for job listings, which is why this chapter took so long! I had most of it written last month when I published last chapter!
Anyway, thank you so much for the continuous support, and thanks to all new readers! Let me know what you thought of this chapter, and I'll see you as soon as I can.
Forgive any spelling errors my beta's away until next week and I didn't want to wait.
CW: alcohol use, sexual themes, suggestive imagery.
Dark Side.
Chapter 46: The Dinner Party. Part III.
The Kingdom of Navarre, Iberia, 1498.
As Cassandra had originally feared, failure had once more claimed her, and the price was much too steep.
It had taken ten weeks for her to infer the breaking of the Curse without a doppelgänger was impossible. It had taken ten weeks and ten hours for Cassandra to decide she would not remain in Navarre nor wait for Niklaus's reaction to such a revelation. That decision had proven fatal, just as she'd feared, more so than explaining her failure.
She had known—of course she had known—that Niklaus would react violently. Recklessly. Act first before he thought it through. It had still wounded her, the pain his teeth had wrought, more than in a merely physical manner. She'd grown to trust him, in those ten weeks, to care for him.
Cassandra had grown to expect the sting of his fangs to be followed by the softness and warmth of his lips and mouth.
He had ruined it all by attacking her just out of spite.
Run you because you thought I would kill you? he had asked in a low voice silky with a menace he had never once directed at her, not even when they'd first met and he'd attempted to intimidate her into submission.
Those who oppose you live not for long, Cassandra had replied with a truth that had cut him deeper than any stake could. His face had fractured. Some vital facet of his very soul shattered behind his eyes as she'd confessed.
After that, it had been more about fusing his pride back together than acting on the fury Cassandra imagined had boiled within him at her failing the solitary task she'd been given.
She would be dead, were it not for Elijah's timely entrance.
Elijah had ensured the wound healed, had sat with her as she borrowed strength from his blood and made it her own, had taken her to her chambers. He had profusely apologised for his brother's transgressions.
Niklaus had not.
Cassandra suspected he was saving it for that night, when they were finally alone to consummate the marriage for the first time. He would ask for privacy, he'd assured her weeks before, claiming her nerves would worsen with an audience. In truth, it was a clever lie to mask how well-acquainted they were already with each other's bodies. A fact born out of curiosity and carnal want rather than love, on her part.
Unfortunately for Niklaus, an apology five days late was an apology too late. Especially when four hours ago Cassandra had decided there would be no wedding.
Death was certain, however, and Cassandra grew desperate. After all, only a desperate fool would enter a bargain with Katerina Petrova, who's name had picked up quite the infamy in several supernatural circles the past few years.
Katerina was a young vampire, risking everything in her search for vengeance, however brief, against Niklaus. Cassandra was a young witch, risking everything to have her story be more than the tortured human bride to a cruel vampire king. Though under different circumstances, they had both lost their families. They shared more similarities than not. Understanding had bridged them together from the first instant of their chance meeting, by the boundaries of Niklaus' estate as she surveyed the land for an escape route and Katerina searched a way in to find her.
If Katerina Petrova were to be trusted, there would be a ship at the harbour, waiting for her. Katerina would be aboard, and they'd set sail the moment her feet touched the deck. Cassandra had only three hours to gather her belongings and escape Niklaus's fortress. A more difficult feat than it'd appeared, considering her failed first attempt.
An attempt that had lent her further wisdom. This time, instead of spectacle, she would be a ghost in a church. She would be as invisible as a chambermaid.
The servants' corridors were within the walls, a labyrinthine set of tunnels spiderwebbing up and down the building, damp and dark, lit up only by scarce sconces along the stone. With the wedding due to take place in only two hours, most servants were in a hectic state, finishing all remaining tasks in an effort not to be found wanting. The others were looking for her.
Cassandra had noticed it as she slipped behind a tapestry on her way to the servant tunnels on the east wing. Arlessa had found her missing and given the alarm, unknowingly dooming her rather than saving her as her lovely lady's maid surely believed. Now, those who had finished all their work frantically rushed about, together with a couple dozen guards who were either searching for her alleged assailants or willing to return her to her betrothed's side by sheer force.
Cassandra rushed down the steep stairs, the tunnel so narrow the bulk of her wedding gown dragged against the walls on either side of her, tugging dusty cobwebs and other debris along. The ceiling, too, was much lower here, so much so Cassandra was certain were she a more acceptable height she would only need to stand on tiptoe for the top of her head to grace the rough stone doming above her. Niklaus, certainly, would not be able to stand upright in such a tunnel.
The memory of her intended had Cassandra stumbling, fingers twisting in the strings of her satchel, full of the few possessions she could not bear to part with. The lowered ceiling and near walls meant she was close to the end of the tunnel.
Indeed, it was not long until she saw the bright outline of a door, all straight edges except for the top where it slanted into an arrowpoint.
The breath caught in her throat, the sight of it alone quelling the panicked beating of her heart. She was free! And with time to spare!
This passageway led to a secret alcove by the sea, hidden by seaweed-covered rocks and water too shallow for it to have any use. Its location also meant half the tunnel would flood in times of high tide, explaining its disuse and poor shape. None of the other tunnels she'd taken had been this filthy, yet tar and green goop marred her slippers and stained the silver hem of her gown as she traipsed down the last few steps.
The salty smell of the ocean grew stronger when Cassandra reached the last corridor: a straight path half-illuminated a watery white by the sunlight bleeding through the door, left open after continuous exposure to seawater and harsh sunlight had rotten it beyond repair.
Her feet sank into the dark gunk covering the floors, gathering at the edges at least four inches high. The silver band at the hem of her gown was completely obscured by filth, and now the mud deriving from months of sand, seawater, seaweed and Odin knew what else threatened the teal velvet of her skirts.
It saddened her to see it ruined. Such a beautiful wedding gown, handstitched to fit her like a glove, silver and blue-green and with her preferred neckline, allowing for her locket to rest right on her chest bone, the milky grey of her chemise peeking only just. Cassandra loved everything about this gown, from the length of the train to the silver cords lacing either side of the body. She loved the embroidered flowers climbing like vines up the sides of the skirt, the emerald green filigree cord accenting the hem of her bodice, tricking the eye where the two garments met.
She'd waited this day with such earnestness, she even liked how Arlessa had styled her hair: brushed with lavender oil until the curls turned to smooth waves, a series of scattered braids draped over a small bun at the back of her head, and flowers slipped into the tresses all over. So many flowers, as many as she'd liked, all of vibrant colours, regardless of how much Niklaus despised the scent. His gift to her, he'd jested.
Cassandra would have been happy here, with him, despite Kol's aversion toward her—if only he'd restrained from showing his true colours.
Perhaps it is a blessing, she pondered, balancing on the doorframe—rusted and sticky with excess salt—as she tugged her left foot free from a particularly thick pile of gunk.
The unrelenting substance held strong like the teeth of a jörmungandr, unwilling to let go of its prey regardless of how hard Cassandra tugged. She huffed, willing her mind to remain serene.
Yes, every second that passed counted, but she was almost there, and this passage was hidden. Nobody would find her. The path she'd chosen down to the harbour was secluded, abandoned due to rough weather—no one would think to look for a highborn lady there. She was safe yet.
Her foot would not go free. Cassandra could feel the slime between her toes, infiltrating her shoe and sipping into her stocking.
A second attempt at escape would go unforgiven by all...
It mattered not, for she would be alright.
Nobody—Cassandra placed both hands around the doorframe; the rough stone on the other side scraped her fingertips—would—she tilted forward, letting her hands and the rusted metal support all her weight—find—Cassandra ensured her right foot was steady—her—with all her strength, she pushed back, kicking at the goop encasing her left foot as she did so.
The momentum had her careening backwards, the jagged metal of the doorframe cutting into the skin of her palm as her fingers slipped. Cassandra gasped, relaxing her hands on instinct. Left foot still in the air, her right slipped. Her heart skipped a beat, her breath escaped.
The world tilted, a blurry of bright white orbs, slanted greys, and righted as Cassandra fell against something firm yet warm—a presence that had become familiar, and one that had not been there a moment ago.
The sound that left her was more terrified animal than girl, high-pitched, frail and incoherent. Cassandra careened forward, arms flailing and elbows swinging. Large hands released her; Cassandra flew past the door and landed amongst the lazy waves that ebbed into the alcove with a splash.
The velvet of her gown greedily swallowed the seawater. Rivulets of cool water trickled down her face, plastering her hair to the right side of her face. Cassandra cared not—all she could do was stare, like a defenceless deer faced with the imminent end of its life, at Elijah.
"You cannot do this," he said in a stilted voice, rougher than she was accustomed to.
When he took a step, Cassandra scrambled back with hands and heels, her knees tangling with the fabric of her skirt and the wounds in her palms stinging something fierce in the salty water. Elijah paused for the length of time it takes a thought to form, and then he strode forward.
"Please." She blurted out, arching her body away. The Original paid no heed to her plead; he was not deterred in the slightest by her lunging to her knees then her feet, leaping out of his way. His hands found her arms, anyway. "Please! Elijah, release me."
Cassandra struggled, twisting in his hold, pushing away with her feet. Elijah barely moved, but her efforts unsettled the water, had the sunlight fracturing into glinting pearls that blinded her and hurt her head. Everything around her gained a misty sheen.
"Pray, my lord!" Cassandra screeched, undone by the fear freezing her veins, fighting the hand that turned her face toward him. "Let me go!"
Elijah studied her countenance, eyed the small satchel that had fallen a few feet away—the few possessions she had made with, how unlike herself to relinquish the rest, betraying her deep desire to escape. This was no mere childish endeavour, a challenge posed to her betrothed to prove her salt. Cassandra saw it dawn on Elijah as he peered deep into her eyes, the outlines of his face shimmery through her sunlit tears.
"What happened before," Elijah began, struggling to find the correct words. His voice hitched with a tight emotion Cassandra recognised not, hazel eyes more green than amber. "It—it was an accident he shall regret for the rest of his life."
Cassandra shook her head, pulling once more at the hold that would not give.
"I cannot help him!" Cassandra cried, truly, as the tears blurring her vision treaded a path down her cheeks as hot as blood. "I cannot marry him."
Elijah's jaw worked; his Adam's apple bobbed. He gave a tiny shake of his head, slanting until his face was close to hers and their eyes met without effort.
"He loves you."
Those three little words were an utterance nearly lost to the rush of Cassandra's blood in her ears. But, oh, how they struck her right in the chest when she caught them in the wind, like a sentence from Fate itself. She squeezed her eyes shut; her knees wobbled and failed.
"If he loves me," Cassandra gasped into Elijah's shoulder, more a sob rather than any intake of breath. Her lips pressed to the fabric of his tunic. "It is in no way I understand."
She had given Niklaus a chance to prove it—his teeth had told the truth his honeyed voice and summery eyes had veiled.
"This, this will break him, Cassandra." Elijah stumbled. His voice rumbled in his chest, against her own, before his hands were once more holding her upright. "Innocents will pay the price of your betrayal, of his heartache."
Elijah's eyes were beseeching as he searched for the right words to make her stay, as if there were any. He understood not.
Her late husband had left her black, purple, and blue, had made it painful to walk, and called it love. He had nearly strangled her and called it passion. He had extended her many a good gesture, gentleness had never been one of them. Neither had consideration for what she may enjoy.
Had Niklaus's actions stemmed from a vampire's instinctual need to mark their partner, an action borne of a desire to bond and please and claim—Cassandra would have understood. Cassandra would have liked it. This... savaged retribution, she would not abide. She would not forgive.
"His actions are not my own," she said. The statement weakened by her sniffling. "I refuse to bear the blame."
Elijah's hands brushed up her arms to either side of her face. He thumbed at the tears still there, the ones she had not noticed continued to fall. His eyebrows wavered. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words could leave him.
He sighed. "Is there truly nothing I can say for you to remain with us?"
He looked so ravaged by sadness then, fresh tears bloomed in Cassandra's eyes. She would miss Elijah, her faithful companion in this crazy venture.
"Force me, if you must." Cassandra told him. Her fingers wrapped around his wrists. "But I am begging you, as my dear friend, to let me go."
Slowly, almost afraid any sudden movements would break the calm that had settled between them, Cassandra tugged at his wrists. Elijah let his hands fall back to his sides, going so far as to take a step back.
It was only in that moment that Cassandra realised malice had never marred the Original's face, not for one single second of that conversation, from when she fell into his arms to now as he granted her a chance at freedom.
As if Elijah had come after her, not under Niklaus's orders, but as a friend asking another to remain just a little while longer on the doorstep of their lives.
Mystic Falls, Present Day.
It's too late in the year for the fire to be burning, yet there it is, crackling and hissing within the fireplace in the parlour. As the flames continue their swaying dance so does the heat rise, spreading through the room and reminding Cassandra of the sun-soaked muddiness of a beach, stood half-dripping with seawater in front of Elijah.
Cassandra removes the cardigan around her shoulders, folding it and letting it rest atop her knees. It tickles the back of her hands as she plays with her locket. Teensy tiny sparks of energy thrum under her skin as the clasp clicks open and shut. It was designed to look like a small bunch of hemlock flowers, curving around the side of the locket securely and away from the writhing adder vipers superposed by an array of protective and power-giving runes. The whole thing a symbol for the term beautiful and lethal in equal measure. Quite the apt birthday present, even if adders are, generally speaking, not the most lethal vipers in the world. Never let it be said her sister had lacked a sense of humor, even as children.
So much has happened in so little time. There's a certain franticness to the air, like they're trying to outrun a tsunami but proving to be too slow.
She has her locket, her friends are about to lose someone very dear to their hearts, Damon and Caroline are still in mortal danger, Katherine is free, Niklaus is a looming storm cloud over all of them... yet all Cassandra can think about is the look on Elijah's face as Alaric daggered him. His pained screams ring in her ears.
Cassandra exhales through the knot in her chest, letting the locket fall open against her palm. Midnight blue velvet lines both insides, a color she has always favored no matter how many centuries pass.
Nestled into the velvet on the left is a thick lock of hair tied with string, each individual strand a bright red closer to golden in a way Cassandra's own hair never managed, even when she was a baby. On the right lies a tiny crystal flask, its contents see-through and odourless as water.
Lilith's Tears—Cassandra's biggest achievement as a potioneer, an honor bestowed upon her by the Grand Coven, a weapon specifically engineered against true vampire-witch hybrids such as herself. Therefore, it is ironically the only poison in the world that can kill her dead.
She considers throwing it into the fire as a precautionary measure, but it'd be useless. Niklaus likely has some of his own, stored away for the right moment, and if Elijah were to be prematurely risen, he would not resort to poisoning her. No—her demise would be decidedly much bloodier. Besides, this amount would only incapacitate her for two or so days at most. It'd hurt and she'd feel like absolute shite for the whole of it, but no death would await her at the end of that hell.
"Stefan texted," Damon's voice travels from behind her. Cassandra flicks her hand, closing the locket shut within her fist. "He and Elena will be back home sometime tonight."
Her acknowledging hum is too quiet, lost amongst the crackle of the flames and the leather sofa creaking under Damon's weight beside hers. Three tumbler glasses hanging from his fingers, Damon uncorks a new bottle of bourbon with his teeth. Cassandra exhales, dropping back until her shoulder blades meet the backrest.
A flash of green brings her attention closer to the bottle in Damon's hand. Subdued leaf-green glass with a cream label and black and red lettering. She was wrong; it's not bourbon, but single malt Scotch. Not just any single malt Scotch, but 12-year-old Lagavulin.
Salt and the moistness of peat mix with the scent of fire, the sweet fruity undertone tickling her nose in a scent she's more than familiar with. Cassandra breathes in until she can taste both scents on the back of her throat. It warms her deep inside, without even having tasted a drop.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cassandra watches Damon set one glass down on the rug and balance the other two on his thigh. How he doesn't spill half the Scotch all over his trousers is a mystery to her, though perhaps he's just that against wasting good liquor. One glass, he hands to her. The other is squeezed between his knees as he retrieves the cork from the side of his mouth.
Cassandra tips her head back, downing half the whisky in a move very similar to Alaric earlier that night. It smooths down her throat, all fruity and smoke and stronger than anything she's indulged in lately. Another deep gulp renders the glass empty. The Scotch tingles her throat, its warmth spreads down to her fingertips.
When she tilts the glass towards him, Damon fills it up again without protest. This one, she resolves to enjoy. Both Damon and Alaric prefer the sweetness of bourbon over the distinct sharpness of whisky. This brand-new bottle of Lagavulin is for her benefit and her benefit only. She's not about to tarnish the gesture by shooting it back like it's Jose Cuervo and she's bar-hopping with her sorority friends.
The cork squeaks back into the bottle. Damon settles against the cushions. Cassandra slips her locket beneath her neckline and watches the flames come together in their fast-paced dance.
"Cassie?" Damon asks after a beat. "You okay?"
It's not until he asks, all careful like she's a frightened creature prone to attacking, that she realises she hasn't spoken at all since he joined her. The silence blanketing them is heavy with cautious tension, building as it waits.
"He saved my life," Cassandra finally says. The admission is quiet and loud all at once. "About a week or so before the wedding, Ni—Klaus—" she amends with a clear of her throat—"Klaus and I got into an argument. He nearly ripped out my throat with his teeth."
Damon tenses, the barest of flinches but still noticeable to her. The fabric of his trousers shifts against the exposed skin of her thigh, his elbow slants behind hers.
It isn't easy to stomach, knowing she got so close to not being here, alive in 2010, because her fiancé gave into one of his violent outbursts.
"Elijah fed me his blood," Cassandra continues, staring at the dancing flames in front of her. "He kept pressure on the wound until the damage was healed enough that I would survive. He saved my life."
It certainly took her a long time to forgive Niklaus. A long, long time. Centuries, until he looked her in the eye and expressed how much he regretted it. Until he'd asked forgiveness and she'd caught the sincerity in his summery ocean eyes.
Damon doesn't say anything. He sips at his whisky, an action she catches from the corner of her eye. She can't bring herself to look at him. Not when her mind is at war with the memory of Elijah's friendship and their place in the world now.
"Kol was vile," Cassandra adds once the silence becomes too much. "He deserved to be daggered. But Elijah was noble and..."
My friend. Elijah had been her friend then as fiercely as he'd been her friend later on. Somehow, the friendship he'd offer her as a human mattered more, carried more weight. He'd had no real reason to save her, to go against Niklaus and let her run away. She had been small and inconsequential. Dangerous to the Originals as a great white is dangerous to an orca whale, pesky at most. He'd done it because it was right, not because he could gain something from it.
"I'm sorry," Damon says.
Cassandra's head twirls around to face him. Her eyebrows rise up her forehead, lips parted in a barely there gasp. Damon's own brows are drawn into a sympathetic frown, lips pursed as he studies her like he may find the solution to all her troubles in the most minute of her facial expressions.
Of all the things she'd expected him to do, apologize was not one of them. She wonders if he'll extend the same understanding to the remaining secrets she holds.
"Don't be." Cassandra assures him. She switches her glass from one hand to the other. Her free hand lands on his knee, palm rubbing up and down its curve. "My allegiance shifted a long time ago, long before I came back to Mystic Falls."
It's not a lie. She feels no real loyalty to the Originals, not anymore, not like she used to. Niklaus broke her heart, and since that the whole chapter has been swathed in bitterness. She's just nostalgic, torn by how ruthlessly her past and future have collided.
"Memory can be cruel sometimes, that's all." She nudges him with an elbow, adds a teasing tilt to her voice as she tacks on, "It was a good plan. I'm glad we follow you."
It works like a charm. Damon rolls his eyes, snorting around the lip of his glass.
"I think you mean Stefan, or Elena. No—not Elena. Plotting is not that girl's forte." He catches her expression and frowns, bemused. "What?"
"You're not very self-aware, are you?"
Although Cassandra's not sure what it was like before January, her time here has made it increasingly clear that, regardless of how much everyone claims to hate him, when it matters they all defer to Damon anyway. They look to him for some strange sense of leadership, plans he doesn't approve of aren't executed with as much confidence. When he speaks, everyone on his ragtag team listens, including Bonnie, which is saying something. Damon's word has weight, even when people wish it didn't. She can't believe he hasn't noticed.
"On the contrary, I am very self-aware," he says with a quirk of his eyebrows and that light tone of voice that's supposed to convince everyone he doesn't give a damn.
If only Damon knew it betrays how much he actually does care.
"About the wrong things, I think." Cassandra notes, pensive.
Damon blinks. His icy blue eyes grow hazy with the kind of shock that's sudden and stone-cold. He looks like he can't quite decide whether to be offended. It doesn't last long. His eyes flitter about her face and that same deep-rooted concern from earlier clouds over his expression, lowering his mouth and lining his face.
"Cassandra—"
"Do you need help cleaning up?" Cassandra interrupts before he can finish.
Her nails dig into the fabric of his trousers, silently asking him to drop the subject.
"Alaric's almost done." He rejects with a small shake of his head. "He said it was only fair he cleaned, since you and I cooked."
That's awfully nice of Ric. Awfully nice, especially considering he was forced to kill someone tonight with his girlfriend right there. Vampire or not, Alaric was not thrilled about tonight's plan, and he'd made that very clear.
Damon's face reveals nothing. The kitchen is suspiciously quiet save for Ric's quiet breathing. After a beat where Damon does nothing but stare at her with utter conviction, Alaric clears his throat. A moment later, the hollowed sounds of pans knocking together and whispers of bone China being put away ring around the kitchen.
Cassandra presses her lips into a fine line to hide her smile.
"We should still help, though. The sink was full," she makes to here feet. "I never remember to wash up as I go along—"
Damon's hand around her elbow stops her. He tugs her down with enough force that she bounces on the couch cushion, the backrest a cool presence at her back. Her reproachful frown is so sharp it rivals the stern look Damon's giving her.
"Ric can deal with that on his own." He nearly snaps, twisting towards her.
Their knees knock together but he pays it no mind, keeps his eyes on hers and his hand at her wrist.
"I don't care about that; I care about you," Damon adds, much gentler than before. Cassandra's nose starts to tingle. She palms at it until it dissipates. "Seriously, are you okay?"
No, but she doesn't know how to do this anymore. It's been so long since she even wanted a relationship. Cassandra can't remember what it is like, to look at someone in the eye and admit she may be a little in over her head and have that person offer support, help, instead of judgement. It sounds like a pipe dream.
Besides, she's Cassandra Woodhouse. She's been through worse and she's always fine afterwards. She's always fine, period. Admitting she's starting to worry maybe she isn't sounds like admitting to inadequacy.
"Can I fix the greenhouse?" Cassandra asks instead. "I think it could turn out really beautiful."
And it could. The greenhouse may have been abandoned for months—with all the dust and cobwebs, decayed plants stooping over dirtied pots, it looks like a year would be more fitting—but it is a magnificent structure. Cassandra's mind reels with the possibilities, what the place will look like with polished windows and brushed out tiles, herbs and foliage growing alongside seasonal flowers and climbing trellises.
Damon sighs next to her. His shoulders slump and his eyes dim. His fingers tighten around her elbow for a moment before he's turning towards the fire in a poor effort to hide his disappointment.
Still, when he nods and tells her, "of course you can," there isn't an ounce of frustration in the words but simple acceptance. Like he shouldn't have expected anything else. Perhaps her evasion tactics are waning, if Damon can see through them.
Cassandra nibbles at her bottom lip, eyes stuck to the back of his head. It's all she can see with the way he's sitting, hunched forward, elbows on knees as he absently plays with the whisky inside his glass, twirling it around and around.
Damon has no right to her past. Cassandra owes him nothing. Nothing she doesn't already want to give, anyway. He's not really asking about her past, though, is he? Her hackles are risen because she knows he wouldn't be inquiring so adamantly after her wellbeing if he didn't suspect hers and Elijah's pasts were much more intertwined than either originally suggested.
She breathes in. Her arm loops with his as she leans her torso against his back, chin propped on his shoulder. Cassandra can feel the deep breath he takes on her own chest, his back expanding into her. When she presses her mouth to that smooth stretch of skin behind his ear, Damon can't really mask the hitch in his breath, how his fingers flex against his glass. Or maybe he doesn't want to.
Cassandra likes that thought even more, that they no longer have to hide how their bodies react to each other's touch.
"I'm alright," she says and kisses him once more, this time right on the groove of his jaw. "Promise." Nuzzling his shoulder, she rests the side of her face against his back, matching him breath for breath. "Are you?"
Damon takes a moment to answer. He makes for her hand, the one hanging loosely between their legs, and twists their fingers together. His thumb passes over her daylight ring once, twice, before rubbing at her knuckles.
"I am," he hums, lifting their hands.
He watches them against the flames, turning them one way and the other. Her hand looks so small encased in his, all slender-fingered and delicate, never mind it's been stained with blood countless times. It awakens something in her Cassandra doesn't really understand, she just knows she wants him to never let go, to keep that beautiful strong hand of his wrapped securely around hers for all of time.
Damon's mouth presses to her wrist, right where a watch would sit, not in a kiss, but a mere touch that somehow manages to be more intimate than a pucker of lips ever could. Cassandra's heart skips three consecutive beats.
She cranes her neck, the movement slow, lazy, as if she isn't aware of every painful second that passes, and peers up at him through her lashes. Their eyes meet over his shoulder.
Damon's eyes have always been so full of expression. He wasn't born to mask away his heart, its truth betrays him through them. Though they're almost flat now with exhaustion, it is not enough to hide that breath-taking spark underneath, that magnetic current that brings them alight whenever Damon looks at her.
This is her favorite Damon. Soft and pleasant, content to remain silent not because he can't make sense of the turmoil raging within but because his mind is settled and just as still. It is not a facet of him she's seen very often, only twice since her return. The first one, that lovely evening they sat and watched as the sun set together. The second, when Mason betrayed them and she'd woken up the morning after to Damon watching her sleep. He'd played with her hair and pressed kisses to her forehead until she'd given up on sleeping past 8:00AM.
Bathed in firelight, Cassandra can't help but admire him, run her eyes across his brow ridge, down the slant of his nose, marvel at how different his eyes look, one lightened almost silver by the golden flames and the other tinted a darker blue by shadows.
She doesn't get to watch him for long, though, because in the next breath Damon's stretching across, abandoning his half-drunk whisky glass by their feet and resting his arms on either side of her. Cassandra slides down the couch until her neck presses against the backrest and he can easily slip his arms under her waist.
"Are you going to kiss me?" she asks with an impish smile, tongue behind her teeth.
Damon hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He sways onto her—his nose brushes the tip of hers, eyes stuck to her mouth, the hair at his forehead tickles her temple. Cassandra's breath stutters in her chest—and leans away to look her in the eye.
"Maybe." He shrugs, voice low.
With his face much closer than before, the ghost of his mouth runs a path under her jaw. It barely touches her, just his warmth and the echo of his breath as it leaves him. Cassandra swallows. She places her hand on his shoulder, needing grounding even when she's not standing.
Damon kisses her right behind her left ear, and then her right, slow and lingering. The sensation of his mouth hovering over her skin is enough for her heart to gallop wildly within her chest. A shiver runs down her spine. Cassandra hooks her leg over his thigh, pulling with her knee and calf until he's half sprawled on top of her, the side of her body lined with his front.
"What about now?" Cassandra asks, craning her head back to look at him.
His lips are parted and the prettiest of pink, pupils wide with the promise of arousal. She arches into him, stretching her arm away so the glass she still holds won't get in the way, and tugs with clumsy fingers at the hair on the nape of his neck.
"Will you kiss me now?" she pouts.
Damon exhales a sound that's almost a laugh, all wide-eyed and tender features. His arm around her waist tightens, he dips his head and finally, finally, captures her mouth with his. Cassandra can't help the way her mouth quirks into a smile for just one moment before she kisses him back. His lips glide against hers, once, twice, sucking at her upper lip in languid intervals.
The tension in her body vanishes as Cassandra melts into the kiss, running her fingers through his hair and holding on to him with her leg like he may evaporate into smoke if she's not careful. Damon's hand travels down to her thigh, hoisting it higher and digging his fingers into the skin.
"Argh!" The horrified exclamation comes from their right when Alaric arrives at the exact moment Damon's fingers stray under her skirt.
Cassandra deflates back into the leather cushions. Her stomach loops on itself for a whole other reason. When Damon attempts to follow her mouth, she twists her head away patting at his chest in a silent request. He ignores her, lets his forehead drop on her shoulder instead. A disgruntled groan slips past Damon's mouth at the interruption, one that reverberates against Cassandra's very bones.
"Sorry! Uh..." Alaric clears his throat, awkward, keeping his eyes away like the very sight will burn his retinas clean off. Cassandra giggles, airy and flustered. He shoots them a reproachful look, his awkwardness giving way to annoyance. "What are you, sixteen?! You couldn't wait until I left?"
"Yes." Cassandra exhales, straightening her skirt. "We very much can."
"No." Damon complains as a petulant child would after being told they're not allowed ice cream for dessert.
His hand slides down the length of her thigh as he retreats, and Cassandra briefly considers asking Ric to leave, but the history teacher is plopping down on the sofa before she can so much as open her mouth.
Cassandra sits up so he may have more space. Her knees press together; her hands rest on her lap, the whisky glass between them. How she didn't manage to spill it is a mystery, one she'll happily ponder to distract herself from the warmth emanating from her cheeks. She's all too aware of the heat pulsing low in her belly, the excess moisture between her thighs, every shift of her underwear against her sensitive skin, just from a couple of kisses and a wandering hand. Fucking Hell.
And Alaric's right there, sitting next to her, oblivious.
Damon wiggles in his seat, pulling at his trousers with discreet fingers—at least Cassandra isn't the only one suddenly finding her clothes a tad uncomfortable—before he's reaching for the two glasses down on the carpet. On his way up, Damon's hand lands right on her thigh. He leans into it, pretend support he doesn't need, going back for the bottle. Cassandra's heart lurches. She bites her bottom lip, focusing all her might on not clenching her thighs together. Get a grip, woman. It's just a hand. An incredibly attractive hand, all long fingers and strong knuckles and running veins and—
The Lagavulin bottle pops as Damon uncorks it, carelessly dropping the cork on her lap. It startles her out of her little fantasy, and she bats Damon's hand off her thigh, shooting him a narrowed-eyed look. Damon's answering smirk is devious.
Unaware of their little moment, Alaric stretches both arms above his head, sliding the length of his body down the sofa until he's sprawled across the cushion.
"God, what a night." Ric grumbles, passing rough hands up and down his face like he hopes the action will dislodge the tiredness clinging to him like a second skin.
Damon snorts. "You okay there, buddy?"
"Man," Alaric huffs, letting his hands drop. "We need to go on vacation or something."
Cassandra laughs, reciprocating the sentiment entirely.
"You know, Hawaii is nice this time of the year—"
"—done." Alaric agrees before she's even finished talking.
He peers at the Scotch bottle with longing, encouraging Damon to pass him a glass with grabby fingers. That first sip has him sighing. He melts into the couch even further, letting his arms and legs flop like a puppet with its strings cut. Damon snorts again, rolling his eyes and refilling her glass without having to ask.
Cassandra waits until Damon's own glass is full before lifting her up in the air like one would before making a toast.
"Who wants to see how drunk we can get before Stefan the Fun Police gets here?"
"Fuck," Damon groans. He taps his glass gently against hers. "Me."
Cassandra turns to Alaric with expectant eyebrows.
"After the day I had?" Alaric asks, sarcastic. "Are you kidding?"
He hoists himself up. His glass meets hers on the right. They keep their glasses next to each other for a moment before parting and coming together again, letting them clink against each one in a messy toast that gets a tad too competitive. Twinkling clinks of crystal on crystal join the soothing crackles of the firewood. Cassandra lets out a laugh, happy and unbound, when they flop back against the cushions. Her head rests lightly against Damon's shoulder. She takes a drink. Alaric follows, then Damon.
They drink and drink and then drink some more, idle chatting and jokes filling the silence, erasing for one sweet moment the tension that clings to them like mist clings to the earth. Cassandra stops thinking about old friends, thinks of new ones.
The night breathes, builds, withers.
Outside, brown eyes watch on. A once earnest heart tarnishes further. Resentment grows.
A/N: There you are! Hope you liked it! Also, I'm pretty sure ff dot net will die soon so I'm considering maybe moving my work elsewhere? I currently cross post Dark Side to wattpad because I like that people can leave little comments through the chapter but maybe I should move to ao3 as well? I'm not sure. What do you guys think?
Anyway, onto reviews:
AndTheSaintsAreAllMadeOfGold: you know what, I knew there was debate and I was in such a rush I couldn't be bothered to ask my uncle and aunt (he's lived in France most of his life and she is French, though maybe they would have taken the credit who knows) I'm so sorry that made you sad :( Now I will never forget that fries are from La Belgique x
RHatch89: Thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed it.
Nerdalertwarning: So sorry I couldn't update in time for Halloween! I wanted to try and wrap up what I'd originally drafted for this chapter but was unable to and then my birthday came around and I wanted to spend as much time as I could with friends and family. It's sort of in time for Thanksgiving! A little. If you squint. Hope you like this one! xx
Crazy Devil Girl: yes, Elijah's temporarily out of service! I'm glad you like Cassie, she's one of my favourite OCs from the many, many I have. You will definitely see more from her family, and some of her ghost friends sometime in the near future. She sort of tells Damon more of the truth this chapter, but it's quite the difficult situation. Hope you like this chapter!
Again thanks so much for your support and I'll see you as soon as I can! Meanwhile, stream All Too Well (Taylor's Version)'s 10-minute version and ugly cry with me.