She's used to waking up earlier than the Salvatore brothers, savouring the sleepy mornings of utter, and beautiful, normality before the supernatural crashes into her day. In spring, the day starts fresh and crisp – a peeking sun and birdsong to carry, if only for a little while, the pressures of magic and responsibility and… Damon. Hence her surprise, to walk into the kitchen and see the elder vampire sitting at the breakfast table at the ripening time of eight am.

He smiles at her over his coffee cup. Another of his new smiles.

"I thought your morning started in the afternoon?" she quips, pushing for banter, for them, because the smile is making her uneasy (and not in an entirely unpleasant way).

Damon laughs; takes her in. She's in an old Mickey Mouse sweater and Winne the Pooh pyjama pants that have somehow grown with her over the years, and her hair, catching it in the oven reflection, resembles a small shrub. Here it comes. The sarcasm. But his smile slips into concern and the moment's lost. She actually misses the insult.

"Did you sleep okay?"

"Okay, yeah," she says, walking behind him for a mug.

"Just okay?"

Bonnie flicks the kettle on. "It's always just okay."

"Do you… want to talk about it?"

What the fuck is going on?

"No," she says sharply, "I don't."

Damon looks terrified. Good.

Living at the Salvatore's has consisted of two things: the first being space, lots of it, copious rooms and corridors and corners to throw up a few spells, call Caroline, read, anything. Yet the second, being Damon. Wherever she'd find, he'd be there, all hey Bon-bon, smirk stretching half-way round his face, palm pressed against the book case, Mr Confident. It was what she expected.

This, she thinks, pulling away from the vampire's unnatural hesitancy, is not.

"Maybe you should have slept a bit more then," he says eventually and it's pathetic the way her pulse thickens at the promise of a witty exchange.

"I like my morning cup of tea vampire-free." She hides the smile in her words, pours the boiling water.

But he moves, actually stands, pushes back his chair and shares an apologetic smile. It's far too timid on the mouth she's used to seeing pulled upwards, daring her. "Noted. I'll see you later, Bon… Bonnie."

Bonnie.

He might as well have called her Elena.

/

"Idiot," he hisses, falling into a jog immediately. Their back yard is warming in the spring sunshine and he needs air. And blood. And his confidence back.

Idiot. You're being weird. Stop being WEIRD.

It's like his limbs don't function normally around her anymore – like everything is heavy or switched around and all he can do is smile at her in this silly way. Even in her kid's jammies and unbrushed hair, his words dried up and all he wanted to do was make her feel loved. Fuck.

STOP BEING WEIRD.

Damon pushes his feet harder into the ground, increasing speed. Harder still. The rush of wind feels good, dissolves her a bit.

"Damon."

He hears his name from her mouth and collides to a stand-still. She's leaning against the back-door, arms folded.

"Ah good, you can hear me. I'm going into town, if you wanted to come. Or drive."

Be cool. Be cool.

He tries for a nonchalant stroll over to her but he's jogging before his mind can chastise his legs. Bonnie laughs, her eyes snatching at the light and for fucks sake, Damon Salvatore.

"Never seen you so enthusiastic for a town trip."

"Yeah, I need some new… pants." He feels her eyes travel to his standard back denim. "Thought I'd try blue. Something different."

This isn't cool.

"Really?"

"Do you not think so?"

She could tell him to buy yellow leggings right now and he'd probably skip to the store. But she doesn't, thankfully, she just wrinkles her nose and says, "You suit black."

It's a compliment. He's used to pushing for compliments and the old Damon bites at his tongue with a 'I'd suit you' just to make her squirm. The pleasure, however, is lost when it's what he actually wants– then her disgusted reaction is not amusing, just painful.

"Thank you," he says instead.

Something flickers across her stare – irritation maybe, only it's not the fiery spark of frustration he's used to eliciting. This is more disappointing. "Shall we ask Stefan?"

He wants to say no but he's failing so miserably at being anything but an awkward mess right now that he just shrugs in a non-committal sure and ten minutes later, they're all in his Camaro heading towards Mystic Falls.

Stefan has taken the backseat, like a true bro, leaving Damon to glance at his passenger – probably a little too often.

A question falls out: "Is that a new dress?"

Bonnie bites her cheek, closing around a smile, he's sure, and his stomach flips a bit. "Didn't think you noticed these things."

"I can't help it."

Well, shit. That was a bit too honest.

"Are you…blush-"

"Stefan?" He interrupts, "Where do you think I should park?"

He can feel Bonnie's eyes on him, trying to figure him out. Good luck. I still can't.

"You don't usually care," his brother quips, a tone not too dissimilar to Bonnie's, "But any where's fine. Presuming you actually pay for a parking ticket."

"When has Damon ever paid for a parking ticket?"

They laugh together so he joins in. A little late, a little hesitant. He's trying to detect any disappointment in Bonnie's tone. Does she want him to start paying for parking tickets? Because he can. He will.

You need to be knocked out, Salvatore.

They pull up along the curb outside the Grille, Stefan and Bonnie chatting easily about what they want to eat for lunch. Damon exits the car first, speeds to her side and, like an idiot, reaches for the passenger door. She's pushed it into his hand before even his vamp senses intersect.

"Ouch," he winces.

"Were you?" she stares at him, shock, amusement, confusion, "Were you going to open the door for me?"

And he understands now, with crushing clarity, that this was all a terrible, terrible idea. Not just trying be chivalrous but all of it – just trying at all. He steps back, laughs, tries not to die inside.

/

"Okay, he's being weird isn't he. Like it's just not me? He's completely different."

The younger vampire shrugs, reaches for a fry. "He's Damon. His moods change."

"Stefan," Bonnie groans, "This isn't a mood change. A mood change is when he's drunk too much Bourbon and is grumpy… or flirty. Not this."

Stefan shrugs again. "I'm sure he'll be back to irritating Damon soon enough." He glances at his brother making his way back to their table and lowers his voice, "Make the most of it."

"Got you a milkshake," Damon tells her. It's big and pink, all squirty cream and sprinkles.

"I didn't ask for a milkshake."

His fingers flinch around the glass. "I just thought-"

"You thought wrong," she says simply, daring him. Damon pulls back his arm. "I like vanilla anyway."

Something flickers across his face, something hard and sharp, something him. She can almost see the tongue curling behind his lips, ready to pounce, and she's made a little electric in the promise.

"I love strawberry," Stefan says, offering his hand, and instantly dissolving the tension.

Damon passes him the shake, breaking from her stare. The air's gone limp – something she never thought she'd feel around Damon Salvatore. Even in the very beginning of death threats and fire, oxygen felt different around him. Like it was harder to breathe… and unsatisfying when she did.

He doesn't talk much for the rest of lunch, brow furrowed in inner monologue. Again, something she's used to hearing, not guessing.

"Still surprised we don't have loyalty cards for this place," she says, trying for laughter but it's only Stefan's light chuckle that carries over the table and Damon's silence feels physically heavy.

She kicks his leg under the table; he kicks hers back and she grins only-

"Sorry," he mutters. Apologetic.

Now she wants to kick him in the head.

Bonnie turns to Stefan. "How's the milkshake?"

"It's good. A bit rich but-"

"I'm going for a walk," Damon interrupts, standing from the booth, not looking at either of them. There's defiance in his words though, a reckless impulsivity that she, all of them, recognise as his. He must too because he reddens suddenly, embarrassed, brings a hand to the base of his neck, plays with the wild strands of hair there: "Sorry, I just… need to clear my head."

"Good."

He stares at her – she holds it boldly – then leaves the Grille.

/

Bonnie's silent in the car ride home. It's his fault, entirely. She's frustrated, he's frustrated – she just wants her friend back, and he doesn't want a friend at all.

There's the selfish bastard they all know and love.

Her hands, curled on her lap, dance, on instinct, to the song he has playing on the stereo. He wonders if she notices she's doing it.

Damon winds the window down, fighting the ache in his own fingers to tangle themselves in hers. The same breeze he felt this morning empties into the vehicle only this time Bonnie's scent and pulse are swept up in it.

"I'm going to keep working on that spell," she says as he opens the front door, "Don't worry about dinner."

He lets her go because he should. This is exhausting him. He'll find a way to stop looking at her like she's magic, even if it means forcing his facial muscles into indifference. He has to.

Stefan pats his shoulder in condolence. "You know, Damon, this actually isn't at all entertaining. It's just painful."

"How do I stop it all?"

His little brother smiles, suddenly wiser. "You can't. But you can tell her."

"She'll laugh."

Stefan's nod feels like a wooden stake. "She might." He glances up the stairs, to where she just ascended, oblivious and angry, "But this isn't fair to her."

Nothing is fair.

But, for her, for Bonnie … he might just try.

Damon's on his second blood-bag when she pads downstairs. He's overwhelmed by the residue of whatever spell she's been practising before he sees her: she's still glittering with it when he does.

"Sorry, I didn't think you'd be-"

"It's okay," he stops her, "I'm going upstairs soon."

She hangs in the silence, green eyes chasing around his face, trying to find something concrete, and as much as he hates he can't just hold her, he hates more that he can't be normal. For her.

"How's the spell going?" he offers.

"It wasn't easy but… I think I've got it now."

She's even a couple of metres away and every sense is on overdrive, teasing him. Her purple dressing gown wrapped around her small frame, that delicious magic in her skin, her hair, her words: he's never wanted anyone more.

And yet, he doesn't move. He smiles, and she wilts because he can't seem to do any of this without disappointing her somehow. She makes to cross the room towards the hall then pivots, suddenly ablaze.

"What is wrong with you!?"

Everything in him tenses. "What?"

"You know what! You! You're just…" her arms fly towards him, "Sitting there. You're always just sitting there."

"I don't-"

"You used to be in my face all the time. Making comments, touching me, being so annoying." She paces around the living room, like a tiny flame, "Even now you're still sitting there and letting me talk and-" she stops suddenly, facing him, outraged, "What is wrong with you!?"

You should definitely speak now, idiot.

"Bonnie, I-"

"And why Bonnie all of sudden!?"

He slams his mouth shut, utterly perplexed and then… Ah. He wrestles the grin away from his words, "You miss Bon-bon?" It's pushing into a smirk rather quickly and he expects her to eye roll or harden her stare but her eyes widen like she's relieved. Like she can breathe again.

"Maybe," she says quietly, "And more. I just miss… the banter."

His mouth dries; something burns and he's not sure if its within him or the whole of her. He wants to ask what that means. Missing it. Missing it how?

She's crossed her arms again, irritation scratching away at the hope in her gaze. "Just tell me, Damon. Talk to me."

"I don't know how to," he admits, and it's the most honest he's been with her in a long time.

"Talk to me or tell me?"

His hands find his hair again. "Both, I guess."

She moves suddenly, folding her legs under her so she's sitting crossed legged on the carpet like a school girl. "Try."

So, he looks at her and tries to find the beginning. Separate before from now – loving her and… Did I ever not? He feels strangely dizzy, like he hasn't blood in a while. Bonnie watches from the carpet; does she see all this in his face?

"I don't know how to be around you anymore," he tells her, "It's… it's honestly a fucking pain in the ass."

And when she laughs, suddenly, he can't help but join in. Delight in the ease of what they've always done so well.

"What's changed?" She asks, after the moment.

He thinks about saying you but she hasn't – she's still the same Bonnie. He was just a blind idiot. "Me."

"Well, duh." And he must have smiled because she says, "Right there! You never used to smile at me like that."

"What am I smiling like?" It's a dangerous question.

"Like…" she bites her lip, playing with the words, "Like I'm the only person you see." And a dangerous answer. "Obviously I know I am now, like it's just me in this room but-"

He stands, cutting her rambling short. Bonnie's pulse proliferates, and kicks at the place where his should be.

"Why do I feel like you're going to say you're in love with me right now?" It's on that terrifying line between a joke and a stone-cold truth. Bonnie stands too, meeting him, a person sized width apart. "That's crazy isn't it?" Her voice loses certainty in his waiting silence, "Isn't it?"

Her heartbeat is near deafening now, it's hard to focus. "Yes, it's crazy." She's knotting the tie of her dressing gown around her fingers and that's all he can see right now, because looking at her would reveal too much. He'd know her answer in those eyes before he even has the chance to say it. "But I've always been crazy."

She stops fiddling with the purple tie and his whole world stills. "For real?"

"The only time it really has been, I think."

And he looks at her eyes, like a damned gravitational pull, she really is, and has been, the only person he sees. It's not happiness and it's not terror and it's not awe and it's not shock, but neither is it laughter. Perhaps it's all of them combined.

Perhaps that's love.

A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this story and don't hate me too much for the slightly cliff-hanger ending. The beauty of a one-shot is you can leave these little narratives on a pause but believe me, I want a Bamon happy ending as much as you. Decided to go for an extra-long chapter rather than two more instalments. Not super happy with it but really just wanted to get something uploaded today. Was definitely a strange experience writing Damon like this… Think I still prefer our usual Damon Salvatore: I missed the Bamon banter dearly.

Please do continue to review – I so love reading them. You're also very welcome to request story ideas. It feels good to provide a bit of distraction in this time.

If you want to show your support through a coffee, my ko-fi page is wavesketcher. Of course, there is never any pressure to do this. Your readership and comments are so lovely.