I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. This one is all Bonnie/Damon. It was supposed to be longer, but I decided it would flow better if I split this one into two updates. Also, I spent a lot of my time re-formatting some things in Smells Like Teen Spirit and Come As You Are. I like everything to look fairly uniform throughout a story. And it drives me crazy when my layout isn't saved the way I thought I had it. Anyway, I'll end my silly rant there. Let me know what you think!


~Chapter Four~


Little supernovas in my head
Little soft pulses in my dead
Little souvenirs and secrets shared
Little off guard and unprepared

~Stone Sour, Say You'll Haunt Me~


The air outside is suffocating.

Mystic Falls is always unbearable in the summer. From the first day of June until mid-September. When I was a child, about seven or eight, I loved the warm weather. As the days got longer and hotter, I knew summer break was fast approaching. I was filled with anticipation. Now, I just feel uncomfortable.

I can't place all the blame on the weather, though it does exacerbate the stress I'm already feeling because I am a bit concerned by the evidence that had been presented to me earlier this afternoon. The fact that Jeremy had an article of clothing in his possession is not necessarily the issue, but it was the one thing that was missing, aside from the murder weapon. Everything else had been recovered at the scene of the crime. Her dress, her shoes, her bra.

It had all been in a pile near the body, except for the single sandal that remained on her foot.

I keep thinking about it as I walk through the maze that is my hometown, taking the longest possible route to the Salvatore McMansion.

The nighttime sky is beautiful, stars glittering against the black backdrop, the moon almost full except for a small sliver that is barely perceptible to the human eye.

Part of the reason I don't take my old shortcut is that I don't want to cut through the graveyard. I wouldn't be that close to where the two teenaged boys stumbled upon Anna's body, but I know the exact spot in which they found her, and I don't want my pleasant memories intertwined with the horror that now mars what used to be my respite.

I'm also debating over whether I should follow Damon's ridiculous instructions. Of course, I'm leaning toward no, as there isn't any reason to be so secretive about what we are doing. We aren't breaking curfew and we've been legally allowed to drink for years. But those nights had been such a rush and it was nice to step outside of the box that everyone placed me in.

But I quickly remind myself that I'm not here to relive my glory days and if it weren't for the murder or its subsequent fallout, I would be in North Carolina right now. In worse heat, finishing up paperwork from the last case I worked on, wishing that the air conditioner in my office hadn't given out on me. Much less theatrical, which is just how I like my life.

Productive.

As I approach Damon's house, I see Stefan getting out of his car. A sensible SUV in silver. Right next to him is the blue car I used to sit in while Damon worked on it in the garage. The 1969 Camaro that Mr. Salvatore told his son he was wasting his time on. I remember agreeing with his dad, but I now realize that we didn't give Damon enough credit.

Stefan looks surprised when he sees me. Like he has just seen a ghost. I wonder if he forgot I existed. It has almost been a decade, so it wouldn't come as a shock to me. Besides, I spent more time with Damon than I did with his younger brother, so I doubt he noticed my absence.

"Stefan—I thought you'd be asleep!"

He furrows his eyebrows, regarding me like someone who needs to be restrained in a straight jacket. "I was out. I got a drink with Matt Donovan; he and Elena have been having a hard time. Have you heard what happened?"

"I did," I say quietly. "It's so awful."

I don't tell him that this horror show is the reason I'm standing in front of him.

"It is. Anna and Jeremy were in my class."

"You're a teacher?"

"Well, a student teacher," he clarifies. "I took some time off when my father died. It was rough… Damon had just gotten back and well… I'm sure you remember how well my brother got along with my dad."

Not well at all, I think. A wave of self-loathing washes over me. I believed that leaving the way I did would ultimately be easier on the both of us, but I can't help but feel guilty for not being there for Damon. I shift my gaze down to my feet, unwilling to look Stefan in the eyes any longer.

I'm glad that he doesn't seem angry or hostile, just tired and sad. I didn't abandon him, after all, just his brother. And now that he's gotten over his initial surprise, he's just looking for an explanation. His unspoken question hangs in the air: why are you here? However, I think he already knows.

"Damon said you'd be sleeping," I reply sheepishly. "That you went to bed early… which isn't true. Clearly. We were just going to catch up, reminisce about old times."

Stefan glances at the bag in my hand and nods in understanding. "Well, could you do that anywhere that's not here? I need to be at the school early tomorrow. First day back and all."

Coming from anyone else a request like that would illicit a snappy response from me. Stefan, unlike most people, isn't saying that to be rude. He has this way about him that calms people down. Plus, Stefan is also a huge kiss ass, so if he's asking for something he must need it. And I figure that it's crunch time for him in both his schooling and that of his students.

The school had shut down for the week after Anna died, which ended up pushing the last day for the students back a week. That doesn't explain Stefan's aversion to Damon and me hanging out, though. It doesn't involve him directly and I don't think we are that obnoxious.

He chuckles in such a way that I think I don't want to hear his reasoning.

"I heard enough of you and Damon hooking—I mean catching up in his room when we were in high school," he says.

"I don't know what you're referring to; that wasn't me," I cross my arms over my chest. The bag containing Damon's favorite brand of bourbon swings in my hand. "If you're implying that I came over to sleep with your tool of a brother, then you're confusing me with someone else."

"Damon did get around back then. Just so you know, it's nice to see you again, Bonnie. If you'll excuse me, I've got to get to sleep." He smiles at me before he heads into the large brick building he calls home. "I'll tell him you're here," he calls over his shoulder.

"Thanks, Stef."

Damon exits the house a moment later, wearing his typical attire of a well-fitting t-shirt and jeans. How he wears such heavy pants in the sweltering heat, I'll never know. It is a comforting sight, though. Familiar. I'm still struggling to reconcile the Damon I saw at the police station with the man standing in front of me, looking as he always has.

"You're still a buzzkill, I see," Damon says as he walks over to his car. He unlocks the door and gets inside, pressing a button so the top goes down.

"And you're apparently a much better mechanic than I thought you were."

"Don't act surprised. You know I'm good at everything I do."

I make my way over to the passenger's side, hopping over the door just as I used to do, back when the roof wouldn't go up at all.

"Show off," Damon mutters, putting the car in reverse and backing out of the long driveway.

"Always have been," I retort. "I picked that up from you."

He shakes his head, laughing as if that's the most absurd thing he's ever heard. "You were the one who claimed you could drink more than me—it was your idea to show off."

"And you said I was too innocent—you were wrong."

He shrugs. It figures he would think his incorrect assumptions would somehow be less glaring than mine. "I knew you weren't as angelic as you pretended to be. I just thought it would take a little longer for you to come out of your shell."

I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of the wind on my face. It's a welcome reprieve from the thick air that fills my lungs when I walk. A fan would be preferable, but at least the scenery is nice. I have a complete view of the sky if I tilt my head back.

"Remember the time we took my car to the beach? And no one was there because it was November?"

"The time when we went to the only shop open that did henna tattoos?" he asks, as we had taken quite a few joyrides to Virginia Beach.

"And you dared me to get your initials drawn on my lower back?"

"I honestly didn't think you'd do it. I just wanted the fifty bucks I bet on you not going through with it."

"I wouldn't have done it if it were permanent. The only real consequence I dealt with was how I had to tuck my shirts in for two weeks."

"Did your dad ever figure out where you went?"

I think back to that night, a memory that I play in my head more times than I'd ever admit. I had dropped Damon off at his house around one in the morning and when I got to my own home, I was so sure that I was going to end up grounded for staying out past eleven and not asking permission to drive to the beach. But Dad hadn't even been awake; I could hear his snores from where I had stood in the foyer.

Most kids would be so overcome with relief that they would have never questioned why the universe had let them get away with breaking the rules, but I was disappointed. The whole point of our little trip had been to celebrate the fact that one of my least offensive pieces of artwork had been selected for a state-sponsored art show. My dad said he'd be there—he'd even RSVP'd—but couldn't show up because he had to work late.

I understand why his job came first now, but I just wish my father would have gotten to know me a little better. I had been so hurt that someone I once considered an enemy understood me more than my own flesh and blood. That's why I try—with the phone calls and birthday cards—but I don't know if our relationship will ever evolve into anything deeper than that. Dad and I are creatures of habit.

"No, I didn't even get in trouble for staying out late. I doubt he even knows about it."

"Daddy Dearest yelled at me, called me insolent, and grounded me for a month."

I narrow my eyes in disbelief. "Damon, when have you ever been grounded? You were never at home."

"Plenty of times—it just never stuck."

"Why does that not shock me?"

"Because you missed me so much," he answers. "You probably couldn't get your mind off me."

Damon turns down a side road. One-way. Entrenched by tall, spindly trees on either side. I give him a pointed look, silently demanding that he tell me where we are going.

He doesn't miss a beat. Doesn't even look at me. It's like we haven't spent a day apart. "Relax, Judgy. We aren't going too far away. We'll be there and back by two."

"I hope so, because I have to go over to Elena's place before the courthouse—I have to fill everyone in on how to act and what to expect. And knowing Isobel, she and John will be at least ten minutes late."

"When is Baby Gilbert's arraignment?"

"The docket says noon," I reply.

He finally stops the car, taking the keys out of the ignition. We are sitting in front of an empty field. It's hillier than the one located in the epicenter of Mystic Falls cemetery, a bit larger, with a clearer view of the almost-full moon.

And now, given current events, much less horrifying.

"Nice," I say, nodding in approval. "It's almost exactly the same."

"Only better—it's not a crime scene. I don't think I can go back there without thinking about what happened."

"Me either," I whisper.

He turns to me, a curious glint in his eyes. He looks like he wants to say something but decides not to a second later. Instead, he reaches for the bourbon I had stowed on the floor next to my feet.

"Are you still a lightweight?"

I pretend to be offended. "I'm not a lightweight."

"Past experience tells me otherwise," he teases, nudging me with an elbow.

He makes a decent point, but I still have a small argument up me sleeve. "You're much bigger than me; of course, you can drink more."

I, very deliberately, look him up and down, smirking.

Damon is incredulous. "Are you insinuating something, Bennett?"

"You tell me, weirdo."

But he doesn't say anything, just sets the bottle aside and pokes me in the ribs. An embarrassing giggle bubbles up in my throat. Damon takes that as an invitation and begins tickling me.

I'm laughing so much that my sides start to ache. "Okay, okay, I surrender." I'm not exactly sure what I'm conceding to, but I'd say just about anything for a moment to catch breath.

"Alright, then. We both agree that I'm superior in all areas of life."

"Whatever. Just give me the bourbon."

"Don't hog it," he warns. "We can't overdo it."

"I know, I'm supposed to be the head of the morality police, remember?" I take a small sip, gripping the neck of the bottle tightly. The smoothness of the glass, the chirping of the crickets are things I attempt to capture. I want to have this night burned into my memory, so I can't ever forget it.

I learned, after I prosecuted my first case—a second-degree murder charge brought down on a man who had a history riddled with instances of spousal abuse—that you have to at least try to separate work and your personal life. If you don't, your very existence becomes unbearable. You spiral so deep inside of other people's psyches that you no longer feel like yourself.

And it becomes more and more difficult to see the good in the world.

Which is exactly why someone chooses to become a prosecutor, at least in my case. You want to make life less dangerous, at least in terms of other human beings.

Compartmentalizing had been a challenge at first, but now—whenever the opportunity arises—I like to recall my happiest experiences in life. In times like those, you realize just how important details are.

"How could I not?" Damon rolls his eyes dramatically. "You could be such a killjoy, Bon Bon."

"Not all the time." I pass him the bourbon.

He smirks as he brings the bottle to his lips. I wonder which moment came to his mind first. There had been a small handful of times where we had switched roles—him being the more level-headed one when I decided to have a little too much fun.

"Not even most of the time."

I find myself leaning into him. I hadn't made the conscious choice to do so. It's just so easy, getting wrapped up in Damon Salvatore. So simple that not even distance or time could combat it. It's hard to believe that I once disliked him so much that I could barely stand to be in the same room with him, refused to entertain the notion that we had anything in common. That had been a lifetime ago. Now we are both content with watching the constellations, my head resting on his shoulder and his head against the top of mine.

"So, did you bring the snacks?" I take a deep breath, inhaling the woodsy scent of his soap.

"No," he doesn't even sound sorry that he didn't hold up his end of the bargain. One of us brings the booze, the other brings the snacks—that's the deal. Always has been.

"Why not?" I ask. I want to sound upset, but I can't muster up the emotion.

I tell myself it is because I need to utilize those feelings in the courtroom. Every. Single. Time. I always need to be on my game. It's not usually a hard thing for me to accomplish, but the stakes had never been so high before. I'm accustomed to utilizing the evidence in the way that Enzo had demonstrated hours ago, now I have to discount it.

"I figured if I didn't bring them, you'd want to hang out again."

"Really? Damon… that's so nice."

"I know—it sounds way better than the truth. I forgot them."

I don't react in the way he had been hoping for. With frustration. I opt to remain calm. "That's fine. You just have to bring both on Friday."

"Fine." He answers, feigning annoyance. "But I'm buying barbeque chips. Salt and vinegar chips are a sick joke forced upon us by snack companies."

"If you say so."

"I know so."

"Damon…"

"Yeah?"

"We should head back now."

"Yeah… you're right."

And yet, neither of us make any move to go.