She leaves behind that loud squall kids nowadays call music, pushing the hair back from her face – oh, how this girl needs a chignon. She got rid of those instruments of torture they dare to call shoes and now the concrete is scratching at the soles of her feet, but at least she can walk straight – it's a wonder how girls can manage not to break their ankles.
It's not age talking; in fact, in her time fashion had taken such a turn that she's pretty much from a very modern generation. There were such fluid geometries, and skirts shortened to the calf – it was all very daring and practical. Yes, it was often a severe line of dressing, but it was the seed to modern fashion, to the Russian post-revolution style and to the Coco Chanel atelier. Oh, she remembers the first time she was able to look through the glasses of a Chanel atelier and saw a skirt on a mannequin – short under the knee and with a lower waist –it caught her breath; and the jersey, and the feminine trousers, too. It was such boldness and elegance that these kids could never appreciate with their savage taste.
She never saw something so incredible again – in the literal sense.
Armandine was trying to take back what was supposed to be hers all along – she was born for magic, everyone knew that – but nothing came from her and she hated it. Her mother – God rest her soul – had explained to her that magic was passed through the family lineage like a heritage but it skipped a generation, and she had been granted the privilege of a simple, happier life. But it was really a poor excuse to explain how she wasn't special, even though she was supposed to be, and so she tried to fix it.
Much later, Armandine had gotten herself impregnated with the semen of a willing young boy she had married in the span of two months after their first encounter and to whom she remained faithful for all his days – most certainly the longest three hundred and eleven days of her life.
Etienne did his part though, and she gave birth to Paulette in their new home in America. Everything was new and fresh and she herself was the very picture of loveliness – no one suspected her when her caring husband died from a sudden heart attack. Black, if she can say so herself, gave her skin a seraphic look and she wore it beautifully for many years.
She explained to the generous and discreet lovers lined up at her door that she had regrettably lost the ability to see the world as the ultimate sacrifice for the life of her pretty daughter. Some unknown illness she had contracted during the pregnancy had turned off the light from her life because she hadn't cured it to prevent endangering her sweet Paulette. And Paulette had heard that sad story so many times that she had never dared to deny anything to her ill-fated mother.
The less noble version of the story was that she had killed her mother in order to receive the heritage that had been promised to her absent next generation, but as it flew through her it consumed her energy and burned out her eyes, making them completely white, before disappearing in a few hours leaving her broken and empty.
She made sure her mother's body would never be found and graciously played the role of the broken daughter, so much so that her loving husband decided to take her away to a new world, and what newer world than America?
Conceiving Paulette was tedious and difficult. That one pregnancy was the only her body managed to carry to the end before it became barren. Some envying women, whose husbands she had wrapped around her finger, called her arid, and cold, and scary, but that power she was unable to practice on nature, she could fully exercise upon men and so she did…until her beauty faded and she was left alone with only Paulette. That useless only daughter she could not steal power from because she herself was too weak of a thing to manage it.
She had tried to push her, train her, open her eyes to the possibilities that could be laid at her feet if only she would be less silly. No, she was as worthless as she was spineless. Oh, she rebelled once, and almost made her a proud mother, but her little escape barely lasted a few days. So, all she had to do, since she was good for nothing else, was marry a man and produce a child, a granddaughter she would have married off at the first good opportunity, but Paulette picked another weak man, like her father had been, and he died four years after their wedding.
Armandine could never find a way to have her remarry, nor produce a child. Completely useless.
But now the waiting is over, now she has a witch, a witch to wear like a nice dress. She look down at Bonnie's toned legs. Regrettably the dress is black, the kind that did not make her skin look paler – her kind had really forgotten their place in the world, Armandine realized, after opening her eyes following her passing – but still she has the roots of magic deep in her bones and that's a start. An amazing start.
Finding a public phone is impossible and she takes advantage of the fascination that Bonnie's body seems to have to ask a boy to help her. She actually has no idea how to use Bonnie's cell phone so she just ignores it. Instead, she resorts to dictating the number she needs to call to the boy that lends her his.
Paulette's voice is as old as she is supposed to be with her eighty years firmly on her shoulders and probably her deathbed all ready and set, but she cannot pass before giving her the family grimoire. She can send someone, anyone she likes, to bring it over and then she can go and join her husband in whatever field he is fertilizing right now, she tells her.
Her daughter is still obedient, still the good girl that served her like a loyal dog, and she doesn't make her ask twice.
She smiles sitting on a bench, because she's waited for twenty years, so she can wait one single hour before finding a way to lock the door to Bonnie's body and throw the key. If only the handsome vampire would stay out of it, she thinks, hearing his voice.
"Are you playing hard to get?" he asks, his smile an irritated line on his flawless face as he lets Bonnie's shoes dangle from his finger. Armandine would offer him a smile, her body, too, if only it wasn't necessary to keep him at a distance right now – such a pity, but maybe she can gain his forgiveness later on. She just needed ten more minutes, after all.
"It was too crowded in there and the shoes felt uncomfortable," she explains with a haughty note in her voice, looking at him like he's a gnat squashed on the pink glasses through which she sees her life. Bonnie was never the treasurer of his fan club but this is kind of over the line, even for her.
"Right, because girls wear heels for how comfortable they are," he comments, surprised at her uncaring attitude. Maybe she's finally working on her priorities, but she's still picking an odd way to do that.
He walks up to her but she suddenly tenses. "Stay away," she warns him, standing from the bench.
It bothers him, this sudden change, because for all their bickering it's been a long time since she's told him off and meant it.
"I thought we were past that stage," he considers aloud, narrowing his eyes like he's trying to remember something, "I was at the part of the story where you throw yourself in my arms like I'm your last piece of sanity."
"That sounds very romantic," she says, grinning like she could eat him – in the less pleasurable sense. "If you're into that we can do that part later, but not now."
She's quite succinct, and doesn't look like she's about to accept any other way but hers, so he has reason to believe she's perfectly fine and no one is threatening her safety. He can just turn on his heels and leave this mess for Jeremy to not fix; only, she just admitted that they can do the romantic part later, and this is not something Bonnie Bennett would ever say. Unless a blow to the head and a soap-opera amnesia-scenario was involved.
"Okay," he shrugs, sinking one hand into the pocket of his jeans while the other still holds the sapphire shoes, "You know that sneaking behind Elena's back is not something I'm opposed to, but you should promise to make it worth my while," he tells her with a sultry smile.
One corner of her mouth goes up, and she takes her time looking at him up and down, and then her hand flies up, "Word of honor." Her left hand. There are about a million alarms that go off in Damon's head and she smiles, flirting.
"Who the hell are you?" his voice is stark and she finds it quite attractive. He's the kind of man she liked to tie up and play with. They usually had the bad timing and died on her at the most inopportune moment, but with a vampire that shouldn't be a problem.
"Armandine Cloutier," a voice says, and they both turn to see three women approaching, one of which is sitting in a wheelchair.
"I told you I have no need for you," Armandine says, morphing Bonnie's expression into one of insult. Damon can't help but be disgusted by the unnaturalness of it.
"One of your nurses could deliver it to me. I don't have time to play the dear mother with you."
"That's not a role you ever played, so I don't imagine you would begin now," the woman in the wheelchair says, "And these are not my nurses, they are my family," she explains, "Isabelle, my daughter, and Patricia, my granddaughter."
Bonnie – the one with her face at least – chokes on a laugh, "You never had any children, when I died you were already infertile."
"When you died I was already a grandmother, but I couldn't let you know," she says, a tired smile showing upon her face, "Could I? I played the role of the weak, fearful daughter, and took your insults and your frustrations so you wouldn't touch them. I survived my father, and your lovers, and the women that crossed your acute sensibility because you thought me too harmless to kill. I cleaned up after you and fed your ego enough to keep you quiet. I had to give my daughter away to keep her from you, but she grew up in a good family and I never left her."
"I knew my genes couldn't have produced such a spineless, stupid human being as you showed yourself to be. It's a relief," Armandine says, keeping at bay her irritation for being played all those years. "Now, you can keep your family, with my blessing, if you help me keep Bonnie," she says, clawing with one hand at the middle of her chest like she wants to tear the witch's soul out with her nails.
"Ah-ah," Damon interrupts, one finger raised to make a correction, "Far be it from me to interrupt this lovely family gathering, especially because I love the part when everyone starts recalling the trail of bodies left behind – it really warms my un-beating heart – but no one is allowed to do anything with Bonnie's body unless it's fun and she agrees, preferably on paper and in front of a public notary."
The smile on Bonnie's face looks like a shark displaying its set of teeth. "I knew you would be trouble since your little melting show when she ran to you, but you should know that she is mine." She eyes him, passing her tongue over her upper teeth before offering, "Maybe if you're nice you could convince me to share."
"First things, first," he grimaces, "There was no melting whatsoever," he clarifies. "I'll ascribe that to some kind of dementia. And second, I think you missed the point here. You have to leave witchy alone, now."
"Or what?" she asks, "Are you going to kill me? Put your hands around this lovely neck," she says, caressing it with her fingers, "and feel the bone break? It's a tiny, fragile bone, you know. Want me to simplify things for you?" she asks, putting one palm at the base of her chin and one at the back of her head.
"Stop," he growls gravely, his fingers itching.
Armandine displays a surprised expression, "No?" she asks innocently, "Oh well, so remind me. What's your leverage?"
"I'm glad you're having fun, mother," the old woman speaks, interrupting their useless negotiation.
"Thank you, darling," she replies with a saccharine smile, "Now give me the grimoire and keep him at a safe distance until I am done."
Paulette looks up at her granddaughter, a short woman with a quiet demeanor that looks more used to mixing ingredients for cakes then potions and similar. She holds up both her hands and before Damon can speak he feels his muscles being pulled like he's a guitar string.
"The fuck," he growls, much to her displeasure.
"Language, young man," she reproaches him, ignoring the fact that he's actually much older, "This is family business and you're interfering. Stay put, will you?" she asks, like he's got a choice in the matter.
She turns from him and fixes the glasses on her nose before raising her hands against Bonnie's body. It gets lifted two feet off the ground. She can't even move her mouth. The only thing alive in her doll-like pose is her eyes, which move from side to side.
"You have nothing to offer in this negotiation," the old woman in the wheelchair reminds her. "I left you alive in the hope that you'd redeem yourself, but it did not happen. Your last action on this earth was to throw the glass of water I was offering you on the floor. You were choking and I cradled your head in my hand to help you drink, and your last strength was used to reject your last chance at peace. Your place is not here, mother."
"Wait," it takes him a lot of strength to move the muscles of his face, "Bonnie-" is all he can manage.
"Let him," Isabelle suggests, resting her hand on the back of the wheelchair. Paulette nods looking at him, and Patricia complies.
"Whatever you do, you can't kill Bonnie," he says, his head the only part freed from the spell.
"I would love to help her," the woman explains, her head trembling or maybe nodding, he's not really sure, "But my strength has left me, and Patricia cannot do it alone. The only way to stop my mother from coming back is to kill your friend. I'm truly sorry."
"Sorry won't cut it," he says, almost biting at the air like he could take off the old woman's head if only she was closer.
"We'll make sure she won't feel any pain," she offers, good-naturedly.
"But you and your family will. I will tear you apart limb by limb, I swear I-"
"The sentiment is touching," Isabelle interrupts him, "But you can't move, and we can put a stake in your heart without even getting our hands dusty. Can you see the stupidity of this threat?" she asks him, "I'm sure you are not used to this, but you are not a danger to us, barely a nuisance."
Patricia looks down, and then up again at Bonnie. She looks conflicted but deep in the pit of his stomach Damon knows she's going to do what she must. Witches, they're all about duty and order. She's not going to let Bonnie's life dull her sense of honor.
He must think fast, fast and yet, they're right. What can he do but stare? He couldn't threaten Armandine and he can't threaten her family.
"Why did I need to stay away?" he asks suddenly, calling the woman's attention on him. "I am not a danger to you, and I couldn't kill her without killing Bonnie, too; so, why was she so adamant in having me staying away from her?"
Armandine's eyes on Bonnie's face are angry, now, and he feels a little spark inside. He's on the right track, here, whatever it is, he's got it right.
"You can't kill Bonnie, not if there's another way!" he insists, all the strength from his body channeled into his lungs, burning for them to listen reason.
"There's nothing to lose even if we humor him," the granddaughter suggest, relived at the idea of not getting blood on her hands. Patricia turns her gaze and Bonnie's body is pulled forward by an invisible force.
It stops right in front of Damon, feet planted on the concrete. He stares at her trying to see the girl he knows in the depth of her eyes, but she's nowhere in sight. The invisible force that held him prisoner disappears with a gush of wind that hits his back and pushes back Bonnie's hair from her face. His hands grab her at the arms, like he's trying to stop her from flying away and as his fingers wrap around her, her green eyes roll back in her head and she collapses against his chest.
Damon holds her thighs against him, her head slipping on his shirt until it tilts to the side and her ear is above his heart.
His wide eyes move on the three women to his left, the older one attempting a smile; she coughs and her granddaughter cleans one corner of her mouth with a handkerchief before raising her eyes on him to tell him, "One of you has been very lucky, tonight."
They leave as quietly as they came, and he hears one of them commenting about having left a meat pie in the oven.
#
Bonnie sleeps for the whole ride to the boarding house. He actually has to fasten her seat belt and move her shoulder into a comfortable position so that her back won't hurt when she wakes up. His hand slides to the base of her neck to ensure her heart is working just fine, because even if he can hear it he isn't reassured until the moment he feels the blood pumping under his fingertips.
His hand lingers there – as he observe the almost exotic shape of her closed eyes, the graciousness of her lashes against the mocha skin, the lips that he always only sees frowning because of him – and then it slips up to put a lock of hair behind her ear.
"You've got some explaining to do," he says with a hard voice, removing his hand like he caught himself doing something morally questionable and starts the engine.
He drives fast, without caring if the shaking of the car will wake her up, and still she doesn't open her eyes. She sleeps like the dead, like someone that hasn't slept in days. If he has any doubt about that, there are dark circles on her small face ready to testify to it.
He carries her up to his bedroom – because the one reserved for the guests is occupied by the unwelcome presence of Jeremy-suckiest-boyfriend-of-the-world-Gilbert and the other by the epitome of womanly evil, Katherine Pierce, who will never die fast enough – and adjusts her on his bed. Bonnie opens her eyes as he's bent over her, intent on taking her arms from around his neck, and blinks once, registering his identity and his closeness.
"Damon," she says, her voice faint from tiredness.
"Yes, me," he says, and he thinks she's going to scream and call him a pig and demand that he gives her a decent explanation on why she's in his bed and he's touching her. Instead, she sighs in what seems dangerously like relief and murmurs his name again as her eyes close once more.
She's been possessed and both of them almost got killed by a bunch of old ladies whose major strength was probably the apple pie that got awarded at the last neighborhood fest, and he's completely disoriented by the fact that Bonnie Bennett has not tried to poke out his eyes for the compromising position she's caught him in and actually just went back to sleep.
"And we're right in the shit."
#
He's been trying to put the pieces back together but with no luck because in a crappy hellish hole like Mystic Falls everything can happen and he has no way of narrowing the options if Bonnie doesn't wake up to connect the dots for him. But it's been an hour, and she hasn't even moved from her position in the bed, her hand resting next to her face and the other arm along her side.
He taps his feet, impatiently sitting in a chair and decides to go downstairs to pour himself a drink. Maybe this time he will enjoy it. After all, what else can happen, tonight?
But as soon as he's opened the door a crash makes him turn around with a jerk. The book he had left on his nightstand is rolling on the floor like someone has pushed it away, but when he raises his head Bonnie is in the same position, one arm along her side and one hand clenched next to her face. She whimpers lightly in her sleep, her eyes moving behind closed lids before she start relaxing.
As soon as her body finds some rest again one shutter of his closet opens and then closes violently. This time he's fast enough to catch it in time.
"What the hell is this?" he mutters to himself turning to Bonnie to see her still asleep. The air in the room is getting chillier and he's drawn to her as she slips more under the blanket, curling herself up, instinctively searching for some warmth.
He cups her face and the moment he does her sleep becomes quiet again, her legs stretch under the blankets and the temperature rises, again. He looks around himself trying to understand what is happening. Is it her? He thinks, looking down at the girl asleep in his bed. Are her powers getting out of control? Or is the dear old killer that possessed her back for the second part of the movie?
Still, it seems that as long as he touches her she is all right.
If he knew that having his hands on a pretty girl is the fastest way to fight the good fight and save the day he would have done that a long time ago, he thinks ironically.
#
He hears the doorbell and then the voices coming from the front door. It isn't too long until he sees Elena walking in with the improved, confident walk she's gained since becoming a vampire. She looks at him like she knows just what to do to have him in her lap and maybe, he think, she really does, because it doesn't take much work for her to make him falter every damn time.
But this morning he really doesn't have time to play host to anybody, much less someone who demands so much attention like Elena Gilbert.
She enters his kitchen, one bag hang at her shoulder, followed by her little brother.
"Jeremy and I planned to have breakfast together before I took him to school. I hope we're not imposing," she says, the heavy inflection of uncertainness makes it sound fake. He doesn't doubt that it is. He's made it clear that she can use his house and his body and his whole family if she so pleases, and for a moment he scraps together enough decency to feel pathetic.
"We're out of pretty much everything," he lies, "I suggest you go out to eat."
"We can manage," Jeremy says, walking past Elena without even looking him in the face, and opens one closet after another to put together something to eat. But probably nothing would have changed. Jeremy wouldn't catch a hint if it was biting him in the ass. Otherwise, he would know his girlfriend has been abused under his snotty nose.
Damon enjoys his breakfast for champions – alcohol and more alcohol – because they won't shut their mouths and eat fast enough, and Bonnie is bound to wake up sooner or later, and he doesn't want to waste time on things that don't need explaining – like the reason why she's spent the whole night in his bed – when there are more pressing matters at hand (if anyone would care to notice).
Elena tries to drag him into the conversation a few times, but he's too distracted to answer with anything wittier then "Um?" and "What?"
"It seems like you can't get yourself to wake up," she comments with a giggle, biting on toast.
"Didn't sleep much," he just says, sitting on a stool of the island kitchen while they are at the table. From the way she looks at him, from the curve her lips take, he knows she thinks he spent the night turning and tossing at the thought of her. Well, usually yes, but not tonight.
"I was reading a book, and I forgot to go to bed. It's not really a problem," he can go on without a few nights of sleep – he's more likely to snap someone's neck just because they greeted him with a higher pitch then what he thinks appropriate – but that's never been a big problem for him. For Elena nothing is a problem anymore, at least not for more than twenty seconds.
"What was the book about?" she inquires, hiding a grin behind her mug of coffee. She doesn't believe him and he doesn't go on lying.
"Aren't you going to be late?" he says, watching the clock on the wall, feeling suddenly relieved.
"Right," Jeremy puts toast in his mouth and stands, pushing the chair back against the table.
"About that talk…" Elena begins once her brother is out of the kitchen, "We should continue it, soon."
With talk she means she would like his tongue down his throat. Actually he would like that, too, but Bonnie has suddenly decided to climb his list of priorities and so they're fighting for the position right now. He would like an actual fight, in the mud, while they wore two scrawny bikinis.
Bonnie should be wearing a thong because her ass is f-. But he's digressing now. Back to the topic.
"Yeah, well… we will, soon," he says as she smiles at him like she just won over his resistance.
He follows them to the door, and raises his face to the ceiling in relief once the door closes. He's never been so happy to see Elena go.
Damon turns his head to see Bonnie appearing on the top of the stairs, brushing her hair with the fingers of one hand while the other holds on the handrail. Her clothes are wrinkled and her black eyeliner is slightly smudged giving her quite the sensual look, actually.
"Rise and shine," he chants, cocking his head to the side as she beings walking down the stairs. She hasn't taken two steps when the front door opens again and Jeremy runs inside because, "I forgot something," to stop at the first step of the staircase.
Elena is right on the doorstep, and the expressions on the faces of the two siblings match horribly.
"What-" Jeremy begins, a clear falter in his childish traits, "Did you spend the night here…?" The second part of the question – in Damon's room? – is not said aloud but everyone can hear it all the same.
Bonnie is about to panic, but she doesn't have time to before Damon cuts in. "She was plastered and was looking for you… since you got separated at the party, but you were sleeping and she couldn't form any sentences that made sense, so I let her stay," he explains, looking at Elena with the most nonchalant smile he can manage, "I was the gentleman and gave her my room, but since she was embarrassed she asked me not to tell you."
"Right," Bonnie nods her way into the conversation and Elena contributes with, "Of course," because who could ever think that there was any other possible explanation.
"Um, okay," Jeremy offers a tentative smile, "So you didn't just… leave me there like an idiot?" he asks, and Damon must put all his effort into not rolling his eyes, "I'm glad to know that." No one can make Jeremy look like an idiot because that's a mission he accomplishes perfectly well on his own, on a daily basis.
"You're still late, you know," he reminds him, trying to not sound snappy.
"Right," he says, running up the stairs, and sharing a smile with his girlfriend on his way up. Damon pushes his fists into the pockets of his jeans, and looks down at his shoes, at Elena's, but avoids her face, waiting until Jeremy comes running down and disappears behind the door.
The clicking sound of the door makes Bonnie close her eyes in relief but it's really too soon to proclaim victory.
"The two of us need to talk," he says. And this time things will be done his way.