A/N: Oh god, I TOTALLY forgot to thank my awesome beta Ellen Smithee for all her work on the last chapters, I'm really, really sorry for that... -hangs head in shame-

Thank all of you who reviewed the last chapters, I was beginning to think that no one was reading or that people don't want to read about this pairing. Thank god I was wrong about that! :)

Alaric comes to when they drag him out of the car with no regards to his injuries. Someone bumps into his side and his broken ribs flare to life, sending flashes of white, hot agony through his body and dragging a hoarse shout from his throat. He comes up swinging, lashing out at the person closest to him without thinking, desperate to get them away from him. He can't see a thing, there's a blindfold covering his eyes, but before he can reach for it he is grabbed again, pulled upright between two people who feel huge and strong compared to him.

Someone growls into his ear. "Do that again and I'll snap your neck before you know it."

They start moving and he loses his footing, stumbles between his captors who just drag him along through the darkness.

His head is reeling, the last thing he remembers is Damon collapsing in front of him and shadows racing towards them, moving so fast he could barely track their movements. He'd tried to put up a fight, but a blow to the back of his already aching head had taken him out of the game before he ever got a hit in. He has no idea where he is, or where Damon is for that matter, but whoever is behind this is definitely not human or has at least some sort of support of the bloodsucking kind.

A door is opened somewhere in front of him and the air changes, goes from fresh and cold to ice-cold and moldy. There are stairs, leading down, below the surface, a cellar maybe. He's dragged down the steps and he wants to fight against it. He's scared; he can't see where he is going and he feels like he is going to fall any moment and tumble headfirst into an abyss. But he stays silent, he is having enough difficulties as it is to drag in enough air into his cramped lungs.

When they finally stop walking, it's a relief.

For a moment he just stands there, breathing shallowly, then someone grabs him by the scruff of his neck and forces him upright, out of his protective slump. He has to fight to keep his balance on legs that have started to shake from exhaustion and cold. The blindfold is snatched off his head and the light of a single light bulb assaults his eyes, causing them to tear up.

"What—" he starts against his better judgment, but falls silent when there's a sound right in front of his face.

It takes him a moment to process what he is seeing and then another to realize that the faint 'click' he hears is the sound of a safety latch being released. He is too dazed to understand that the gun pointing at his head is a threat—

Until it goes off.

ooOOoo

He's dead.

His head hurts.

He's so fucking cold.

He's dead and his head hurts and he wishes he could just stop shivering already. It's freezing, moisture is seeping through his jeans where his knees press into the ground. Wet, everything is wet, his head—

His head is split open, bleeding out. Blood, there's blood everywhere, leaking out of him in a steady flow. He can't see it, he can't see anything because it is dark, but it's there, warm and sticky, dripping into his eyes. He tries to blink it away, but that doesn't work, even that tiny movement hurts so bad he gives up and just lies there, trying to make sense of the world.

He's de—he should be dead, he's had a gun go off in his face and he doesn't have his ring anymore and how the hell can you even miss a target this close?

He shivers again, groaning when his whole body complains about the movement—and that's when he hears the voice. It's low and cautious and kind of familiar, but too muffled for him to understand what it's saying. He tenses in alarm, tries to lift his head, to sit up, to do anything but lie helpless on the ground, but it's impossible. The best he can do is turn his head in the direction and blink into the darkness.

A shadow starts moving, gets closer to him and kneels down next to him.

Stop, he wants to say, leave me the fuck alone already, but what comes out sounds an awful lot like a panicked grunt. He is not okay with that, but unable to change it.

A hand reaches out toward his head and he flinches back instinctively, trying to roll away from it, but, again, his body betrays him and he is forced to remain where he is. The voice sounds again and this close he can make out a words, a name.

"Ric, calm down, it's me."

The hand squeezes his neck softly and the shadow leans forward, closer to his face, until he can make out pale skin against a dark background and two familiar eyes looking down at him.

"Damon?" His own voice is nothing but a breathless croak, but he thinks he gets the name out.

"You look like crap," Damon informs him and Alaric huffs weakly, pulling his lips into a forced smile.

"Yeah, I was shot— in the head…"

Damon leans closer and frowns, studying his head. "It's still attached… in all its ugly glory."

Something about his voice is off, but Alaric feels too dizzy to respond to that and then Damon leans away from him. "Can you get up?"

No. "Yeah, help me up…" He sighs, bracing himself for the pain he knows will come.

He isn't disappointed, as soon as Damon pulls him to his feet his world turns from spinning to whoa, rollercoaster and his side cramps up on him, driving what little air he has left from his lungs. He closes his eyes, doesn't want to see anymore, to feel anymore. His stomach churns in protest as his head reels, but he can't make a sound. He doubles over before he is even upright and Damon fastens an arm across his chest, keeping him on his feet. The vampire says something, but Alaric's hearing is too fuzzy to make it out. They walk slowly into the darkness, Alaric sagging more and more, until Damon stops and sits him down against a cold wall, squatting down in front of him.

For a long time all Alaric is concerned about is getting his lungs to work properly and fight off the black dots that are dancing in his vision. Damon watches him, uncharacteristically silent, his face a blurry spot in the darkness that doesn't give Alaric any hint as to what might be on his mind. When he trusts himself enough to be able to form actual words, he cocks his head to the side slightly, trying to focus.

"Are you okay?"

Damon jerks slightly and tenses, leaning back as he clears his throat. "I'm not the one who almost had his head blown off."

Alaric might not be firing on all cylinders at the moment, but he catches the weird tone of Damon's voice and frowns, holding his breath as he sits up straighter.

"What happened out there, you were… shot?" He remembers that, dimly, he remembers shots in the darkness, Damon collapsing against him, almost knocking him off his feet—

"Damon?"

Damon shifts slightly… and growls.

It's a soft sound, one Alaric has heard quite frequently in the past, but it always had a playful edge to it. Right now, it doesn't, it's low and deep and feral and it makes the hair on Alaric's neck stand on end. It's when his heart starts to beat faster and he feels Damon's complete attention crawl over him that he realizes he is in trouble, they both are.

Damon was injured, his body must have healed his wounds by now and that means he needs blood, pure and simple. And Alaric's head is bleeding, gushing blood like a stuck pig to be exact, right in front of a hungry vampire, like some buffet waiting to be devoured. It's a miracle that his jugular is still intact right now, Damon is not known to be the most controlled vampire of all times.

Well, shit.

Alaric freezes on the spot, breath caught in his throat as he goes through his frighteningly short list of options: He stopped taking vervain a week into that thing they have—a decision he somehow never really questioned and that Damon never commented on—he is carrying no weapons and is in no condition to fight him off—

He's screwed.