Alaric gives a breathless gasp and bucks weakly against the wall, before his eyes roll back into his head and he goes limp, arms falling away from the hand at his throat. Damon can't help it, he tenses, barely holding back a growl and taking a step forward, but the look on Elijah's face makes him stop in his tracks. He glares at the Original.
Elijah studies the quiet human he's still holding up, then turns slightly to look at Damon.
"Make sure his head remains intact."
With that, he is gone before Alaric's limp body hits the floor, where it lands in a boneless heap.
Damon whirls to look at the door, half expecting to see it fall shut, but it stays open, the light of the single bulb casting shadows on the ground. He bites back the insult that wants to slip free, too aware of the fact that Elijah may still be close enough to hear him, and goes over to Alaric, running his fingers over the pale skin of his neck. He feels a pulse, sluggish and disturbingly weak, but then Alaric draws a shallow breath and then another, starting to cough a few times. He remains unconscious, though, and Damon is actually grateful for that.
"You can thank me later," he grunts into the darkness when Alaric falls silent and pulls him upright, leaning him against the wall.
Damon straightens, taking a couple of deep breaths, fighting to ignore the smell, focusing his attention on his goal: getting out of there without tearing into Alaric's throat for a snack. It's hard; he feels the familiar throb of the veins around his eyes, can't stop his fangs from descending—and then he looks down at Alaric.
"You owe me."
He pulls him up and across his shoulders and leaves the cell as fast as he can, using his speed to get out and into the dark night. The fresh air helps a little, allowing him to gain some sort of control. He looks around, trying to orient himself—and freezes, staring at the trees a couple of feet away. Alaric's car is standing there in the bushes, abandoned, the driver's door open. Damon blinks, believes it to be a hallucination at first, but then walks over, a small grin pulling at his lips when he sees the keys in the ignition.
Alaric rouses briefly a couple of times during the drive, staring blankly at him before he passes out again. The cursed wound on his temple finally stops bleeding, but the scent is still heavy on the air, driving Damon mad with hunger. He has to focus his entire concentration on keeping the car on the road, and twice he almost loses it. At some point he starts shaking and his hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. When they finally arrive at the boarding house, the sun is starting to crawl up the horizon. Damon is out of the car before he knows it, flashing through the main door and into the basement. The last thing he is aware of before everything goes red is the sound of the top of the freezer crashing against the wall.
He goes through a third of his admittedly small blood stash before the burning hunger lessens and he becomes aware of his surroundings again. The shaking has stopped, the pain in his back is gone—and he stinks. He's covered in blood, his own, Alaric's, his shirt is shredded—and maybe he should have a look at the half-dead history teacher he's left behind in the car.
Alaric surprises him; not only is he awake and conscious, he's also moving, walking slowly into the hallway. He's hanging on to the wall for support and his squinted eyes speak of a major headache and a severe difficulty with focusing, but he's upright and functioning—at least on a very basic level.
Alaric proves him right with the first words that come out of his mouth. "I need a drink."
They both wince at the croak. Alaric's voice is completely shot to hell, nothing getting out but a hoarse, painful sounding rasp. Oh, the joys of being choked…
"You—we need a shower."
Alaric frowns, looking down at his bloody and torn clothes. "Whatever…"
He turns to the stairs and begins to climb them slowly. Damon watches him for a moment.
"I could help you with that."
Alaric pauses on the first flight of the stairs. "You're not carrying me, Damon." He sounds as if he'd rather say the opposite.
Damon walks up to him, regarding him with a side-glance. "I wasn't talking about the stairs."
Alaric's jaw clenches and for two, three steps he walks almost normally. "I know."
It's one of those things that have become a rule: Alaric won't drink his blood, not for healing purposes, not for fun, not even in a fight. He's made Damon promise not to give him anything and he agreed, even if they both know he won't keep that promise if it ever gets serious.
He doesn't see the point; it's stupid, actually, why not save Alaric the pain and get him back on his feet in a matter of seconds? It's never been an issue before, ever since he gave the ring back to John Gilbert, Alaric has never been hurt badly enough to have trouble walking in a straight line and so that promise has been surprisingly easy to keep.
Until now.
It's… unsettling. It's only a couple of broken bones and a concussion, Alaric is not going to die from it, but still— for some reason Damon is suddenly too aware of how disturbingly human—vulnerable— he is.
Whatever.
Damon flashes up the stairs to the top, looking down at Alaric's painful progress for a second, then walks into the bedroom, taking off his clothes and chucking them into a corner.
The hot water is heaven. He gets so lost in the sensation of warmth rolling through his muscles it takes him a very long time to realize that Alaric isn't joining him in the fun. He frowns, concentrating on the bedroom for a moment to find a heartbeat close by. Damon finishes the shower and snatches a towel, drying himself as he walks back into the room.
Alaric is sitting on the bed, shoes off, jacket lying abandoned near the foot. He's slumped forward, a lost look in his eyes as if he forgot what he was doing in the middle of doing it and has been wondering about it ever since. He jerks upright when Damon steps into his line of sight.
"You're getting blood on my bed, old, smellyblood, not the good kind."
Alaric needs a moment to comprehend that and sways to his feet. "Shirt's too tight, can't get it off."
Damon takes a look at the bloody shirt and rips it open at the back, grinning at Alaric's attempt to glare at him. "What, it's ruined anyway." Then, as an afterthought and only because Alaric looks so fucking weak standing slumped like that, he asks, "Need help with the rest?"
Alaric shakes his head. "I'm fine."
Back off and leave me alone is what his body is all but screaming at him—and Damon lets him go. Whatever it is, he'll get over it.
ooOOoo
It's three days later and Damon is thisclose to taking a swing at Alaric in frustration.
He's been patient, he's been considerate, and he might even go so far as calling himself helpful and understanding.
In other words, he's not exactly been himself.
Three days of him all but nursingAlaric back to health, getting him stuff from downstairs when his side cramps up on him, letting him sleep for most of the day so Humpty Dumpty has enough time to put himself back together again, leaving him all to himself when Alaric insists that "I really don't want to talk about it, Damon."
He does what he can to keep his distance and let him work it out. He doesn't ask, he doesn't try to talk to him. That's not how they work, that's not how Alaric deals with things. If he's learned one thing about the man, it's that he will, eventually, come around and bug him with stuff in his own time. And be an ass in the meantime.
And Damon is fine with that; he wouldn't have it any other way.
But then there are the nightmares. And they are bad.
Alaric probably hopes Damon doesn't notice them, but he would have to be deaf, blind and stupid not to. Alaric doesn't cry out, he doesn't moan in his sleep, he doesn't even thrash around and wake himself up, but there's his heartbeat, skyrocketing from one moment to the other until it's so fast Alaric starts pantingto keep up with it. When Damon turns around Alaric is staring at him, pupils blown wide in the darkness, full of something that never stays long enough for Damon to put a name to it.
Alaric never goes back to sleep for the rest of the night. He gets up, shuffles around the room and goes downstairs, wandering through the library and the other rooms restlessly. He doesn't talk about it, never talks about anything anymore, he tells Damon to leave it alone. Damon expects to find him passed out from too much alcohol in the morning, but instead he's always sober, tired as hell and still walking, looking lost and miserable and very freaked out.
It's not that he doesn't understand it, he does: Alaric is running on empty and too much emotion and way too little alcohol and that's a very bad combination for him. Damon has never seen him like this before. Granted, he has no idea how exactly Alaric dealt with the whole Isobel affair before they somehow decided they made a great team and started to hang out together. He's always figured it was probably pretty much the same as he always did: lots of alcohol, sleeping in as much as he could and giving Stefan a run for his money when it comes to brooding.
Somehow Alaric has always found a way to get better, to get back to normal, but this, whatever this is, seems to be too much for him.
And it has gone on long enough.