Damon moves slower than he needs to - toward the patio, up the stairs, and finally, into his bedroom where his silk sheets welcome her unconscious body. There is no blanket - because he is supposed to be unable to feel cold; except that he does, more often than he is ready to admit - so he takes the one folded at the foot of his giant bed and covers her slowly, carefully, like maybe if he keeps her close he'll get to understand her.
He does understand her a bit already, though; he just likes to forget that most of the time.
I have a trouble in mind and so have you
You might be colourblind but you can tell false from true
What is the color of my eyes?
Damon towers above her sleeping form and takes a step back, pushing his fists into the pockets of his jeans. Babysitting an angry witch was really not on his to-do list, but leave it to her to change his plans.
He moves one of the pillows, gets rid of an empty glass colored red by the blood he'd drank beforehand, closes the curtains, lights the fire, and just does anything to procrastinate until he decides that he wants to just stay in that room - it's his damn room after all, he can do what he pleases and she can't kick him out - and watch her sleep and try to understand why the hell she is there. But, above all, why the hell he's letting her.
It's obvious she hasn't been sleeping well lately. The smell of fear and guilt has almost completely faded now, but he can still remember the bitter notes of that scent, and he would like to wake her up and ask her what the hell she even has to feel guilty about.
The things she'd said earlier that night just pushed against the walls of his brain. Yes, she had every right to hate him. She had every right to leave him to die. Yet, she didn't- sort of. So?
Did she regret it? That is one of her supposed faults. Is it are eating her alive? He wonders while sitting cross-legged in the chair in front of the bed.
'But I canhate you!' resounds in his skull and suddenly, he thinks that maybe; just maybe, she doesn't hate him anymore, not so much at least. This would be worse, he decided, because if her moral compass wasn't working, her world didn't make sense anymore.
There is nothing left for her; she told him so. And he was the one who took it away from her, that's a fact, so her not hating him isn't really an option.
He never did stop to think of the things she'd lost. He only cared about Elena; Elena's losses, Elena's future, Elena's love. Which is funny in a way since it's the only thing he and the witch have in common. Only, it turns out, it's not because she has just lost someone, but because she's been abandoned by them; mistreated, betrayed, disappointed, humiliated.
Sleepless nights are not even that bad
It's just that you've lost something you never had
"Now, don't get your pants in a twist, Judgey," he whispers, resting his head against the back of the chair, "but we are very much alike, you and I." This is a piece of information that he didn't feel the need to really say, but it's not like it changes anything at all.
She must hate him, it makes her feel better, it gives her a reason to fight on - but sometimes, just sometimes, he likes it when they manage to work together, when they have a twisted plan no one else would ever agree to, when she calls him instead of Stefan because she trust that he will get it done, when she argues that he's crazy and still helps him out.
Not that he gives a damn about her.
It's just that, aside from the burning and throwing and the threatening stuff they usually do to each other, there is some sort of mutual respect. That's all.
#
Bonnie wakes up four hours later. She turns in the last vestiges of her sleep, breathing in the scent coming from the pillow, recognizing it as familiar, even if she can't really place or name it. She lies on her back, arches up, stirring and letting herself be embraced by the warmth coming from the sheets. They are very soft at the touch. Her cotton sheets were never this soft, this silky, she thinks, but then again it has been so long since she could sleep well- from before Damon's kidnapping and the nightmares that followed, that is.
Nightingales cross your path
In the forgotten gardens
Singing songs of your past in the forgotten gardens
It comes back then: her fist against his door, his face twisted from the pain of the aneurysm, the weight lifting from her stomach after seeing him as annoying and pompous as ever. The name attached to that comforting smell suddenly strikes her. She opens her eyes wide and snaps into a sitting position. One light flickers on and there he is; sprawled in a chair, smirk firmly planted on his lips, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles and eyes as blue as ever.
"What am I doing here?" she asks, but more to herself than him.
"Morning sunshine," he pipes.
She doesn't say anything, just slips from the king size bed, planting her bare feet on the floor. Her shoes are next to the nightstand.
"You know, I didn't think it would be so easy for me to get you into my bed..." he says making her roll her eyes. Bonnie feels her cheeks warm a little despite herself. As usual, trying to ignore him doesn't work. "It was amazing Bonnie, truly," he says, dramatically, "I feel like I lived all my life just for this one magical night," he declares, slapping his right hand on his chest like he's about to swear to something.
"Are you done?" she asks, trying her best to not let him know that he's getting on her nerves - that would only spur him on more. Obviously, she fails.
"Nope," he answers quickly, proceeding with his monologue. "You rocked my world. Believe me, this will be such a precious memory for me," he mocks her. It's like knocking two birds with one stone: he can amuse himself and fuel her flammable temperament, so she will feel more like herself.
"It seems like you didn't rock mine if you consider that I don't remember a thing," she says. "So I wouldn't spread the news," she mocks back.
"That's good for me, it means next time it will be like the first time all over again," he says. "I am a romantic, you see," he adds with a grin that every other girl with two working eyes, or even one, would consider as sexy. She doesn't, because she doesn't consider him, period.
I lay the blame outside the door
Please, please don't come back for more
She bends and is intent in teeing her tennis shoes when he speaks again.
"Just to be clear," he says, now serious, "you have every right."
She freezes, strings still between her fingers while something sinks in her stomach.
"To hate me, I mean. As you know, I did what I did for Elena," he says. "The point is: it was either your mother or you. There could be no other way," he admits, like he is not happy that he chose her to be the one to survive. He is not happy at all that he'd still choose her to be the one to live if he could go back in time.
Silence, silence is what outside is
Lay the blame outside the door
Oh please please don't come back for more
Damon sees her straightening her shoulders and look in front of her at the wall. He almost braces himself for an aneurysm that does not come. She is tempted, though, because he unnerves her. His very existence bothers her to no end. The fact that she felt relived because he's still alive or un-dead or whatever, bothers her beyond words because she can't care about him, because she doesn't. It's because it would be an insult to half her lineage, because she can't accept it, and she won't.
"And you expect me to send you a fruit basket?" she asks turning to him like she's pinning him down with her eyes.
"I'm quite modest," he says making her grin sarcastically, "I would settle for a thank-you card."
She sighs, tired of their bickering. She's used to silence first thing in the morning - usually because there's no one around - so she's not prepared for a full Damon-fucking-Salvatore-verbal-sparring session. She rises from the bed and goes to reach the door but she freezes again, hand on the knob, when he speaks again- sounding dead set.
"Since you were such a good girl and saved me again by informing Stefan about my little tiff with Rebekah," he says, making clear that she did save him, just in case, "I guess you're stuck with me."
"I guess so," she admits before turning to face him.
"You know, you have an alarming passion for psycho bitches," she reflects, aloud.
"True," he sighs, nodding his head, "will you marry me, then?" he asks with a grin.
She tries her best to suppress the grin that's attempting to reach her lips, despite the not-so-subtle insinuation.
"Do you really feel like being slammed into the wall first thing in the morning?" she threatens, trying to cover up her amusement at his idiocy.
Damon bites his lip and sucks air between his teeth, feigning anticipation. "Talking dirty to me. I like it," he says, lazily caressing the word like with his tongue, "you're insatiable." He winks at her and she rolls her eyes, opening the door while mumbling, "you're insane."
Once she's out of the room he doesn't follow her, just stands there, fists in his pockets, listening to the light sound of her steps and the noise of her car's engine starting.
Damon reaches the bed and let's himself fall onto it, bending one arm behind his head. His sheets are pleasantly warm -his cold flesh is quite thankful for the service - and he can smell a light scent of honey.
The only inconvenience now is that his morning started out so fun that his day can only turn out deadly boring. Such a shame.
Note: From this chapter on my beta is MagicWeMade. The song used is Forgotten Gardens by Mads Langer.