A/N: This chapter is a little filler-ish, I must admit. I guess a little character development? Check it. Love, like or not, hit me with some of those thoughtful reviews, cause you know I will cherish them like the homicidal vampire cherishes his witch.
The early morning gloom was just bright enough to bathe Bonnie's eyelids in unwelcome light. Apparently, Damon forgot to close the tent flap, so not only did mosquitoes get in during the night, Bonnie was woken up at the ungodly hour of 6 AM. The official sunrise would not happen for another eight minutes, so being as she was already awake, she might as well enjoy it.
Well, at least she thought she could. However, a certain vampire had also made sure that he blocked the path to the tent exit. Damnit, Damon, Bonnie thought, If I can't sleep and I can't watch the sunrise, what am I gonna do?
"No good morning kiss, Pumpkin?" Damon rolled over, his pale white torso squeezing out of the sleeping bag like a sausage. He struggled unsuccessfully to pull his arms out. "Hey, where's the zipper on this thing, Bon? I can't free myself. A little help here, Witchy?" He looked over hoping for some sympathy, but all he got was a smirk.
"Hah. You want me to help? You leave the tent flap open, so I can't sleep in and get feasted upon by at least a hundred mosquitoes, you lie right in front of it so I can't leave, and you want me to help you? Unlikely."
"Come on, Bon-bon. The mosquitoes are only proving the point I've made all along: You are scrumptious. A hundred bites ain't nothin' on what I'd do if you'd just let me have a taste." Bonnie stepped over Damon in the least graceful way possible on her way out of the tent. She even managed to nick his ribs with her toe, which elicited an indignant grunt from the vampire.
When Damon finally managed to rip his sleeping bag open, Bonnie was already boiling water for coffee. Damon pulled two blood bags from his pack and stuck them in the pot to warm up.
"Well gosh, Killer, that's disgusting. Now I'm going to have to boil some fresh water for the coffee."
"Oh dear, Martha Stewart, it's just plastic in the water. Absolutely no blood will leech through, I promise." Damon grabbed his bags out, bit into the plastic tube of one, and drank in generous pulls. "Too bad I forgot my favorite cup at home-I would totally add the last of the bourbon. That would be the perfect start to my day." He sighed, his eyes rolled upward in mock contentment.
"Oh, you mean this mug?" Bonnie dangled the chipped porcelain monstrosity in black and red in front of the vampire. "The one into which I am about to put worms for fishing today?" She chuckled. "Now that would be the perfect start to this day-getting back at you for everything that has happened." She stomped off into the woods to find a dirt pile. Maybe she'd find some big, fat night crawlers.
"Witchy, I'm warning you! If one tiny bit of worm slime touches my precious blood mug, you will never see Mystic Falls, in this universe or a parallel one, ever again!" Damon dropped the blood bag and sped after her.
As Bonnie walked, she felt a sudden surge of guilt. She had promised Damon the night before that she would try to be less judgmental. But leaving her exposed to the elements in the forest was just not nice, even if he didn't do it on purpose. All it would have taken was a little apology. As she worried a mosquito bite, she thought back to the previous morning when he had hijacked their trip on purpose, and remembered how defeated she felt. How anything and everything she wanted for herself came in second place to others' needs and wants. She dug painfully into the bite with her nails, and it started to bleed.
Even here in this world, a world Grams had sent her to so that she could have peace. All Bonnie wanted was to come first, for someone, in some time, in some place. She wanted the immediate and contrite apologies. She wanted the genuine love she herself put out into the universe. She wanted to be wanted.
And as she thought back to Damon, something clicked. The hours she spent trying to make him see her point of view, and the effort she put into pulling him out of his moody funks. The time she enjoyed goofing off with him, drinking bourbon straight up, watching the videos in the boarding house over and over again. Reading books together and discussing their merits. She truly loved being around Damon. And if he weren't trying to be true to Elena-if she weren't so set on being Elena's best friend-maybe things would be different? Bonnie looked at the drops of blood that were beading up on her arm. She wiped them away with her index finger, which she stuck in her mouth. The taste was salty and ferrous, and maybe even a bit sweet.
If Bonnie were being truthful with herself, she knew that Damon was truly under her skin, and not in an I-hate-you-and-you-keep-getting-on-my-nerves-and-I-want-to-kill-you kind of way. It was more of an I-have-to-keep-you-at-arms'-length-because-I-maybe-want-to-snuggle-you-and-keep-you-forever kind of way. And if she acknowledged Damon's round-about confession last night, he maybe felt the same way too. What am I going to do about this? Before she had time to think any further, she was lifted unceremoniously into the air by strong but surprisingly gentle arms.
"Okay Witchy, give me the damn mug. You know how I cherish it. On this day in the real 1994, it breaks. But now, I get to use it. And it reminds me of how I did terrible things and how I deserve a much worse fate than this prison world." He carefully removed the clean and unscathed cup from Bonnie's hand. But he still didn't put her down. In fact, he held her closer as he walked through the woods back to the campsite.
His chin rested on her silky bob. I wonder what her real hair is like? Damon thought to himself. Her weave smelled like human hair, but he knew it wasn't hers because the base notes of the scent were foreign. He could smell her real hair underneath-cornrowed carefully, he was sure. Damon had seen plenty of black women getting their hair done, changing wigs, struggling with the challenges of trying to make their unique beauty fit into the square peg of white conventions. Being on earth for almost two centuries made a person reevaluate what beauty is, and Damon, in spite of what people thought, had learned to appreciate all types of pretty. There was no doubt that Bonnie Bennett was beautiful, inside and out.
Bonnie gave in and let out the breath she had been holding since Damon picked her up. Once they reached the campsite, he put her down on top of the two sleeping rolls, bags, and pillows, which he had arranged into a makeshift divan inside the tent. He took the two towels and placed them in a roll under her knees. Then he pulled off her socks.
The only way to describe the next thirty minutes was heavenly. Bonnie knew that Damon gave a pretty mean foot rub-she had received endless praise about them from Elena, and even Caroline had a few complimentary remarks about them. But Bonnie had never had the pleasure of receiving one until now. And, well, both Elena and Caroline had not done him justice with their words. Damon had magical fingers, long and graceful. They were strong and supple, firm and gentle. It was clear that he was following a ritual, but somehow the strokes within the form felt unique and partially improvised. Bonnie never saw any lotion or oil, but Damon's hands never slipped or stuck on her feet. Bonnie nearly cried with relief-she felt like all the tension and sadness and anger and frustration and hopelessness that she had been holding in was being released by the tenderness of Damon's massage.
And then she was crying. It wasn't like the crying she did in the bedroom of the boarding house when she thought Damon was out or asleep. That was angry crying, that was sad crying. It was loud and wailing crying. This crying was cleansing. It was silent. The tears welled up in her eyes, escaped from between her lashes and slid down her cheeks to her ears and down her jaw. Her neck was wet, and the pillows behind her head soaked up the excess of her emotions.
Damon could smell the salt, but he didn't stop. He focused on putting his own feelings-the ones for Bonnie-into the strokes applied to her tender feet and toes. He wanted her to know how sorry he was and how he appreciated her. But beyond that, and more importantly, he wanted her to feel his growing love. Soon he heard her breathing slow, and he knew that she was asleep. So he stopped, covered her up, and left the tent, making sure to zip the flap closed.