Note: Whenever I try and write this ff there's this voice in my head screaming "Help, I don't know what I'm doing." So, possibly, let me know. I need all the support I can get. In the meantime Happy Easter everybody. Or Happy whatever-it-is-for-you. Have a great week-end.
#
She's spent almost the whole drive with her eyes closed, letting him think that she fell asleep as she tries to find some quietude inside. The change of scenery clearly put her off, but she can manage, she thinks. She knows how.
He was telling her something but he fell silent the moment he saw her closed lids, turning the volume of the radio down a bit so it wouldn't disturb her. He learned that in the prison world. Whenever she fell asleep watching a movie, turning off the TV would wake her up, the sudden change alerting her senses, so he started lowering the volume instead, allowing the background noise to lull her.
When the car stops and he turns the engine off she remains still, breathing deeply to deepen her concentration for a few moments more, until he'll tell her that they've arrived. But he doesn't. Minutes pass and he doesn't say a word so she slowly opens her eyes to find the wall of the Salvatore garage in front of her. Bonnie turns her head to the side and finds him sitting next to her silently, head turned towards her, a smile touching the corners of his mouth as soon as she looks at him.
"Rested well?" he asks, gently. She doesn't know if his choice of words depends on the fact that he caught on to her little lie or if it's just a coincidence, but in both cases she doesn't need to know. Damon, vampire or otherwise, is always humming with energy and she's surprised to see him silently waiting for her to wake up on her own.
Bonnie nods and swallows a little knot in the middle of her throat.
"Why are we here?" she asks, looking around herself.
"What do you mean? Where were we supposed to go? You're staying here," he says, like there was no other option to consider. "Think about logistics, Bon-Bon. I need my kitchen to express my culinary art, so what should I do? Go back and forth between your tiny house and my majestic one every time I need a spatula?"
She doesn't say he didn't need to, because there's no rule that forbids her from making her own breakfast or living without him, because that's not what he seem to think, and she knows better than to get tangled into a conversation she has no chance of winning.
One of her hands wrap around the safety belt while the other goes for the button, but he does the same. Their hands brush absently, briefly over it, before he unhooks his own seatbelt.
"I didn't tell Caroline and Elena you were going to be back today, so they won't interfere with your jet lag. That's my job," he says, getting out of the car to take her case from the trunk.
"How did you know when I was going to arrive?" she asks, closing the car door, after getting out.
"Insightfulness, intuition, a work of deduction by my brilliant mind," he explains, closing the trunk and looking up at her. "Oh, and I called your travel agency and told them I forgot when I was supposed to pick you up at the airport and I couldn't get a hold of you to ask again," he adds with a grin.
"I ruined your surprise, I know, but it's not like you were about to show up at my door wearing only a gigantic bow for me to unfasten, right?" he asks, stopping to make a face like it just occurred to him that she might, "Because in that case hop in, I'm driving you to the airport again," he says, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, "I'll make sure to do my surprised face."
She doesn't want to encourage him, but she can't help but shake her head and roll her eyes. "Idiot," she mutters, turning her back to go inside the house. He's so frustrating, so childish. So Damon.
Being away was supposed to give her perspective, make her more in control, and it did. But it also made her unprepared and weak to his stupidity. It's just so easy for him to get under her skin.
#
He wouldn't have admitted it put him off, the way her stiff body wouldn't relax next to him. It reminded him of when they would swear to anything dead or alive they hated each other's guts, and she meant it more than he did. Because even then it irked him how she would let people manipulate her and walk all over her, and he would promise Elena he could let her die – even kill her himself if that's what it took – for her sake any day of the week, and still spill blood to save her ass.
He remembers the moment the concept sank into his brain, that she trusted him, if only unconsciously. They roamed through the cabinets of his house while they were living la vida loca in their 90's loop and he told her that "If we don't find some blood I'm going to go straight for your jugular, judgy."
He had spied her reaction, looking above the cabinet's door. She had turned her head to look at him, a condescending look on her annoyed face, lips pursed in her you're-so-full-of-shit-Damon expression, which is subtext for I-love-the-shit-out-of-you-Damon, or so he likes to think, and, "Yeah, right," she just said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.
It was stupid. She probably doesn't even remember that moment, but it turned a switch somewhere inside. She was without her powers while he was still a vampire, so he decided he could do to her whatever crossed his mind, but she was absolutely unconcerned. He was going to bitch about her being uncompassionate and egoist while he starved to death, because he likes a touch of drama – thank you very much – but he wouldn't have hurt her for any reason. And a part of her already knew that, even before he could surrender to the concept and admit it to himself. Despite it all, a part of her already trusted him.
And now, after three months of cold treatment and barely a word out of her in the last hour and half, that shake of her pretty head and the rolling of her eyes tasted like victory, like the first step to regaining their normality. She doesn't want to be pulled back into the Mystic Falls habit of reaching Armageddon at least twice a year, and brush over the weekly, usual theatrical, talk about how to defeat evil or one-directions, and he can understand that; but, accepting it is something else entirely, because he doesn't like not having her around to ask stupid things to, like, what actor should play his role in a hypothetical movie about his life, and making his creepiest performance as he reads I'm having an old friend for dinner, 45 down, as he sucks between his teeth.
Damon follows her inside and passes her to take the stairs, looking at her over his shoulder to will her to follow her as he carries her luggage. "Your room is ready. You can sleep your crankiness off and unleash the rest on me later," he decides. "You know I never back off from some tough love." Jet lag must have really taken a toll on her, or maybe he did something stupid as per that case they can call it even, considering she disappeared on him without as much as a word. She can get over this strange mood of hers any way she sees fit, but at the end of it he'll have his bestie back and that is all.
"I'll wake you up at dinner time," he informs her, opening the door to her bedroom and pushing the luggage inside.
"Don't," she answers, faking tiredness.
"At eight p.m." he adds, and when she turns around, ready to contradict him she only sees the closed door.
"Damn," she mutters under her breath. He's so exhausting she can feel her control slipping and the jet lag catching up to her. She massages her temples with two fingers and turns to walk to the window to pull the curtains closed. When she does so, and the room falls into darkness, she realizes there's still some light spreading on the walls. She turns to see a candle burning on the nightstand and she sits on the bed staring at the little flame. Her senses are tricking her, she realizes, because her brain is slow to catch the smell in the air. She pushes back the jar candle with one finger to read the name of it, though she recognized it. It's one of her favorites, something she was actually tempted to buy whenever she passed a duty free store at the airport, before deciding to give a go to the local incenses.
The wax is red and there's Autumn Leaves written on the label, a medley of birch and maple leaves with pomegranate, juniper berry and orange blossom. It's one of her favorites. She blows on the flame to extinguish it and lays on the bed with her back to it. Enzo is staring at her as he leans with his back against the wall.
"I don't know who coined the phrase eternal rest, but they clearly never had a witch as ex-girlfriend," he says with a sigh and a smile.
"What do you have to rest for? Being a ghost is that tiring?" she asks back, her cheek resting on the back on her hand, on her pillow. She's annoyed that Damon is so nice to her. It makes her feel guilty about the urge to keep her distance from her previous life. There's no need for Enzo to add to the pile.
"I could ask you the same."
"I'm not a ghost," she bites back.
"Aren't you?" He looks at her like a parent would a bratty child. "I know you want to be loyal to me," he says, his voice softening like a shadow, "But loyalty is something you give to the living. And your bestie seems to want it bad." When she side-eyes him, he shrugs and grins. "No pun intended."
"I always doubted your sanity whenever you stuck by him, but now... You're leaving him hanging when all he wants is for you to be in his life," he adds. "I gotta give it to him, when it comes to picking his friends he's got good taste."
Bonnie knows that Enzo is right. She knows she's being a horrible friend to Damon. But after months of perfect calm, he feels like an avalanche and her first instinct is to run from him.
"Whatever," she replies, turning onto her back. "I need to sleep now," she decides, letting the room go dark again.
#
Damon knows Bonnie. She can kick and scream but she always comes around. She always comes back to him.
It's something he's learned to count on, though sometimes he still finds himself holding his breath for that moment to come, the dropping of the other shoe, that moment when he screws up too badly and she decides she's had enough. He doesn't want to think of that. It's too cold and too empty if he thinks of that.
He raises his hand to knock on the door but it stills in the air because the door opens on its own. Bonnie brushes the sleep from her eyes with one hand. "Yeah, yeah, dinner time. My head is about to burst. I hope for your sake tonight menu's worth the effort," she says, dragging the words and her feet with some serious effort, walking ahead of him and leaving the door open.
"That depends," he quips with a tad too much enthusiasm for her taste. She's just woke up, and she hopes he remembers to keep the conversation to a minimum. If he feels the need, he can do the questioning and answer them himself, because talking is not something she can do when she's just woken up.
"On what? You'll ask me," he says, "Or you would if you weren't comatose. And the answer is: on what we're making."
She stops dead in her tracks and he has to dodge, because with her shrunken size and his build they could do some serious damage.
She turns her eyes on him, her mouth pressed into a thin line, "I'm not kidding you," he says, answering her unspoken question. Bonnie starts to turn around to go back to her room but he takes her by the shoulders, turns her around again, and guides to the stairs. "Don't be a spoilsport. You always loved preparing dinner with me."
"Never," she replies.
"Liar," he calls her, pushing lightly behind her so that she'll keep walking down the stairs. She's so compliant and lost whenever she's just woken up that it wouldn't have worked better than if he had planned this. The universe is clearly on his side.
She can only grunt her weak denial as they approach the kitchen.
"We can have broiled chicken with–" His proposal is interrupted by her whiny groan. "Hamburger sticks with onions and gravy?" he asks, getting a similar sound in response. "Veal escalopes with mushrooms?" There's a short, definitive sound coming from the back of her throat.
"And we have a winner!" he declares, leaving her standing in front of the counter. In a few moments he puts some flour, salt and pepper on a plate and places it in front of her. She merely crinkles her nose, but that's good sign in his book because it means that lucidity is coming back to her.
He passes her the tray with the veal and she starts seasoning it, turning it and turning it in the white powder. "Enough," he decides when she doesn't seem like she's going to stop repeating the action, over and over, unnecessarily. Damon places his body behind hers, her back adheres to his chest, his arm stretches above hers and his hand reaches for her own, which holds the veal. He gives a shake to it to make the excess flour fall and it reverberates through the length of her slender arm making her smile. This was something only Damon could do, make her feel good about childish things she never got to enjoy if not with him. It takes her by surprise how easily they can reconnect though something this silly, though she's barely said two words straight and none of them were kind.
"Now concentrate," he says.
"I am very concentrated," she replies, sounding dead serious. She watches as his hand then guides hers to the pan and helps her ease down the escalope in the hot oil. The dangerous action proceeds smoothly but the hot oil decides to squirt out of the pan anyway. She flinches and Damon pulls her hand away, raising it above her head to blow on it.
"You okay?"
"Why am I always the one that has to do the dangerous part?" she protests, purposely forgetting that he helped. She's trying not to think about how hot the contact feels. Her body is not used to it anymore and it's almost uncomfortable. It makes her body stiffen up a bit, though she tries not to let it show, to not hurt him.
"What do you mean why? You're my right hand," he reminds her, grimacing and blowing on her hand. Though he can feel the change in her body, she doesn't pull her hand away.
"I'm totally the brain, here," she replies, watching the veal in the pan turn a golden brown while her arm is stupidly raised above her head.
"Now, you're deluding yourself, witchy," he says with a condescending tone.
She rolls her eyes, reminding him starkly, "If I give you an aneurysm, now, you're dead-dead."
"You are so the brain," he concedes rapidly, making her smile, "I should call you Brain Bennett. Are you sure that's not your middle name? Let me check your ID. I can't believe it I did not–"
"Turn over," she orders, cutting through his aimless monologue.
"Why? Do you want to spank me?"
"I meant the veal!"
"Oh, that," he says, sounding disappointed but complying, "And here I thought you had gotten more interesting," he adds before taking a plate from the hanging cabinet above the kitchen sink. It feels colder without the shelter of his body behind her and the loss burns a little.
Damon places the veal on the plate, covers it loosely with a foil to keep it warm, and takes her hand again to grab the next escalope and brush it across the plate with flour. She's actually glad he didn't leave her a choice in the matter. She would have never asked for physical contact, because that would have been needy and embarrassing, but she hasn't been touched in so long. Aside from the occasional shoulder bump or holding the hand of a few occidentals during her travels to make introductions, she's never touched anyone. No one that was warm and alive, at least.
Barely two minutes later, Damon leaves her hand to add wine and shallot so that he can deglaze the pan. Her skin itches a bit but it's okay. He gives her the wooden spoon and then holds her hand again, helping her stir any crystallized juice left clinging to the bottom. They wait for the wine to reduce until it's almost dry. It takes them two or three minutes, during which he compliments her for her stirring capabilities.
"Such mastery, Bon," he says, sounding amazed. "Tell me the truth. You got admitted to the famous Stirring Academy while you were away."
"I didn't," she replies, faking offence, "They gave me an honorary degree."
"Of course," he agrees readily, "And what kind of things did you stir down there in the south?" he asks, and she can recognize that tone perfectly.
"Is this an innuendo?" she asks, untrustingly.
"Yes, do keep up," he replies, not missing a beat. "You got slow," at the same time adding the stock and the mushrooms.
"I think it's your jokes that got lame," she says, stopping the movement of the wooden spoon as he turns up the flame to make everything boil.
"And you insist on saying you're the brain, ptsss," he says, shaking his head and leaning his weight on the hands that he places at either side of her on the counter top, effectively trapping her, though he's not touching her.
There's some kind of fluttering in her stomach. It's been so long since the last time she really felt hunger that her body probably just hasn't adjusted.
"I am, and you should give up the sexual innuendos."
"I know, you're right," he admits with a sigh, "But it's hard, so hard."
"You…did…not," she enunciates slowly, shutting her eyes and trying hard to keep herself from smiling.
"I…absolutely…did," he says, mimicking her tone. "Ah!" He turns the control knob to make the liquid in the pan simmer.
In a way, being human feels lighter, because right now, in the kitchen, with the air fragrant with the smell of pepper and meat, the sound of fizzle and Bonnie's amused giggle, he suddenly feels like a thirty-something old man with a life to live and happiness just within his reach, but he can do that tomorrow and it's okay.
Up to now, Damon has been busy not to letting himself become a wreck thinking of Stefan and the way the walls seem to scream his name sometimes. He has been busy building the life he's supposed to have, been busy following an exact schedule, and he forgot to live in the moment. He never knew how to handle moments when he was a vampire. He had too many of them to really worry about not wasting them, and after he could hear the clock ticking, he decided to rush to the end before the end could catch up to him.
Today, re-connecting with Bonnie felt like climbing a wall. And from up there, he just realized, the view is breathtaking. He should enjoy it–the little changes, the little joys, that something that makes people hang in there when it's all bleak.
"Let's set the table," he proposes and he opens a drawer and throws the folded table cloth in her direction, making her catch it. For a moment she seems taken aback but she recovers soon and grabs it just in time. Sometimes, he used to do that when they were on the other side, when he was trying to break through her mulling.
"Red wine," he decides, snapping his fingers and turning around to rummage through the cabinet. They set the table in silence, like they always used to do, and he turns to throw a look in the pan's direction. The liquid is syrupy and he rubs his hands together before going to remove it from the heat.
"Butter," he says, opening one hand like he's a surgeon asking for a scalpel.
Bonnie hands him a fork pierced into a square piece of butter. He swirls it in as she goes to take the sage. She lets a few leaves drop into the pan, then adds salt and pepper, but doesn't put them down immediately. Looking at Damon expectantly, he gives her a look, and she rolls her eyes and gives another sprinkling of pepper.
The creamy scent of escalopes is delicious and she follows him to the table as he puts down their plates. She pulls out her own chair and they sit across from each other. It's been awhile since she had a western meal, and a home-made one at that. She's not sure how her taste buds will react. Her self-sufficient body is not used to all this normalcy, this plain humanity.
Her fingertips are brushing over the knife's handle when he speaks.
"Are we good?" he asks, with a gentle voice. She looks around the table, checking it out. They have the wine, some bread and it's perfectly set. "I meant us," he adds, making her raise her eyes to his face.
His blue eyes are looking at her intently, seriously, hanging in the balance over her next words, vulnerable to any wound she could inflict on him. She's put him in this position and she feels guilty for it because he did nothing to push her away. She did that on her own, hoping to do both of them a favor.
She went so high, leaving a plane halfway between two worlds, that she forgot how to walk the earth, what her body is for. What her heart is for. And Damon is a crash course she needs to catch up on if she doesn't want to become unable to handle it. Deep down, a voice she refuses to recognize or hear is warning her that she must be careful, must be quick in going back to being the friend he knew or her own feelings will slip away from her and explode in her face.
Bonnie pulls her hand away from the knife, like one of them could bleed on the immaculate table cloth if she goes at this the wrong way. "We're good," she says, trying to offer him a reassuring smile.
Damon looks at her, trying to decide if he can believe her, and he seems to decide that he can because he smiles at her with sky blue eyes so warm she remembers that moment in the cave, when they were sure they were going to go back home together, leave the other side together, pull through together.
"Not that I would have returned my Best-Friend Badge, even if you had asked," he says with a shrug. "I take very good care if it. I polish it every day. You should see it, it shines like a mirror. I was just making sure it wasn't going to get too ugly between us," he explains, "Because I'm telling you, if you want it back you'll have to fight me for it," he warns, pointing the fork he's holding towards her.
"Like you would be so difficult to put down," she mocks him.
"That depends on which position…" he comments casually, gaining a surly look. He pretends to not notice and cuts a piece of veal to bring to his mouth.
She cuts her own veal. The meat seems to melt in her mouth, the buttery texture of it is such a pleasure that she chews very slowly to savor it. Damon is ridiculously good in the kitchen.
She enjoys the taste and licks her lips while she watches Damon pouring the wine inside her glass. He stops when a noise distracts him. It takes them both a moment to realize the front door opened and closed. They can hear steps and Bonnie turns around to see Elena appearing on the threshold of the kitchen.
Her friend's face seems to light up and Bonnie doesn't have a chance to consider the dark circles under her eyes.
"My God, Bonnie, you're back!" Elena walks to her, letting her heavy bag fall on an empty chair before hugging her. Bonnie catches the faint smell of disinfectant.
Though the embrace is sudden, Bonnie is not upset about it, does not feel uncomfortably shaken by it, and maybe, she thinks, it's a sign that she's already adjusting back to normal life.
"You should have told me!" Elena says, still holding her, "I wanted to welcome you at the airport."
"It's okay," Bonnie says, smiling when she rereleases her, "I wanted it to be a surprise." That's not exactly true, but she doesn't feel like sharing the details. For as much as she loves Elena, they've been apart almost five years, and even before they were too busy saving their necks to sit down and chat the way they used to; so, there are things she cannot tell her as easily now. Still, Elena keeps hold of her hand and sits down at the table, asking, "When did you arrive? I've missed you. How was Africa?"
"It's was gorgeous, but there's still a lot I want to see." She'll probably go back after their wedding, but that is not a conversation they need to have now. "I liked traveling alone. It helped me come into myself," she says, and sees Damon approaching the table with a plate for Elena from the corner of her eye.
He puts it down in front of her and her friend raises her eyes to him. "Oh, right, thank you," she says, angling up her head so that he can kiss her. Damon leans down, presses his lips to hers in a quick greeting that touches the corner of Elena's mouth. As soon as their lips separate she turns to her again. "I'm so busy, lately, I sometimes forget I need to eat. I'm doing my best but it's exhausting, thank God for Caroline. You know how she is."
"Yeah, she made a scrapbook for each of our weddings when she was little," Bonnie remembers fondly with a nod. "Of course hers was the prettiest, but I think she had a right to it."
"I'm so grateful you're going to help Damon," she says, taking her hand away from her to push back a strand of her short hair and take the cutlery Damon has placed at the sides of her plate. "I was hoping you'd be my bridesmaid but he's put his foot down on this. Bonnie's mine, you can have all the others," she quotes.
It's strange to hear that he considers her off limits, that she's his, even if in a friendly way, and hearing the words spilling from Elena's mouth makes it all the more uncomfortable. She feels a little like the third wheel, though Elena is sitting between her and Damon, at the head of the table, and she ltes the ambiance turn light blue.
"Don't take it the wrong way, love," Enzo says, sitting next to Damon, on the side opposite Bonnie, "But I'd rather die than be here right now."
"That makes two of us," she replies, making him chuckle.
Elena tells her about her courses, about her hectic shifts and a very competent doctor she admires. Her eyes seem to sparkle when she speaks about the woman, the long hours she can endure and her skills. She's so thrilled about the whole thing that Bonnie forgets the strange arrangement of the evening, the fact that she's basically imposing herself on a couple that's supposedly at the peak of their happiness.
After dinner Elena yawns and looks at the clock on the wall. "It's late, time for Cinderella to retire," she says, pulling herself up from the chair with a little effort. She looks pretty tired.
"Yeah, my jet lag is catching up with me, too," Bonnie says with a nod, standing from the table.
"So, you're both leaving me to wash the dishes, aren't you?" Damon asks accusingly.
"You should be a gentleman and actually offer to do it," Bonnie suggests.
"I don't wanna make you feel useless, Bon."
"Oh, I'll bear it," she says with a sigh, "And in the meanwhile, I'll go take a shower."
"And I'll go back to the dorm," Elena says.
"The dorm?" Bonnie asks, confused. She thought Elena and Damon would be joined at the hip the moment she woke up, probably got married because a condom had broken during their sex marathon and she was pregnant with the first of a very long list of children. "Aren't you staying here?"
"It's actually easier for me this way, so I can squeeze in an extra hour to sleep. It takes an hour and half from here to the hospital," she explains, "And we decided it would be more romantic to stay apart 'til the wedding…" she says, smiling at him.
"Don't smile at me," he says, raising the dirty plates, "You two are making me do the dishes. You have no right to smile at me."
"Mostly," Elena continues, "you'll be the one to put up with him."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Damon remarks. "She'll love every minute of it," he says, placing the dishes in the sink before turning his head towards them and winking at Elena. "She might even steal me away."