Time just passes unnoticed as Bonnie takes care of him, and his lashes tremble under her delicate touch. His breathing appears difficult, he coughs and she helps him up to put another pillow under his head and have him rest in a better position. She opens the window and leaves it ajar to allow fresh air into the room, then tries to have him ingest a sip of water. He tries to comply but he squeezes his eyes into two slits as he swallows.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, one hand pressing on his forehead in an automatic gesture.
"Wonderful," he says, but his voice cracks in the effort and the grin looks more like a grimace and she's just anxious to do anything so that he won't be this miserable. When he was a fuck-up vampire, pain didn't last long and so was her effort not to let herself be affected by him. Now that he's human, it's impossible not to let his suffering chip away at her stoic attitude.
"I'll go make you something warm to drink, okay?"
"Sounds great," he replies with false enthusiasm as she goes to pull the curtains closed to give his eyes a little relief from the light.
Bonnie disappears into the kitchen to make an infusion – she just hates to have to just sit and wait. For awhile it's all she did when her mom left her. It's all she did whenever her father left for one of his business trips. And she has learned that waiting around does not help. Waiting around for a miracle to happen, it's stupid and she should make the miracle happen herself or just move on. Which she did, she moved on, and when that didn't work out she moved away. And yet here she is again, waiting for Damon to get better, waiting for Damon to get married.
For her, harder than the loss and the solitude, is the waiting. They have it all wrong when they say that time helps healing, for time is inclement and cruel and all it does is pass.
She sucks at waiting around – for things to happen, for things to change, for things to get better –but you fight your battles when they come, and you learn to wait when you must.
Right now, there're still some sensible things she can do, so she picks up her jacket, Damon's car keys, and leaves the house. The sound of the dry leaves, bronzed by the change of season, crushed by the tires, offers a strange peacefulness as she leaves the Salvatore's driveway. Damon would make a fuss if he knew she had taken his beloved baby without his permission, but though he likes to make a show about how difficult it is for him to trust her at the wheel of his car, he has actually let her drive it a couple of times as he stretched out on the passenger seat with the wind ruffling his hair in the most commercial-like way humanly possible with the pair of aviators she brought him back from the other side.
"Elena, it's me," she says, keeping her cellphone pressed against her ear using her shoulder as she pulls up to the double doors of the store. "Listen, I can't believe what I'm saying but…" she starts as she looks around for the right aisle, "Damon has got a bit of a cold. Maybe you could call me and give me instructions on how to make your fiancé survive long enough to marry you? I mean, if I were you I'd love to inherit the house," she jokes, so that she won't notice that strange twisting at the bottom of her stomach. That's just her being worried about her best friend's health, and it has nothing to do with the way the word fiancé weights on her tongue, she tells herself as she scans the shelf for a syrup, finding herself stressing about the flavor because Damon is that pigheaded that he would refuse to drink it if it tastes bad.
A woman in a flowy, long jacket giggles as she stands next to her checking the ointments for burns, and her blonde child tries to pull her in the direction of the snack aisle. Bonnie turns her eyes towards her, slightly self-conscious and the woman just smiles at her with a knowing expression.
"Fussy child?" she asks, with the tone of been there, done that.
"Uhm, he just has the personality of one," Bonnie mutters, amused by the situation.
"Oh, man-child, I can totally understand," the woman nods, "They all regress at some point," she explains with a sigh, pulling at the kid's hand, admonishing her to "Keep quiet for a moment, okay? You'll have your cookies, I promise."
She's letting the tube of ointment fall into her plastic basket when Bonnie has the guts to ask, "Which one tastes better?" as she holds in her hands two different bottles of syrup. People get addicted to this stuff, but she really can't understand why. Last she remembers, they just taste disgusting.
"This tastes like fertilizer," the woman says, pointing her finger at the bottle that says 'Honey and lemon flavor', her lips twisting into a disapproving expression. "And I mean straight-up industrial-grade fertilizer," which for a second makes Bonnie wonders how she knows so well the taste of industrial-grade fertilizer.
"I get the idea," Bonnie says putting the bottle down immediately.
"This one tastes like honey," she says, pointing at a different bottle, "But the kind of honey that can appraise a catatonic taste bud. I remember my son being able to keep it down only once when his fever was so high his taste buds were burnt out, after that he threw up on my favorite sweater. Rest in peace."
Her explanation is totally sensible but leaves Bonnie with no option to choose from, until she scans the shelf again and picks a plastic bottle with a dark red – almost black – liquid and a white, red and blue label, which reads 'Nighttime cold & flu'. "This tastes like cherries," she says, before lowering her voice into a conspiratorial tone. "Sorcery if you ask me, but us mothers are all a little bit witches."
"Mom, you promised the cookies!" the child protests, holding her mom's hand with both of hers now to pull her in the direction of her goal.
"Yes, yes, the cookies," she nods, with a sigh and a smile.
"With double stuff!"
"My baby won't have nothing less than double stuff," she agrees with a solemn tone, before saying "Bye" to Bonnie. She smiles at that, and picks a few more items before walking to the counter.
A man with a billion carefully folded receipts into his bulky wallet takes his sweet time collecting the coins from the small pocket and she shifts nervously her weight from one foot to the other, as she hopes to hear the ring of her cellphone, so that Elena will tell her what else might be needed. Only she never calls.
Once she's back home, with her little spoils and some sage, Bonnie begins finely grating six cloves of raw garlic, and as she lets it sit to activate the medicinal compounds, she reads the leaflets of what she's brought. Later, she pours a cup of honey onto the grated garlic and mixes it all; she hasn't the faintest idea what it is that brought up the fever, but it should sooth Damon's sore throat and help in case of infection. Moreover it's not good for him to take medications on an empty stomach. He will crack a joke about garlic and vampires, but he is so miserable she might just be able to win this one out – Sheila made garlic honey for her all the time when she was sick and she hated it too.
As the water for the tea is boiling, Bonnie stores the results of her gram's recipe into a sealed, dry jar, then she removes the pot from the heat, puts the sage in the water and lets it steep for about five minutes, before adding lemon and honey.
Preparing those recipes for Damon bring her back to a simpler time. She was a kid, and her family was a mess already, so she had learned to be strong - don't make a fuss, don't be too demanding, don't be childish, though a child was what she was - but when she was sick she felt allowed to be vulnerable, allowed to enjoy the attention, she was cocooned in love and stuffed animals and her gram's hands smelled of safety as she pulled the covers up to her nose. Bonnie can feel her next to her now, making sure she follows her recipe just right, slowing her hand down when she stirs the tea too strongly, nodding her approval at the care in each of her simple gestures, smiling when she places the cup and all she has prepared on the tray in the Salvatore's kitchen.
She's gotten so used to moving around in that kitchen when they got stuck together on the other side, she can taste déjà-vu on her tongue, can smell in the air the creamy sweetness of the whipped cream on the cheeky face of her breakfast. Can feel the ghost of another life hanging around her like a well-worn oversize sweater, one of those you can never throw away because there's no hole you cannot love, no tear you can't sew up, because even in the frayed sleeves there's solace. It should be bitter, because it was years ago and yet never ago, because it's a time that will never come, at least not for her, but right now the softness of it all overpowers her cold reason, and she decides to think only of Damon – whom, in another life, in a simpler time, gave her a real home when she had forgotten what that was like. She decides to think of Damon half dozing off and trying to valiantly fight off a flu because he doesn't want her to worry – and mostly because he doesn't want to be emasculated by it - so she walks up the stairs balancing the trail in her hands and a smile on her lips.
It takes her a little effort to open the door because of her busy hands, but magic seems so out of place in such a human situation, it seems stupid to resort to that so she just works it out with her hands and a kick of her foot.
"You're lucky to have a cold," she announces in a shushed tone as she enters the room, "this smells terrible, but it will do you good so no fuss, Damon," she adds.
He seems to ignore her as she puts the tray on the nightstand, and turns on the lamp in the corner of the room instead of opening the curtains. The artificial light is softer and farther away and it won't hurt his eyes so bad.
"Did you hear me?" she asks, turning around, ready to be implacable, "Damon, you need to drink this," she insists, walking towards the bed, before noticing his disturbed sleep, and the way his breath comes out in a wheeze.
"Damon," she calls again, to wake him up, but even if she shakes him he gives no sign to regain his senses, making her stomach drop. "You're not being funny," she protests, in a whisper as she tries to shake him again, obtaining no result.
Her phone is still silent, but she tries to contact Elena again. She's a doctor, or the closest thing to one, and to whom else can she ask what's happening to her ex- vampire of a best friend? What is she supposed to say when they ask about the patient's medical history? From which century is she supposed to start?
"Com'on, Elena. Damn it. Answer your phone." She mutters, as she delicately slips the thermometer inside Damon's mouth. He'll be so outraged at this. It would be funny if she wasn't so freaking worried.
Bonnie sits next to him on the bed as she leaves another message for Elena. "I don't want to alarm you or anything, but Damon is kind of on fire right now. Almost literally if you consider that his temperature is… forty," she says, looking at the blue line with fear. "Can you please call me back and tell me what I'm supposed to do? Even better, come here!" she demands. "Please," she adds, to soften her message and her disposition towards her friend.
She's put her in an impossible situation: For her, she went cake tasting with her fiancé, she's been mistaken for the bride to be left and right, and now she's being the nurse to his sickbed. And that should be Elena's place.
Sometimes Bonnie is scared she's going to forget that, only to remember it the day she stands next to Damon as he says his vows to another girl.
Bonnie pushes back her fears to concentrate on Damon. His pinkish lips are paler and appear chapped, a clear sign of dehydration, he's sweating so much and he looks in pain in his uneasy sleep. She uses a fresh towel to wipe his forehead, sliding it down his face and then takes the cup of tea to blow on it and feed it to him using a spoon. Slowly, using all the gentleness she's capable of, she holds his face with one hand and lets the liquid slip through his parted lips, one tea spoon at the time. He seems to quiet down a little under her touch, and yet she can see his eyes moving under his closed lids and her stomach twists in pain.
Halfway through it, when the sage tea is barely lukewarm, she puts down the cup, sits back on the bed, intertwines their fingers together -her right hand holds his left one, resting on his stomach - and reluctantly touches the door of his consciousness.
She can feel the anguish moving like sap though the veining of the wood-like barrier that keeps him from her. It would be easy for her to turn the knob and slip inside, Damon would not hold it against her because he's the captain of the Whatever gets shit done team so he'd keep it down to a few caustic remarks, but she's been trying to regain a balance, to leave a distance, for how short, and he's been already slipping through every crack, making a mockery of her defenses, and now she can't actively throw herself into him, jump into his sharp, twisted, beautiful mind she's already learned so well she could walk its roads blindfolded.
She can't do this to either of them, because if she does she fears she's get drenched with his thoughts and his feelings and the scent of all of his shadows and all of his light, and she's never going to be her own again.
Yet, there's a tiny part of her that is ready to do this, face what hurts him and soothe it away, be the sentinel that guards him from his ghosts, that looks them in the eyes when he can't and barks at them to fuck off, leave him alone, you can't have him, but she'd rather not do it this way, she'd rather have him tell her what hurts him - over a board game, thrown at her without a glance like it doesn't matter, though she knows how much it does, over drinks so he can blame it on his lack of lucidity and his loose tongue just in case it gets scary. She'd rather have him tell her as he looks her in the eyes and bares himself willingly because he knows he can trust her with anything.
So Bonnie closes her eyes, presses her open palms over the door and leans against it, "Damon, it's me, I'm here," she murmurs, "It's okay, I'm here," as she tries to let the stillness of her soul lull his always blazing spirit. It took her so much time to reach that point, all those hours and dusty horizons, all that loneliness and perseverance, and she can feel his soul burning the edges of it like paper catching fire, fast at first, then slower and slower, until there's just the lonely heart of the girl that left town with a suitcase and a bunch of feelings she didn't know what to do with, precious and untouched.
And the pulsing pain she can feel radiate though the door quiets down.
#
Elena lets herself in, pushing the front door open by leaning her weight into it with her shoulder, a plastic bag dangling from her as the other holds her brown leather backpack. She's so used to bringing it around with her - with a change of clothes, spare scrubs and a notepad. She didn't think to leave it in the car as she should have, so she just abandons it on the couch, taking the stethoscope before she walks to the stairs, pushing the hair back from her shoulders.
The faint smell of pine tree of the wood cleaner makes her suddenly more aware of her own smell, a mix of disinfectant and plain rubbing alcohol. It both makes her wrinkle her nose and smile in satisfaction – it's the unappealing proof that she's building a life she can be proud of, that she is putting all her efforts and all of her thoughts into something she believes in.
Her parents would be proud of her.
Stefan would be proud of her.
The thought of him is easy, especially in this house, especially around Damon. It makes her pace slow for a moment, thinking that maybe, just maybe, at the end of the flight of stairs she'll find the door of his bedroom open and she'll see his back the way she did on the first day of school.
Stefan would tell her he knew she was meant to do good in her life. He'd tell her that her heart will always guide her right. And she would love to hear it – the inflection in his voice, the way it became softer when it said her name, that manner he had of making the words slip into her to become the prayer that kept her going when she couldn't anymore.
Between the wars we dance
Between the wars we left
Don't wake me yet
Don't wake me yet
Sometimes she sits by the Salvatore family grave with her books and her notes so that he can see how hard she's working, so that he can be part of it, too.
Every now and then she wonders if Caroline would dislike it if she knew, every now and then she wonders what Damon would think of it if he knew, but it's not like she's doing anything wrong. Caroline has a vow to remember him by and Damon has his blood in his veins and she has only words unsaid, so she speaks to him, of her day and her dreams and asks him questions she hopes one day she'll hear the answers to.
She lets herself be comforted by the memory of his presence - so strong in this house he's welcomed her into, so strong in this house she can't leave - before going her way.
Between the wars we'll stay
Fading echoes spin away
Lost in memories, in memories
Elena walks up the stairs, calls Bonnie's name to no avail ready to apologize profusely for leaving her to deal with this alone, and when she enters Damon's bedroom her eyes adjust easily to the soft light of the lamp but it takes her a moment to distinguish Bonnie's shape, half curled up on the large bed, next to Damon's legs, hands joined on his stomach as they both sleep, uncomfortably.
She walks to them to spy on their faces. She can detect the signs of the duvet on Bonnie's cheek and it makes her smile. Her friend is exhausted, and she's grateful for her taking care of Damon in her place. In a way, Bonnie is all the family Damon is left with. He might have bonded with Caroline over their mutual love for Stefan, and Alaric might be his favorite self-pity buddy, but Bonnie is his best friend, the one whose opinion he's interested in hearing, the one whose approval he wants even when he's ready to go against her judgment.
Elena's eyes rise to Damon's face when she hears a groaning sound coming from the back of his throat and she takes the folded towel on the nightstand, to freshen his skin. Before she can put the towel on his forehead he groans again, the sound is pained and whiny, Bonnie's eyes don't open, but her hand squeezes his as she shifts a little in her awkward position, calming him down immediately.
And still the rest
Hasn't happened, hasn't happened yet
Her fingers wrap around the spongy fabric of the towel, and it takes her a long moment to recognize the bitter feeling that bites at her, the sensation of being the third party in this suddenly crowded room. She's the fiancée, the future bride, and Damon is holding Bonnie's hand like he could go mad if he lost her. Yet it's stupid to think so, because they are friends, and they are not putting her into this spot on purpose.
She and Damon will be married in a couple of weeks, they will be happy in a couple of weeks, even if he needs to hear Bonnie's opinion and she needs to talk to Stefan.
"Hey," Bonnie's groggy voice breaks her away from her thoughts, "You're here, finally," she says, trying to rub the sleep away from her eyes, giving a brief glance in the mirror to grimace at the pattern of the duvet on her face.
"I came as soon as I heard your message," she says, with an apologetic smile, "I was on my shift."
"That's fine," Bonnie nods, standing up from the bed and trying to straighten up her back. "God," she laments, pressing the knuckles of her fist along the curve of her mistreated spine, "I'm all out of whack." But it takes her barely a breath to shift her attention back to Damon, "Can you check him out?"
Bonnie crosses her arms under her chest, almost hugging herself, as Elena feels his pulse, check his temperature and inspects his throat. She helps turning him on his side, as Elena hears his breathing with her stethoscope, but it takes her so long to come up with a conclusion she feels like she's been waiting an eternity.
"He's fine."
"What do you mean he's fine?" she asks, her voice slipping, before she can regain her composure, "He's clearly not fine, have you seen his temperature?" she asks, frustrated, "I could roast marshmallow on his forehead."
"I meant to say that his lungs are fine and it's just a common flu," Elena replies, trying to appease her. She's seen a lot of panicking people stressed out by their loved one's conditions so she treats it like she would any other case. No matter who it is, she should maintain a doctor's mindset.
"He looks like he's about to die of cholera or something," Bonnie protests.
"His body is not used to being attacked by a virus. It doesn't remember how to fight them off," she explains, "In his time people died because of this, but we have this thing called antibiotics," she says with a smile, "So he'll be fine. It will probably take him a bit longer than normal to be on his feet but he'll be just fine."
The words taste sweet on her tongue, for she is finally doing something useful to help people. Her life is not just a chain reaction triggered by her bloodline, leaving her to mourn and watch her friends take the fall for her. She is being the person she had always wanted to be, she is being the person Stefan always thought she was.
"He better be," Bonnie decides, "because Caroline will give us so much crap for not sticking to the schedule for the wedding arrangements," she jokes, to lighten up the mood.
"Right," Elena nods knowingly, "So I better get the antibiotics," she adds leaving the room and closing the door behind her without turning around.
She's quite sure the wedding will be as beautiful as it can possibly be, she's quite sure of her diagnosis, quite sure about what they need right now. One pill after meals three times a day, a free day from the hospital so that they can exchange their vows, a good florist that did not work on the funeral of someone they loved.
Don't wake me
Don't take me yet
But a faint, unheard voice in the back of her head - as she walks down the stairs to retrieve her backpack and distractedly throws a look to the closed door of Stefan's room- is asking: What the hell are you doing?
#
Note: I feel like my note is always the same, but bear with me. The review sections is filled with requests to update and panicking messages asking if I abandoned this story. I have a miserable job, do miserable hours and have to study on the side, plus I have a lot of stories to update and sometimes my ispiration aims at a specific one and ignores the others, it doesn't mean the story is abandoned, it just means you have to be patient. If you want to help me, leave a review (a real one, not an 'update soon'), or buy me a coffee. I would like to be able to update more often but life won't let me, and I don't want to just slap words together for the sake of updating soon because if the story it's not true to the characters there's no point in trying. I want to bring your headcanon to a better place. Whatever question you have you can send me a PM, or leave a review as logged in user so I will know how to answer you, otherwise I have no way to reach you.
The song I used in this chapter is "Between the wars" by Allman Brown. I know you're here for bamon, but I feel like it's important to show in what place is Elena's mind in this story, and when the time comes I'll even touch upon Caroline's state of mind. I hope you enjoyed this update anyway. I'll be waiting to hear what you think.