Note: This is a time for miracles, I wish forall of us many many miracles. Merry Christmas to everyone reading this. Technical note: the song used in this chapter is "I just know" by Jacob Lee.
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Bonnie shivers at the change of temperature the moment she steps inside the Salvatore boardinghouse.
"Brrr," she purrs, letting her body tremble when she lets Damon's jacket slip off her shoulders. "The wind has really picked up," she comments brushing her messy hair with her fingers, "My nose has frozen up."
"You're such a delicate flower, Bon-B—" he cannot finish his sentence as he watches her back and the loose low back of her shirt – the movement she makes taking off the jacket makes him peek at the lace strip of her bra – because something seems to tickle him inside his chest. The feeling bubbles up to his throat, to his nose – it itches. And suddenly he sneezes, noisily, making Bonnie jerk in surprise.
Damon brings his hand to his face, covering nose and mouth with his long fingers, looking at her, bewildered. Bonnie's eyes are wide open as she stares at him. When seconds start to sink on her she blinks, asking, "Did you just… sneeze?"
"No," he replies in a rush, like a kid who's been caught with his hands in the cookies jar. "I don't sneeze," he protests weakly. His brain can hardly catch up to this new development.
Bonnie grins at him. "You did," she contradicts, trying not to giggle at his dismay.
"I never—"
"You never… before, butnow you do." She's too amused to care about not laughing in front of him. "Oh, you're such a delicate flower, Damon!" Her laugh is bright, bubbly, something he hasn't heard in a while. It brings him back to the afternoons spent together before he had the brilliant idea to go and put himself to sleep. His stomach falls, he feels slightly breathless, and his cheeks feel hot. He blames that on the sneezing.
"You take that back," he threatens, pointing a finger at her, "Or I—"
"Will sneeze me to death?" she finishes, faking a horrified expression only to begin giggling again.
"That's it, you asked for it, Missy," he decides, advancing menacingly.
"Damon…" the sneer dies on her lips as Bonnie sobers up. She takes a step back, and then another when she sees him looking at her mischievously.
"Bon, I did warn you, didn't I?" he asks, sounding almost mushy. Abruptly they start for the stairs, Damon running after her as she tries a breakaway to look for a refuge inside her bedroom. She's the quickest but he takes the stairs two steps at the time. Bonnie can feel his fingertips in the middle of her back when he reaches out to grab at her, but she sprints forward and rushes inside the room. She manages to turn the knob and step inside before his arm hooks around her waist, pulling her back towards his chest. A girlish scream escapes her throat, surprising her – a wash of color runs up the walls and the furniture making all brighter, the light bulb flashes out like a single heartbeat. The flare of light is so strong and unexpected they both shut their eyes in reaction. When Bonnie opens them again she's dangling from Damon's shoulder, looking up (down) at his ass, where her hands are looking for support.
Bonnie pulls her hands away immediately, closing them in two fists.
"What the hell Damon!" she protests, embarrassed.
"That should be my line, Judgy. I'm the one being sexually harassed here…" he says, trying to sound reproachful and disappointed, "I'm an engaged man and you're fondling me like there's no tomorrow," he protests, before adding, "Please, continue."
"Idiot," she mutters as the blood starts rushing down to her brain. "Stop the caveman act and put me down."
"Caveman, exactly. Virile and manly," he clarifies for good measure. "So who's the delicate flower now?"
"Damon…" she begins to protest.
"Nope, wrong answer. Try again," he says, walking calmly to the stairs.
"If you don't put me down I'm going to hurt you," she threatens.
"Uhh, I'm so scared," he replies, widening his eyes though she can't see him, "Or I would be if it wasn't so completely against your witchy morale," he reflects aloud, stealing a glance to the side at her ass. "You would never do that to your human bestie. Poor, little, human me. For once, it seems to work in my favor," he says, stepping down the stairs.
"Poor human, my ass." He grins at that, walking to the drinks cart, mouthing, "And what an ass," without making a sound, before asking again, "I'm waiting, Bon. Who's the flower?"
"Ugh, me," she surrenders with a groan.
"Exactly. You. You're a bouquet, a flower arrangement, a field of flowers, a greenhouse, a—"
"Yes, yes, whatever, put me down!"
"You're such a cantankerous little flower," he says, obeying her. But the moment she has her feet on the floor again everything spins around her, the rush of blood leaves her brain making her sight spotted with black splashes and she trembles on her knees. She's forced to fist his shirt to keep herself up.
"Whoa," his voice is husky and amused as he steadies her with his hands around her waist. "Here," he murmurs above her as she closes and opens her eyes again trying to let her sight adjust. Her nose is one breath away from his covered chest and she can easily distinguish the warm, spicy smell of his skin, the leather aroma and the vanilla left behind by their trip to the different pastry shops. One of his hands slips up to the base of her neck to support her confused head. "You alright?" He's warm, in all the ways someone can be warm. It's enveloping, makes her dizziness linger on. Her fingers stiffen around the fabric they're holding as panic tries and grip her.
"Yeah," she answers, letting go of him and taking a step back. He smiles down at her, like he hasn't noticed any change in the air or her, but when she tries to slip away he follows her only to take her shoulders and guide her to sit on the sofa.
"What about a drink?" he asks, standing in front of her, almost like he's going to physically stop her if she tries to get away again.
"No, thanks," she replies, shaking her head, letting her eyes rest on the three piles of invitations. "I think we should get back to work," she says, reaching out towards the coffee table; but, Damon's fingers wrap around her wrist stopping her before she can touch the cards.
"We've been out and about all day, I've been the very model of the perfect groom to be. Now it's time to relax." He reaches for the remote control instead.
"Caroline won't be happy about it," she mutters, disapprovingly.
"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," he quotes with southern intonation, resting his arm on the blanket folded over the arm of the sofa.
Bonnie rolls her eyes, looking away from him for a moment before fixing her eyes onto his with purpose. "You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya punk?" she asks him. He grins at her Dirty Harry quote and steals a glance in her direction before sitting on the sofa and patting the cushion next to his own. She's putting on a bored expression and ignoring him, though she complies. Damon would like to pinch her nose, pull at a strand of hair, just so she'll glare at him with her pretty green eyes. Maybe physically fight him a little.
"They may take our lives, but they'll never take our freedom!" he replies, and she must bite the inside of her mouth to stop herself from smiling at his stupidity.
"Oh, look, there's a rerun of Gladiator," he exclaims, "My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions and loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next."
"Yes, then he kills Commodus and dies. The end." She pans, "Can we watch something else now?"
"Rude," he grimaces at her poor enthusiasm.
"We've watched this movie like a billion times already."
"And how many times did we watch The Bodyguard? Kindly remind me," he says, opening his hand next to his ear, like he's trying to listen to a far away sound.
"Well, we were stuck, and at least I have the excuse of a limited selection of titles, what's your excuse?" she asks, crossing her arms under her breast. She always gets offended when he shows less than the uttermost respect for her favorite movie, it's amusing.
"Your limited selection was the freaking Blockbuster, and Gladiator has won five awards."
"For stuff like special effects and music," she laments, trying to imply something about the script.
"You say that like it's a bad thing when half your precious movie stands on a soundtrack," he retorts.
"A superb one," she highlights, "And don't say you don't sing I Will Always Love You when you're in the shower."
"You pay an awful lot of attention to my shower habits," he piques when he finds the ammunition he needed to redirect the conversation to a topic that would embarrass her.
"I don't need to pay attention. You hit the high notes like someone is skinning you alive. It's kinda impossible to miss."
"I'm very talented in much important areas," he says, almost like he's unconsciously letting the information slip. Actually, he was talented in much more important areas. He wasn't bad at all when he was human, so eager he was to please and worship, and then time and hard practice made him exceptional, but he didn't have any need for air or recovery, all of it topped with superhuman taste buds and a bit of an oral fixation. Since he's become human he didn't try anything sexual, not with a partner anyway.
For how much he wants to make Bonnie blush, he's not going to open this particular door with her. It would be mortifying to confess to her that the lack of a sexual life has made him insecure. Oh, he remembers how it's done alright. It's much like riding a bicycle, but he's had to provide his own gratification in the last two months and the result haven't been exactly satisfying. It doesn't matter what kind of scenario he pictures in his mind, how long Elena's scent linger around him after she kissed him goodbye, making himself come is difficult, exhausting for all the wrong reasons and the whole process just threatens to dampen his mood.
In the beginning it was easy to tell himself that the human body just can't respond as readily as his vampire one, that a man needs much intimate stimulation. That got old really fast. He is as much a horny dog as the next man when it comes to carnal gratification. He thinks that probably all he needs is the real thing: Elena, warm and soft, begging under him. He thinks that maybe not knowing his own human bodily response to her makes it too foreign for him to reach climax with only what he can provide.
He thinks it will probably be fun rediscovering everything with her.
For how ridiculous it sounds – after bedding every pretty girl and sexy psycho he encountered on his path with no discrimination – he is… a virgin now.
"Those areas do not interest me," Bonnie replies, rolling her eyes.
"You lead me to believe otherwise that time you barged into the bathroom while I was naked—"
"I told you!" she protests, sounding shrill and alarmed, "Your singing is awful and I thought someone was torturing you!"
Bonnie looks adorably frustrated, so much so he can even forget the slight of offence he felt at her disinterest for his areas of expertise.
"And I didn't see anything!"
"How is that possible?" he asks, bewildered. "I'm big!"
She squeezes her eyes, grimacing, and Damon must bite the inside of his mouth to not laugh.
"God, Damon, can you stop being your usual braggart self?" she asks, exasperated by his attitude, eyes pleading.
"No, seriously," he insists, "I'm not bragging. I'm like… this big." The moment he tries to estimate the length of his manhood using his hands, Bonnie uses her own to cover her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms into the sockets.
"I hate you!" she whines, while he silently chuckles.
"You try to, but you just can't." His voice is warm but there's some kind of sincerity slowly dripping over the words. Bonnie's mood sobers and she drags her hands away, slowly looking up at his face.
One corner of his mouth is up while he stares at her. When she least expects them, they come, these moments of vulnerability that just sneak up on her, making her want to cry or hold him, or both. Yes, she has tried to hate him, more than once. She has tried to distance herself from him, and every damn time he has made it impossible.
Every single time he has ignored her attempts at coldness, shrugged his pride away and just held on to her.
"I'll tell you what," he starts, light tone and abandoning the conversation altogether, "You close your eyes, point your finger over the remote control and press a button. Whatever comes up on the screen, we'll watch that. No fuss and no complaints."
"You always complain," she mutters while he puts the remote control on the coffee table and guides her arm out.
"Okay, no fuss and minimal complaints on my part," he agrees, instructing her, "Close your eyes."
She does as he says, pointing her index finger down, and when his hold leaves her wrist, she just drives the finger down. Damon pushes the remote control to the side, so that she aims to press on a different button then the one she was blindly aiming for.
He groans loudly, lamenting, "What the hell!" His act is not that convincing, but because she's not looking at him but rather at the TV screen, he doesn't need to put effort into it.
"Yes!" she cries out, pumping a fist in the air. Damon crosses his arms over his chest, looking incredibly bored at the 'isn't that a wonderful beginning?' scene from The Princess Bride.
"See?" she asks, turning her head in his direction and looking adorably smug, "That's karma for you."
He lets a smile creep up on his face only when she looks back at the TV screen.
After the first ten minutes she kicks her shoes off and pulls her feet up, tucked into the side on the sofa. She once absent-mindedly raised her legs, letting her feet rest on the edge of the coffee table and Damon was so upset about it they fought for half an hour, missing most of the movie. They had to rewatch it from the beginning as soon as it ended. He silently hands her the blanket folded on the arm of the chair and she uses it to cover her legs.
He doesn't know exactly when she ends up leaning against his side, but it's nice, cozy – he's not going to complain anytime soon. In fact, every muscle in his body seems to bask in the warmth of their closeness. He's so weary he could just live the next century in this exact spot, with a witch smelling like cotton candy asleep against him. More than once he decides he should get up and bring her to her bed but he puts off the task, falling asleep himself, cheek brushing against the top of her head as he tries to sink into a comfortable rest.
Guide my feet towards the alter
Close my hands and wait for an answer
I caught her, I caught her
He manages to wake up around midnight, pulling himself up with some difficulty, suffocating a groan – his body protesting after being in the same position for so long – trying not to wake Bonnie in the process. Strangely, she feels suddenly heavier in his arms, but he doesn't mind because it makes it all more real. Her weight, her bones under his fingers, the smell of her hair when he arranges her head so that it will rest in the crook of his neck.
Damon lays her gently on the bed, covers her by pulling one side of the bedspread, and presses his palms on either side of her to lean down and distractedly kiss her forehead. He's so sleepy and tired he does not immediately realize that his lips linger against her brow. In a moment of weariness he just thinks he'd like to fall asleep next to her. Tease her about her snoring in the morning.
The world isn't big enough to live it on your own
I see fire in your eyes and I feel fire in my soul
You're gonna make it through this I just know
But that's silly, so he drags himself away and undresses to finally slip between the covers.
Keep it in your heart, it's buried deep within your bones
Don't you come home or I will never let you go
The moment he wakes up he feels like someone has used his body as a pincushion. It's outrageous and humiliating to feel such pain at every movement he does, he thinks as he throws the covers back and rest his naked feet on the floor. His toes curl from of the cold, and he grimaces, uncaring of the discomfort. He doesn't process it, does not dwell on it, like it's a condition that's going to fade away in a moment – this general soreness does not belong to his body.
The slippers are nowhere warm enough for his feet but it doesn't matter. He should take a shower but he doesn't feel like it right now. Maybe after breakfast. His stomach slightly turns at the thought but he pays no attention to it, instead he slips on a shirt and rubs his palms against the length of one arm to ignite some warmth as he steps down the stairs and walks towards the kitchen. Bonnie is opening the newspaper, browsing through it to find the crosswords page and put it aside. She lifts her eyes to his face at his "Good morning," eyeing him almost suspiciously.
"Good morning," she answers, lowering the hands holding the newspaper. "How are you feeling?"
"Great," he replies hoarsely with a grin. It's kind of pained, though he does not realize that. The smell of scrambled eggs is filling the air. His stomach doesn't seem to like it.
"Right," she nods, unconvinced, "Not exactly what comes to mind looking at your face."
"Gorgeous?" he asks – rasping – his ego having the best of him. Not that he ever puts up much of a fight with it.
"What's this? Trying the sexy voice for when you need to make your wife forgive you for something stupid?" she asks.
"Why?" The concept of a wife, of a marriage, is so foreign to him, right now. His brain is a bit fuzzy and he feels like his mood is about to drop, "Is it working?" he asks with a grin, trying to joke.
"I suggest more practice," she replies, bored, "And while you're at it, we can have breakfast," she adds standing up as he sits at the table.
He grimaces at the idea, the mere word causing his body to go into a cold sweat. Damon rubs one hand over his face, minimizing his own reaction. "I'm not that hungry."
"Okay," she gives in, "What about something warm? Tea, maybe?"
Bonnie seems eager to have him ingesting something which he automatically accepts.
"Okay, sure," he rests his head against his hand, elbow propped up on the table. He is usually much more pedant about good manners, but this morning he'll make an exception, "No sugar."
"I know," she says, "I'll put in some lemon and honey—"
He is ready to make a fuss about it, his face already contorting in a frown, but she insists, "Just try, okay?"
"If you insist." Damon just sighs and surrenders to the request, "But I'm making a sacrifice here."
"You're a real hero," she says, dramatically.
"Totally," he nods slowly so that his stomach won't be upset by the movement. It feels hollowed out and yet unable to accept anything. He really doesn't want to think about that, so he tries to distract himself somehow. "What do we have on our schedule? Photographer?"
"I think it might be a bit too early for that," she says, turning her gaze in the direction of the clock on the wall.
"Nonsense, it'll take awhile to see them all and decide. Without counting, Caroline only listed people that are at least half an hour from here."
"Yeah, but I'm still a bit tired from yesterday," she let slip, cutting a slice of lemon and putting it in a cup, "I wouldn't mind taking it slow."
It takes a long beat for him to reply. "You know I'm more of a hard and fast type, but I'll be considerate." Bonnie doesn't even roll her eyes. She really served him this one on a silver platter, and he responded to it way too slowly. It's obvious he's sick, probably a light cold, and she needs to convince him to go back to bed before he generously starts to spread his germs.
"Gee, how romantic of you. Elena is so lucky," she says unenthusiastically, dropping a teaspoon of honey into the cup. It rubs him the wrong way, but he's too tired to have a reaction to that.
"You wanna watch Gladiator?" she asks, pouring the steaming water into a cup.
"Feeling guilty for making me watch that kiddy movie, again?" he asks, proud of himself for the way he made it look like he didn't expect that outcome from that night. It's not like he'd planned it. He just happened to remember it was supposed to air and pushed her good luck a little to make her happy.
"You love that movie," she protests, putting the steaming cup in front of him.
"I can stand it, at best," he insists. Yeah, okay, he loves that movie, but he loves the way Bonnie loves it more. There's only so much preparing to die he can take. They all died enough. Some did not make it back.
"So? My offer won't stand for long," she says, "And I really feel tuckered out after yesterday." she lies again, for good measure.
"I clearly am your best, best friend in the whole damn universe," he says, waiting for her to agree.
"That's what's written on the badge, isn't it?" she asks back, a light smile softening her pretty face.