Chapter Six: Nobody Eats a Necromancer

Damon Salvatore

ElenaGAuthor: Wer you in her?

Damon peered at the words on the phone, lowering his eyebrows like he was trying to decipher hieroglyphics. Wer you in her? What the hell did that mean? In who? Was she asking if he'd slept with someone? The only person he was interested in sleeping with was Elena, and even that he was having trouble deciphering.

User192011211518: Whatever you pay your editor, double it.

ElenaGAuthor: Lol

What the hell? She was laughing at his jokes now? Okay, that was even more confusing. Why would she be...?

Oh – the wine!

In retrospect, he probably shouldn't have picked her up four bottles. But, drunk Elena? This could be fun... if he could find a way to understand the messages she was sending him.

User192011211518: Turn on your autocorrect.

ElenaGAuthor: I'm asking if you ate my necromancer.

User192011211518: Turn off your autocorrect.

Well, that didn't work.

ElenaGAuthor: WERE?!

ElenaGAuthor: YOU?!

ElenaGAuthor: IN?!

ElenaGAuthor: HERE?!

Damon groaned and dragged his hand down his face. All caps... multiple lines... excessive punctuation... all that effort and still no damn clearer. She already knew he'd been in her apartment. What was she asking?

User192011211518: Was

User192011211518: I

User192011211518: In

User192011211518: Where?

He didn't resort to using all capitals. There was something louder and more aggressive about men using all capitals compared to women. Which was weird because they could be damn loud and aggressive when they wanted to be. And he was pretty sure he was going to have an example of that soon if he didn't start understanding her gibberish.

ElenaGAuthor: My bed roam.

Ah-ha! He was beginning to understand her language! It gave him a sense of accomplishment, like he was an outsider integrating into a world that only her boyfriend would have the privilege of entering. He didn't count her friends who were already in that world – for some reason, when drunk women got together, they could understand each other perfectly. He'd worked at enough bars in the past to discover that. One girl would slur something like, "OMG, my shoes feel upside down!" and a friend would go, "OMG, mine too!" like this was a common shared experience between women. Is that why they all removed their shoes by the end of the night? Luckily, Elena didn't seem to be at that level of drunkenness yet.

User192011211518: No, I wasn't in your bedroom.

ElenaGAuthor: Would you lick to me in my bed roam?

Damon's eyes shot open to the size of saucers. Was she asking if he would like to be in her bedroom, or if he would like to lick her in her bedroom? Both were extremely appealing. But there was no way she was asking that, was she?

ElenaGAuthor: Cum over.

Okay... she was asking that. Clear as day. With a – hopefully deliberate – misspelling.

Erm... but now he was lost for words, unsure how to proceed. On the one hand, he was eager. Forgive me, Father, for I have said HELL YES! On the other hand, she was drunk and propositioning her stalker. He paused for a moment while his libido and scruples were in a state of battle.

User192011211518: I shouldn't.

Who the hell handed his libido a white flag?!

Feeling betrayed by his own body, he waited for her to reply.

And he waited. And he waited.

Shit, he hoped he hadn't upset her. What the hell was she thinking anyway, inviting her stalker over? She would never do this if she weren't drunk. She's not supposed to entice a stalker – it defeats the point! It takes the "stalk" out of the word "stalker" and just leaves them with "er". And "er" was exactly how he was feeling... as in, "Er, what am I supposed to do now?"

He waited some more. This was so confusing. Had she fallen asleep?

User192011211518: Are you still there?

ElenaGAuthor: Shush. Fone. Talking chatting two Elijah.

Elijah? Who the hell was Elijah? And why was she "talking chatting" to two of them?

Okay, back to stalking it was then.

Damon minimized the chat and started scrolling through Elena's social media posts, scanning the likes and comments for any similar usernames. Elijah... Elijah – ah-ha, got him! He was the first one to comment on every single post. Username Elijah696969 – ugh, ending a username with 69 was the ultimate sign of a douchebag – and how many 69's did this loser need? What was he proposing with that username? An orgy?

Don't jump to conclusions, Damon told himself. It could just be a relative. There were a lot of love heart emojis for a relative, but whatever.

Elijah didn't have a profile picture of himself – just a photo of a Rolex. Yeah, yeah, you're rich, we get it. Damon rolled his eyes. The guy just kept getting worse and worse.

The next post that Damon clicked on was a photo of Elena holding up one of her books. She was wearing a knee-length floral sundress – the kind of outfit that was the undoing of all straight, sexually active men. Elijah696969's comment was, "You look absolutely mouthwatering, my dear."

Certified douchebag non-relative with a Rolex and a lack of control over his own saliva. That was all Damon needed to know. Fears confirmed.

User192011211518: Tell Escojah to take a hike. I'm coming over.

Except he couldn't – at least not right away. He had to give it at least ten minutes so it didn't seem like he lived in the same building. Pacing his apartment wasn't an option: at his anxiety level, he'd erode holes through multiple floors and enter her living room through the ceiling.

Why was he feeling like this? This had gone way past her being attractive to him now – he was bordering on possessive behavior. At this rate, he was going to fly through most of his intended tropes by the end of the day, and it wouldn't even be an act.

He had to disguise himself if he was going to see her. Luckily, he'd already planned for the day he would need one.

Earlier, he'd managed to return Elena's key to Stefan's key safe minutes before his brother came home. Of course, Damon had received a suspicious glare instead of a warm welcome, with Stefan wondering why he'd appeared in his home unexpectedly. He had to make up an excuse on the spot and told his brother he'd gorged on his sliced Iberian ham. Boy, he was maaaad! It was a lucky guess that Stefan had some of that expensive foreign crap in his fridge, so Damon snuck into his kitchen and hid it under his jacket as he left, and then ate it when he got home. It was not crap – it was pretty damn nice actually. He might need to steal it again.

But that wasn't all he took with him. He'd also taken Stefan's motorcycle helmet.

His spare one, to be specific. He wasn't trying to kill his brother – he was just stealing his ham and stalking his tenant. Normal brotherly stuff.

He grabbed the helmet, rolled it on over his head, the way he'd seen Stefan do so many times before, and went into his bedroom to change his shirt. Yes, that was a stupid order to do it in, but he'd manage. As an additional challenge, he flipped down his tinted visor, checking in the mirror that he wasn't identifiable.

He wasn't... but he didn't know if it was gratifying or troubling that he looked so sexy with his face obscured. He could see why women were into bikers. Maybe he should get one.

A motorcycle. Not a biker.

Unless Elena was a biker. That would be hot.

He changed his black shirt for a white one, rolling the sleeves up so Elena could get a tasty eyeful of his forearms. According to her books, women loved rolled-up shirt sleeves on men. He wasn't going to psychoanalyze that one – he'd just assume that women got turned on by men rolling up their sleeves and doing the dishes. It seemed accurate enough.

Bike helmet on and shirt changed, he stood around for seven more minutes, looking like a DoorDash courier waiting impatiently to collect an order from Kitchen Salvatore. Seven minutes had never dragged on so long. Finally, Damon was out the door, not bothering to wait for the elevator, but instead running four floors down to knock on Elena's door.

He bounced on his toes excitedly. Nothing would happen between them – he wouldn't take advantage of her like that – but this still felt like a date. A date that might involve him holding her hair back while she vomited into the toilet, and yet he was so down for that. It could be a Meet Puke instead of a Meet Cute. Damn, he was nervous. Why was he so nervous?

Then the door opened, and a smile spread across his face, now that he was finally up close and face-to-face with the most beautiful woman he'd ever –

Oh shit! She was armed.

Damon was too busy dodging out of the way to get a good look at what weapon Elena was swinging in his direction, but the tip hit his helmet and suddenly he was less concerned for his life, and more concerned about how pissed Stefan was going to be if his helmet was returned scratched up. After a second swing missed him, he lurched forward, grabbed the metal rod, pulled it out of her hands, briefly inspected it, then threw it down the corridor.

Holy shit, this woman played dirty! What a hell of a painful way to say, "I was wrong and you were right – I don't think stalking's attractive. I'm so sorry... can I sleep with you to make up for it?" That's all she had to say!

Despite now being unarmed, Elena didn't back down. She rained fists down upon his chest angrily.

It was fine, it didn't hurt that much, and it kept her occupied. Mid-beating, Damon took out his phone and single-handedly typed out a message. Every so often, she jogged him, so he gently pushed her back at arm's length and held a finger up, urging her to be patient. But she was not a patient person, it seemed, so she immediately continued hitting him again.

Finally, her phone beeped, and she stopped, blew her hair out of her face, and checked the message.

User192011211518: You tricked me. You're not drunk.

She scowled up at him. "Perceptive."

User192011211518: Elijah?

"Very real." Just to add salt to the wounds, Elena added, "Very handsome."

Crap.

User192011211518: Why do you have a fire poker? You don't have a fireplace.

"Well, you would know." Elena's eyes fell to the phone in his hand. "Why aren't you speaking?"

User192011211518: I'm incognito.

"You mean, you're insufferable." Her eyes then moved even lower, seeing her stalker's heels suddenly drop to the floor. "Were you standing on tiptoe?"

User192011211518: The men in your books are always at least six-five. I felt like trying out the six-five masked man look. Another trope to tick off.

It was handy that the helmet already added a little extra height.

"You're insane," Elena hissed. "I want you out of my life."

User192011211518: We're not scheduled for the third-act breakup yet.

Elena stamped her foot. "Stop talking about tropes! There's no third-act breakup because we're not even together!"

User192011211518: And whose fault is that? According to your books, I'm your ideal man... except the six-five part. Admit you were wrong.

Elena tilted her chin up towards him, her jaw set in determination. "Show me your face," she demanded, ignoring his own. "I only wanted you here so I could see who you are, so take off the helmet."

User192011211518: Can we strike a "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" kind of deal?

Elena's lips pinched together furiously. She wasn't going to get what she wanted, and she knew it. "The only thing I'm showing you is this." She shot him the middle finger.

User192011211518: I remember what you wanted to do with that finger. Can we establish a safe word first? Your nails are pretty long.

Giving up on getting him to reveal his identity, she went back inside, yelling, "Crawl up your own ass and die!" while slamming the door in his face.

Damon stood outside for a moment, blinking slowly, processing the encounter and her final parting words. Then he sighed deeply, and typed out – what he suspected would be – the final message of the night.

User192011211518: That's a very long safe word. Considering the amount of things you want to put up my ass, I was thinking more along the lines of "bubbles".