Chapter Text
Two Days
"Why the manor?"
"Because, for the hundredth time, it's the one place in this town that's big enough for the two of us. And, oh, it's the one house I can actually enter."
Bonnie fell silent, but Damon felt the strong roll of her eyes. He heard the intake of air, the thoughts whirring together to form another opposing point/question/irrelevant quibble, the pause before she, once again, made it clear he was in Hell.
Damon turned and held up a hand. "Stop." Bonnie pulled up short, mouth closing with a soft snap.
"Yes, it's my turf, yes, it's all about my comfort and blah blah blah, but I don't feel like playing Goldilocks on this little side trip to Twin Peaks, okay? You want to skip down nostalgia lane, go for it, but base camp is the Manor. Base camp is the most familiar place in this nightmare, base camp has fifteen rooms and a cellar, base camp is the most logical accommodation right now, okay?"
Damon looked at her. He lowered his head. "So, just so we're clear. We go to Manor. We stay at Manor. We stop asking stupid questions."
Bonnie blinked. Her mouth puckered. "Fine. You go to base camp, immerse yourself in the Salvatore experience. I'll be at Gram's house." She turned. "Have fun raiding your blood pantry for all eternity."
Damon watched her stalk off. He almost called after her, but dammit, she annoyed the shit out of him. He continued on to the Manor, trying to think of everything but that little scene. He'd have to get blood somehow. The town was empty of life save for him and the most useless witch ever, and if he had to choose between the slow agony of desiccation and taking a sip from that inflexible little neck of hers, he'd take the sloughing off of skin.
The Manor was still the Manor, with older appliances and a CD selection rivaling the local Sound Emporium. Damon made a mental note to check for Blood Sugar Sex Magik before going to the cellars. A fully stocked cooler of beautiful, glistening blood bags rested in the corner, behind a rack of Chateau Cheval Blanc. Damon shook his head as he chose a bag of A-positive.
Bonnie and her curses.
:::
The afternoon slid into evening. Damon lounged around the house, picked through artifacts of the past, read a few of Stefan's diaries, mood rocked to Nevermind. He pulled out a family album, not his family, some distant family that took vacations in campervans and ate Sesame Street-themed sheet cake. Who lived here in 1994? Damon read the inscription under the picture of a rollerblading youth with lank, brown hair. Zachary in the park.
Ah, Zach. Poor nephew Zach. Damon took a swig from the whisky bottle. He flipped through more years before coming to a group picture from the famous Founding Christmas party of 1993. He laughed. Look at these idiots, standing in the cold, wearing the most atrocious semi-formal clothes since the 1970s, smiling and laughing in the dark, their only protection tacky multicolored lights. He peered closely. There was Liz and her closeted husband, Matt's boozy mother groping young Mayor Lockwood, a weasel-looking man...must be a Fell. Damon sobered a bit. Elena's mother had her arm linked with Abigail Bennett, the two women caught laughing at a private joke. He closed his eyes. When he returns, he will find this and show it to Elena. Her eyes will shine and shimmer, and he will hold her as she tells him about her Mom, about Christmases, about traditions. He'll collect all these stories and surprise her with a Gilbert Christmas, just the two of them. When he returned.
Damon opened his eyes and landed on Zach. This one definitely took after Stefan. Look at that tragic hero profile. But this hero grinned at the camera, his arm around a young, photogenic---Damon stilled. It came back with stunning clarity. The party, the aftermath.
Damon chucked the album into the fire. He watched the flames eat the paper, breathed in the ash. He was hungry, not for blood, not for whisky, for actual human food. He went to the kitchen and perused the refrigerator, the pantry, the cabinets. Nothing spoke to him except Chef Boyardee and a can of corn. He opened both into a pot and ate it hot over the kitchen sink. There was nothing outside, the night was mild, probably warm. Was the night so clear in 1994? It probably was. He couldn't remember--assholes running from a murder spree rarely stopped to enjoy starlight and moonbeams.
He peered through the night, eating, drinking, thinking. The spoon scraped the bottom of the pot. Damon blinked. He reached for the bottle--empty. He looked out the window. It was so dark out. A human would be hard-pressed to find this place at night, especially a human without an ounce of common sense. Damon dug around the Manor for a phone, then, after a few seconds of staring at the phone pad, searched for the phone book. It took some effort, he felt self-conscious using a phone book in conjunction with a phone, but he found the number and dialed it.
At the first ring, Damon hung up. He tried again. He made it to three. He went back to the window. She was probably still pissed, which was typical. She probably rolled her eyes at the ringing phone, wise enough to know it was him. She was probably all cozy in a Bennett-family-wish-fulfillment fantasy, complete with living relatives, all of them cackling around a bubbling cauldron of souls. She was probably glaring really hard at a candle, wishing the wick was his head and--
A shadow crossed the lawn. Bonnie broke into the frame a second later. She looked up, and he held her gaze for a long second before she scowled and quickly passed from view. He listened to her quick steps up the porch, through the door, into the foyer, and up the stairs, to the left.
"That's my room."
The footsteps backed out and went hastily to the far end of the hall.
"Goodnight, Bonnie."
She muttered something crass. Damon grinned as he washed the pot.