title: one day soon (I'll hold you like the sun holds the moon)
category: the vampire diaries (tv)
genre: drama/romance
ship: bonnie/damon
rating: mature
warning(s): period-typical racism (discussion of lynching) ; sexual content ; violence
word count: 5,695
summary: Damon's never been one to consider the consequences, so when his cowardice causes the demise of his first love, he'll do anything to make it right. Including making a deal with a witch. [reincarnation fic]


I.

1863

"We shouldn't be doing this." She's hardly convincing with how breathless she sounds.

"Says who?" Damon kisses up the slope of her neck, his fingers make quick work of untying the ribbons at the front of her dress.

Bonnie raises a teasing brow. "Should I wonder why your fingers are so nimble?"

He smirks back at her and draws the front of her dress open, hands sliding beneath the rough fabric to palm her breasts. He presses his forehead to hers as her breath hitches. Her teasing expression washes away in a flood of arousal.

"Perhaps I have dreamt of us meeting like this so consistently that I have unwittingly learned a new task."

She arches up into his touch and meets his heady gaze. "You dream of me often, Mister Salvatore?"

He huffs a laugh. "Far more than polite company would suggest."

"Polite company doesn't suggest so much as order... I am beneath you, or have you not noticed?"

"I'd quite like you beneath me." He drags his nose down the length of hers. "When have I ever cared for something as ridiculous as status?"

"You have the privilege not to," she reminds him. "I am not so lucky."

Damon pauses, a pressure in his throat that threatens emotional transparency he has been taught to avoid for so much of his life. "Would you ask that I stop?" His hands are still familiar with her breasts, soft and warm, lifting with each breath she takes. He can feel her pearled nipples under his thumbs.

"Would you?" she wonders, staring up at him with a surprising amount of uncertainty.

His head tips, a lurch in his heart that pains him. "You think I would force myself upon you?"

"I think polite company would accept force more than love." She bites her lip and swallows tightly. "I'm a servant, Damon. A slave. When you tire of me, I will return to my lowly status. Tending to you and your genteel wife and your white children, afforded everything me and my own can never hope to have..."

"Who says I will tire of you?" He shakes his head, slides a hand up to curl around her neck, thumb pressing at the hinge of her jaw to tip her head back. "You think me a cretin?"

"I think you a man..." She stares up at him searchingly. "A man of money and power and status. And I am a woman of none of those."

"Perhaps not for long. If the war is won out of our favor, you will be freed."

She scoffs. "And naive too."

His knuckles skim lightly along her delicate collar bones. "The world isn't as simple as Mystic Falls. We can leave here, find somewhere more... liberal." He presses against her, the length of him meeting every curve and dip of her body. "I never wanted a genteel wife."

"You never wanted a wife period, scoundrel." She says it with fondness, a smile ticking up her mouth.

He grins, gaze falling to her lips. "Say yes. Run away with me."

"You're playing with fire," she murmurs, shaking her head faintly. "Always so keen to court trouble."

"Is that what you are, Little Bird? Fire and trouble."

"Sounds apt enough."

He tucks his fingers in the gaping front of her dress, teasing at the skin across the top of her stomach. "What am I then?"

"Not water, I know that much."

"No? Hm. Perhaps the oil to your fire then..." He skates his fingers higher, between the valley of her breasts. "Or are we one in the same?"

She leans up into him, presses a hand to his chest. The softness of his clothes, of his clean vest compared to her old and worn dress, is a testament to so much. But she slides her hand under the vest, under the neck of his shirt too, until her palm is atop his heart, skin to skin. That too is a contrast, of color and life and privilege.

"In some respects," she tells him, "we are all too similar."

His lips brush against the arch of her cheek, familiar and smooth. They have been doing this dance for so long, for too long. He can remember her as early as childhood, standing tall amongst her mother and aunts, moving through the kitchen with ease. She'd fascinated him, those sharp green eyes, glaring at him when he stole food or pestered the others for attention. She had a quick tongue, one she wasn't hesitant to direct at him. As a precocious young boy, he hadn't liked it at first. Hadn't liked how she questioned and pushed and nagged at him. But as he grew older, he came to enjoy it, to want it, want her. It wasn't right, wasn't proper or allowed. But Damon could still remember the day he fell in love with her, twelve years old and absolutely certain that no one would ever know or challenge him quite like she did. Ten years later, and he was still certain of that.

"A good foundation for marriage then," he decides

She shakes her head, lets out a little huff of a laugh. "What makes you so sure that we would be any more accepted in the rest of the world? I can't hide my skin, Damon. I am who I am no matter where I am."

"I don't want you to hide." His thumb rubs up her neck, feels her pulse beating heavy under his touch. "I like your skin just as it is."

She tilts her chin up to see him, a serious expression crossing her face. "Not everyone is like you. Fear and ignorance drives too many. We wouldn't stand a chance out there."

"Maybe not," he allows. "But more of one than we have here."

She swallows tightly, lets her eyes fall a moment. "We would have nothing... To start over completely..."

"We would have enough." He thinks briefly of his father's safe, of the combination (Stefan's birthday), and knows there's plenty there to give them a chance, at least. "Say yes," he bids again, tipping her chin up once more. He's close enough that her lips skim his.

She meets his eyes, her expression slowly growing more hopeful. "You love me."

It's not a question, more a statement than anything, but he answers regardless. "Devotedly."

She nods, smiling brightly, and has never looked more stunning. "I love you too."

A breath leaves his chest in a relieved gust. "Then we should go soon. Tomorrow. We can-"

The door to the study bursts open, crashes against the wall, and Damon whirls, his eyes wide, to find his father standing before him, his face pinched red with anger. He can feel her moving behind him, quickly trying to cover herself, and he steps in front of her to hide her from his father's wrathful gaze.

"You soil yourself with our staff," Giuseppe spat. "Haven't you brought enough shame to our name?"

Damon swallows tightly. "Father-"

"Silence," he yells, and Damon flinches, leaning back as if a blow is imminent. "I have given you more chances than I can count, and still you find ways to disappoint me. A slave, Damon. Have you no respect?"

His jaw ticks; for a variety of reasons, he supposes. Not the least of which is that he knows for a fact his father had impregnated a maid, that she bore him a son. More than that, however, it's the unnecessary disgust in his tone regarding Bonnie. "She's not-"

"This is your mother's doing. Allowing you to spend so much time with them. Teaching them to read, to write, giving them rights that no one else would give them. And what do they offer me in return, hm? Seduction and lies."

"Father, if you would just listen-"

"I've heard quite enough." Giuseppe waves a hand. "You would leave our reputation in tatters and steal away in the night. Abandon your family to clean up your messes once again. And you..." he directs past Damon's shoulder with a stab of his finger. "After all my family has done for yours. Nothing but a common whore."

"That's enough!" Damon shouts, his hands balled into fists. "I won't allow you to speak to her that way."

"So this is what it takes for my son to finally grow a spine?"

Damon winces, casting his eyes away. "If you heard us speaking, then you know that we plan to marry. Father, please..."

"Marry," Giuseppe scoffs. "You'll do no such thing."

"I-"

"She'll be punished for her part in this and return to the kitchens, where she belongs. She's lucky I don't have her hanged."

He can feel her hand clutching at the back of his shirt and wishes he could reach for her, soothe her somehow, but he knows his actions will only make it worse.

"As for you..." Giuseppe's eyes are bleak as they meet his son's. "You will re-earn my respect, beginning immediately. You're joining the war effort in the morning, and I won't hear another word about it." He looks between them, a sneer on his mouth. "Say your farewells, it'll be the last you see of each other."

The study door slams behind him as he leaves and Damon lets out a rushed breath before he turns to face her, his hands finding her shoulders and squeezing. "Are you all right?"

Bonnie's mouth is quivering and she keeps her eyes down, on the open flag of fabric across his chest. She's trembling, but he can see how desperate she is to pretend she isn't. The way her stubborn chin raises in defense. He's always loved that about her, how quick she is to fight back and stand up. Admiration for something he himself has never been able to do, as tonight has clearly highlighted.

"I... I'm sorry," he whispers.

Her eyes raise then, littered with tears and filled with a fire that dims to misery. "You are," she says, like an accusation, and she pulls her shoulders from his hands. "What would you have done if we had faced trouble in our escape? If the world wasn't so receptive to us? Would you have run? Defended me? Simply accepted their word as truth?" She waves a hand to the door. "I knew you were naive, Damon. I didn't know you were a coward."

He closes his eyes at the sting of her remark. "He's my father..."

"And I was to be your wife," she grits out thickly, a tear trickling down her cheek. "But now, just as I always knew, I will be nothing more than the servant I always was."

He shakes his head and reaches for her. "We can still run. We have tonight. We have now," he insists.

"To what end?" Her shoulders fall and she draws herself out of reach. Her chin loses that stubborn tilt and his heart breaks for it. "You cannot run and hide forever. I will not run for all my life." She hugs her arms around herself and steps past him toward the door.

"You love me," he calls after her, desperately.

"I do," she admits, her voice thick with sorrow. "But it's not enough."

The room feels hollow when she's gone, or perhaps that's him. He slides down the wall to sit on the floor. The joy of before, the hope in a future he's wanted for half his life, has fled. He almost had a wife, someone he loved beyond reason, and now all he has is a gun waiting for him, a fight he doesn't want to be a part of, and a future he has no desire to see through. But she is right, he thinks, as his head falls back against the wall.

He truly is a coward.


1864

He writes to her. Long letters begging forgiveness, begging for any scrap of her attention. He worries for months that she's not getting them, that perhaps his father has intervened somehow and all his sincere words of making this up to her, of being a man she can be proud of, of not being the coward he's been for far too long, have been lost.

But then he gets a letter in return, in her slanted scrawl. He still remembers his mother teaching her, how proud she always was of all that Bonnie had accomplished. Lily adored her. His mother, in comparison to his father, was a saint. He wonders sometimes how she would have reacted to his falling for her favorite pupil. He'll never know. The five year anniversary of her death has recently passed and he feels it like a knife to the gut. She always understood him, soft and kind-hearted where his father was hard and dismissive.

Bonnie's first letter is short, it warns him that he shouldn't write, that he's taking unnecessary risks and should focus on keeping his head on his shoulders. He grins, reads between the lines to find her concern for him, and a love that still burns. They are fire, each of them, and he's willing to do anything to keep it alive. He keeps writing, gets poetic in his longing for her, and slowly, her letters become warmer, become what he remembered. They give him comfort when the war dedicates itself to dragging him down. But then the letters stop. It's abrupt and confusing and he won't lie, it scares him.

It's a collection of things. A lack of response from her, a heavy soul from the war, and a truly crushing feeling of being unable to continue to battle for something he doesn't believe in. He deserts the Confederacy and makes his way home, all the while wondering if that makes him more or less of a coward. He knows he'll have to face his father, but he doesn't care. Nothing Giuseppe can do or say will ever compare to what he's seen and done.

He searches for her first. He's still in his Confederate uniform, dirty and worn as it is, and he feels decades older than his 23 years. But there's a brightness that comes over him, a hope that warms his heart, as he sees home for the first time in nearly a year. He searches the entire house, confused when he can't find her anywhere. The staff avoids his curious eyes and he eventually makes his way out to the gardens, to where he can hear his brother's voice.

Stefan's chasing around a woman in a full, grey dress, and Damon thinks back to one of Bonnie's letters, of a new house guest named Katherine Pierce and her growing affections with Stefan. He walks along the bushes and watches curiously as his brother and Miss Pierce flirtatiously court one another.

"I'd ask you to excuse the interruption, but I can't say I care whether you do," he eventually calls out.

Stefan whirls toward him, his face brightening. "You've been given leave!"

"'Given' is not the word I'd use, nor is it one the Confederacy would see fit to offer me," he admits, standing with a grin.

With an amused snort, Stefan walks toward him. "Your commitment to the Confederacy is inspiring."

Damon stands to meet him and they collide in a rough, brotherly hug. He sinks into it a moment. He'd missed Stefan, far more than he expected to, and it feels good to have his little brother back in front of him. He claps his shoulder a few times before they let go.

"I was already in the house. Haven't seen father yet, but I'm sure the staff will warn him of my arrival..." He takes a step back and casts a glance toward Miss Pierce but quickly returns it to Stefan. "I was hoping I might have a private word with you..."

"Far be it from me to get in between a brotherly reunion." Miss Pierce flashes a grin at them and then turns to leave. "I look forward to getting to know you better, Mister Salvatore."

"And I you, Miss Pierce." He nods, casting a rakish grin toward her that feels forced. His brother didn't seem to notice how disingenuous it was, however, as he did have a reputation with women that had taken some time to build up.

He turns back to Stefan then and his expression becomes serious. "She wasn't in the kitchens. I've searched for her but I can't find her. And the last letter that I have is dated back months..." He doesn't bother to hide his worry and he knows it's playing out in fine detail across his face.

Stefan's face falls and his eyes drop to the ground, a worrisome sight if ever Damon saw one. His heart tightens in his chest. "Stefan... Where is Bonnie?"

His brother's throat bobs. "Damon, I... I'm so sorry. Father found the letters. I'm not sure how he knew, but he did, and he... He wasn't happy when he found them."

Dread fills him, a cold flush that fills him from head to toe. "What happened? Where is she?"

Stefan meets his eyes, and he can see it there, knows with absolute certainty that he's lost her.

He shakes his head. "No..."

"I tried to reason with him. I told him that we could simply send her away, that it didn't have to be like this, but... He was drinking and you know how his mood fouls when he-"

"Don't make excuses for him!" he snarls.

"I'm not," Stefan insists. "I only want you to understand the circumstances."

"The circumstances." He laughs bitterly. "He killed her. He..."

His stomach twists and curdles, and before he knows it, he's leaning over, vomiting in the grass. His brother holds him up, an arm around his waist, but Damon wishes he'd let him go. Let him fall into the pool of vomit in front of him, let him die like the cowardly excuse of a man he is. Tears bite at his eyes and he shakes his head, closes them against the sting. But he can see her face, see that perpetual smirk always lingering at the corner of her lips, and God, he misses her. Loves her. Hates himself for his part in her death.

"She left you a letter. I... She gave it to me to hold onto for you. She didn't want me to send it to you, worried it might distract you and you would do something..."

"That I might lay down and die in the trenches like the dog I am," he mutters, and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. It won't be the last time he's sick over this, not by far. "I want the letter."

"Perhaps it should wait, until you've had time to rest and recuperate." Stefan eyes him worriedly. "You don't look well, brother."

"I want the letter, Stefan."

He nods against his better judgement and leads Damon back into the house. It's hollow, reeking of loud shadows and memories that once kept him warm on the battlefield and now send a chill down his spine.

Stefan digs the letter out from a drawer and holds it aloft. "It was very quick," he says. "She was brave."

Damon glares at him, snatches the letter from his hand. "She shouldn't have had to be. We should have left that night. Should have run while we had the chance."

"Damon..."

"I loved her." His mouth quivers. "And it killed her."

Stefan shakes his head, but has no words to say otherwise, no argument to offer him, and that's what Damon wants. He wants a fight. He wants someone to scream and rage and battle against him. He gets nothing, so he leaves with his letter and the weight of his shame heavy on his shoulders. It's a weight he'll grow all too familiar with.


Apologies are never more hollow than when they are made to a grave.

Wood marks where Bonnie was laid to rest, rather than the monument he deems more fitting.

He's drunk the first time he sits before it, a bottle still in his hand. He's also crying, spilling apologies and excuses like they go hand in hand. For him, they often have. Eventually, when his tears fade, he's left in a fog of misery, the alcohol making the world around him tip on its axis. His vision is hazy and his mind filled with cotton, but he lays in the grass atop her grave and tries to remember when he was happy, when he first saw her, when all of this was just a distant consequence he'd never truly considered.

"I found you in the kitchen," he says, smiling drunkenly. "For the life of me, I can't remember why I had visited. To bother the cooks, most likely. I often grew weary of lessons and would seek out something more entertaining. You didn't like me… Not one bit." He laughs. "If I remember correctly, you picked up— It was a carrot you were peeling for supper, and you winged it at my head… It hit center on my forehead, left a welt the size of a silver dollar… I was offended, of course, and confused by such a terrible reaction, but… mesmerized too. You were strange and new and like no one I'd ever met before… No one I'll ever meet again."

He takes another pull from his bourbon. "I think I was smitten even then, while the bruise was blooming. I knew I would change your mind about me. I was certain of it. And I did, didn't I? I gave chase for so many years, begging for the briefest hint of attention or affection, doing all I could to gain a smile or a laugh. You were all I wanted, all I could see, and every rejection gnawed at my pride. I tried to pretend it didn't, that I wasn't hurt, but you know how terrible I am. How quick I am to think the worst of others, or assume they think the worst of me…"

He grimaces. "I regret the time after mother's death, when I buried my pain in women and booze. Truth be told, I wanted to go to you. I wanted to grieve where you could help me. But I was in no shape for that. I was… bereft and unkind and… I didn't want you to see me like that. I didn't want my shameful behaviour to color your opinion of me. Of course, you always knew, you knew me better than nearly everyone, except perhaps Stefan."

He shakes his head, feeling woozy with the jarring sensation. "I convinced myself… I was so sure of it… If I could just have you, then I would have all I need. It was so simple to me. But you were always smarter, you always saw what I didn't, and you tried to warn me, you tried to tell me that in loving you, I was destroying you. It was never what I wanted. It was never… I only wanted to love you, to have you as my own, to… To make you my wife." His voice catches and his throat burns, and he closes his eyes burn once more.

"It's my fault, Bonnie. It's my doing that caused your death. My father may have ordered the noose around your neck, but I might as well have tied it myself." He presses a hand to his chest as his heart lurches painfully. "I won't— I can't forgive myself for that. I shouldn't." He turns himself over that, and cries himself to sleep in the grass.

Stefan finds him some hours later, hauls him from the ground and half-carries him back to the house. "It's my fault, s'all my fault," he mumbles drunkenly against Stefan's shoulder.

His brother doesn't correct him, he simply puts him to bed and sighs over his state before he takes his leave.

Damon falls asleep shortly after, and dreams that it's him that stands on the hill, his throat the noose tightens around, and when he wakes with a startled gasp, he thinks it's fitting. As it should have been him all along.


He doesn't love Katherine, not by a mile, but she doesn't love him either. She says it, tells him she loves him and wants him and needs him. And it feels nice. Especially when he closes his eyes, imagines her voice is a little huskier, that her face is darker and her eyes are greener. He misses Bonnie like breathing. There are days when he thinks he sees her, thinks he hears her voice or her laugh, but they're fleeting, and only serve to drive the grief home further.

He tries to be the man he was when his mother passed, a scoundrel, never searching for love, just a bed to warm, and he'd found plenty. His heart had long been won, by a woman who kept him in his place, rejected his affections, time and again, until one day she didn't. One day she laughed as he danced her around the empty kitchen. One day she leaned up and met his lips, took a kiss for herself that he returned happily. What followed was weeks, months, of flirtation and courting, all carefully done in the empty rooms of his house or the stalls of the barn, away from curious or judgmental eyes. There was nobody else then. No other bed to warm. Just the hope that she might one day join him in his.

The body next to him feels cold and he casts a vague look in a sleeping Katherine's direction. He wonders if it's part of her vampirism, that she loses natural body heat over time. It didn't take him terribly long to deduce that she was, in fact, otherworldly. He may be drunk more often than not, but he isn't stupid. His father would kill her on sight, but Damon thinks he's done more than enough of that already. So instead, he kept her secret, and in doing so, unwittingly earned her trust and a place in her bed.

Katherine isn't much for cuddling. Not with him at least. He's not unaware of how she shares his brother's bed too. He cares little about it. It's not her heart he wants. It's the distraction. Flirting with Katherine, losing himself in her for a few hours, lets him forget what he's really lost, who he really wants.

He turns over, away from Katherine, and wonders if Bonnie hates him. If she regretted him when the rope tightened around her neck. He buries his face in his pillow, lets it collect the tears that fall, the grief that steals through him. And he wonders if it'll ever lessen. If he'll ever forgive himself. If she could. He doubts it.


Emily Bennett doesn't like him, and he can't blame her. While a distant cousin, Bonnie was still family, and she blames him for Bonnie's death. So does he. At least they have that in common.

"Miss Katherine wouldn't like you poking your nose around in her business," Emily warns him.

"It's not her business I'm interested in," he tells her, watching her expression curiously. "You're a witch, aren't you? That is, you have supernatural abilities or powers."

Her mouth tightens. "Did Miss Katherine—"

"Forget Katherine," he bites out. "This isn't about her."

Emily's head tips and then a knowing look crosses her face. "Bonnie then."

His throat tightens. "Is there a way—?"

"No," she interrupts him.

His eyes narrow into a glare. "You have no idea what I wanted to ask."

"Resurrection is not an option. The kind of power it takes... The balance won't allow it. And even if it did, it would likely cost me my life." She arches an eyebrow. "And while I know you would willingly sacrifice me to save her, I am not so willing."

Frustration swamps him. "There has to be something. All of your powers and you can't do anything?"

"I wouldn't have to if it weren't for you," she returns bitingly.

He flinches and looks away. "Anything I say to that would only be an excuse."

"Yes. It would."

Silence abounds for a long moment, before, eventually, she sighs. "I cannot resurrect her, Damon. While it's been attempted, it would require the power of a hundred witches. And if I'm not able to channel it, it would kill me. Besides, magic requires balance, and when you go against the natural pattern of life, it has consequences."

He wants to argue, to shout, damn the consequences, but not paying attention to them in the past is what got him into this situation in the first place. Bonnie had warned him, told him that what they were doing wasn't acceptable, that there were people who wouldn't allow it, and he hadn't listened. He'd been so sure, so naive, in thinking that they were different, they could defeat the odds.

"So there's nothing..." His throat tightens and his shoulders fall limp with defeat. "I've lost her."

Emily peers at him thoughtfully a long moment, and then, very slowly, she raises her chin. "There is something... but it's not going to be easy and it won't be anything like you expect."

His hope soars despite her warning. "What is it?"

"Rebirth," she says, a curious look in her eyes. "What do you know about reincarnation?"

Very little, he supposes, but he's about to learn a great deal.


He doesn't expect Stefan to demand his help in freeing Katherine. Truth be told, he wouldn't much care if she was lost in the ensuing fight. But his brother is desperate, and he can't say he doesn't understand it. If it were Bonnie in the same position, he would do all he could too. But there are things happening, machinations underway, that he needs to put his focus on. He has to meet Emily, has to set in motion a life he never planned to live, one hundred and fifty-four years' worth of misery and guilt are ahead. There is a rope waiting for him in the woods; it seems only fair to die as she did. Only he will return to the world much sooner than she will, the vials of vampire blood that Emily gave to him that day were promise of that.

Stefan will not stop pulling and begging him though, and he gives in as a final gift to his brother before he flees the limits of Mystic Falls and becomes the monster their father hated. He wonders if Bonnie's powers will manifest in her next life, if her being a witch will encumber her love for him now that he'll be a vampire. It's a fleeting thought. Naive he may be, but he's sure they can get past it, past anything that gets in their way.

He would be lying if he said it was easy. Stefan lures the men away from the carriage as he circles around to knock out a guard and opens the doors. He spots Katherine easily, her fine dress giving her away, and soon Stefan is there to help him drag her weakened body free.

Damon can feel time sifting through his fingers, wonders if he's helped enough and now Stefan can carry his beloved vampiress to safety while Damon searches out Emily in the woods. Before he can ask Stefan what more he needs from him, there's a gunshot, and the pain hits him square in the back. He falls, colliding hard with the ground, and, for a moment, he thinks it doesn't hurt nearly as much as he thought, as he felt he deserved. Stefan is leaning over him, his name a distant noise in his ears. As his eyes grow dark, he only hopes that Emily will go through with her end of the promise.


When Damon wakes, Emily is sitting beside him on a wooden bench, her hands folded calmly in her lap. He blinks up at her, sucks in a sudden breath of air, and sits up so quickly that his vision swims. "It worked."

"You had doubts?" She seems amused. "And yet you went through with it."

"For Bonnie," he murmurs, and then looks up at her. "The spell? You cast it?"

She searches his eyes a long moment. "You remember our deal?"

"I promise you, I will protect your lineage for as long as I'm alive."

She nods. "Bonnie will be reborn. But remember... You cannot see her until the night of the comet. That is the only way this spell works. Think of it like Orpheus and Eurydice. Your love is following you out of Hades, but if you look back to make sure, you forfeit her life and have lost her for good. You must trust in the spell, Damon."

"I understand."

"And let me be clear, whether she chooses to take her chances on you in her next life, I cannot guarantee. I can only give you an opportunity."

He nods, having no reply to that, and turns his gaze toward Stefan. "Is he...?"

"He's like you. He'll wake soon enough." She holds out a satchel then. "You're in transition. You need to drink this to complete it."

He takes it from her outstretched hand and unscrews the cap. The overwhelming scent of blood hits him and hunger makes his stomach clench with painful desperation. He licks his lips, but turns his attention to her once more. "I cannot repay you enough."

"Keep your promise, Damon Salvatore, my family depends on it."

"Bonnie was a Bennett. Even if you weren't... I would still do what I could to protect them."

"If you want her to be reborn, you'll have to. Without any Bennetts alive to bring her into this world, my spell is void." She raises an eyebrow meaningfully before she stands. It's a long time to wait for one woman... One hundred and forty-five years..."

Damon nods, and then tips the satchel of blood up to pour into his mouth. He licks the stain from his elongated teeth and replies, "She's worth it."

[tbc]


author's note: on the bright side, with the show back on, my muse is very inspired. the next chapter of "'til eternity" is very close to being finished, and yes, I have chapters in the works for my other stories. they're on their way. this particular new story was meant to be a oneshot, but then i had too much fun (21k and counting) fleshing out damon's journey as he becomes a start player in the lives of the bennetts and how it changes him and many of his choices along the way! plus, it technically ended in a bit of a cliffhanger with him and 2009!Bonnie, but since i'm fleshing it out, that won't be an option anymore. resolution will be found. :)

be sure to let me know how you like it. reviews are sustenance!

- Lee | Fina