Fic: "Into the Light of the Dark Black Night," TVD, Bonnie/Damon, PG-13
Title: "Into the Light of the Dark Black Night"
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Rating/Classification: PG-13, Bonnie/Damon, one dirty word
Disclaimer: The CW, L.J. Smith, Kevin Williamson and Julie Plec own all!
Summary: 1675 words. For blushingsigh and oracle42, who asked for TVD fic in response to my call for first kiss prompts. Damon is like the sun blotting out the moon.
Bonnie has nightmares about fire. About Damon cloaked in fury. They're one and the same, really. Bright, white-hot, and untouchable.
Her legs tangle in her sheets as she tries to kick them off and she sits up gasping for air. Her nightgown sticks to her clammy skin and her hair feels heavy on her neck. Her body doesn't feel like her own, and for a few terrifying seconds she thinks that Emily is back. But as she swings her finally freed legs over the side of the bed and her feet touch ground, she realizes that it's just the last vestiges of her dream… that uneven sensation of being taken over, not by a witch, but by a vampire. She rubs her throat with her palm, as if she can still feel wounds left by his teeth, but her fingertips come away clean.
Stefan and Elena have assured her that Damon won't come after her. Hell, even *Damon* has assured her he won't come after her. His eyes dark with amusement, half-lidded like he was stoned. He leaned in close enough to make her flinch and whispered, "It's okay, little witch. I have no use for you now." She was relieved. And actually kind of insulted.
Now, she's just cold. The sweat is drying on her skin and the feeling of standing too close to the flames has been replaced by the chill of early winter. And she goes to the window to make sure she didn't forget and leave it open before she went to bed. Sure enough, it's a couple of inches above the sill, and cool air has left condensation along the edge. Her fingertips come away damp as she shoves it all the way down. But she goes to flip the lock and a crow sitting on the other side of the glass suddenly startles her. Crow. Raven. Whatever. It's a black bird with beady dark eyes and it cocks its head at her like it knows it caught her off guard.
"Shoo!" she says, even though it can't hear or understand her. "Go away." She raps the window with her knuckles. But it doesn't move. It's not even scared. Maybe it's just too used to people. "Come in or go out. Don't just stand there in the doorway like a fool," she says, channeling her Gram for a minute. Then, she shivers, backing away from the glass and heading back to bed. Let it just sit there, doing what birds do.
She crawls back under the covers, settling them around her loosely in case she gets caught up in another horrible nightmare. And it's when she closes her eyes and tries to think of Johnny Depp and the beach and a tall glass of lemonade that her window inches open, almost of its own accord. And her heart slams from her chest somewhere into the pit of her stomach. She bolts back upright, but before she can scream, Damon is sitting on the edge of her bed.
He's wearing all black.
He cocks his head at her like he knows he caught her off guard.
"I thought teenage girls liked the window thing," he frowns, as she presses her hand to her chest and tries to remember how to breathe. "At least that's what that idiotic book implies."
"D-damon…" She swallows hard, hating how she sounds high-pitched, like she's still about to yell for her daddy. "Damon, what the hell are you doing here?"
"Hmm." His brow knits together, and he glances around her room like he's studying it. His gaze comes back to her very pink comforter, and he pokes at it like it's road kill. "You, Bonnie Bennett, have a very busy head. Incredibly loud. And it's making it hard for a guy to sleep. So I thought I would come by and ask you, very nicely, to turn the volume down."
She blinks. He doesn't. He stares at her throat and she remembers how she felt it for damage. "You can hear my dreams?"
"Not the ones about Johnny Depp." He smiles, like he's trying to charm her, and she remembers Caroline bragging about dating the hottest guy in Mystic Falls. Damon is hot like the center of a candle flame. "Just the ones where you and I seem to be having a barbecue. As you might imagine, I'm not a huge fan of the theme."
She tilts her head, mirroring his pose. Only her hands fisting in her sheets betray that she's still scared out of her wits. "How did you get in? I didn't invite you in." She already knows the answer, and the way his eyebrows lift and his lips purse in disapproval tells her that he's not going to acknowledge the stupid question. He's perched at the foot of her bed like it's a telephone wire. "Do you think I'm seeing the future or something?" she demands. "That we're going to burn?"
"Well, that is traditionally what they *do* to witches," he points out. He illustrates with his index finger, trailing it slowly, along the coverlet, like the fuse of a stick of dynamite. She tries to move her leg, but it's too late. He rests his wrist on her ankle and opens his fingers in the imitation of an explosion. He even makes the accompanying sound effect.
"You're sick." But she doesn't shudder because of the imagery. She shudders because she can feel his touch through the layers of cloth. "I thought you had no use for me," she accuses. "What do you care if my dreams are a little noisy? Get some earplugs and get over it. And get *out*."
Damon chuckles, and he scoots up the bed… driving her back against the headboard in retreat. "Why, it almost sounds like you *want* to be of use to me, Bonnie." Her room was cold, but now it feels like an inferno again. Damon is like the sun blotting out the moon. "Do you like me? Are you *sweet* on me?" he mocks, in a deliberately exaggerated Virginia drawl. "Bless your little heart."
In your dreams. When Hell freezes over. Both of the things she would automatically say in response are way too relevant to the situation. "You terrify me," she murmurs, because it's the truth. "And you disgust me."
"All evidence to the contrary, witch." He reaches for her fingers, gently prying loose their death grip on her sheets. "You forget I've been conferenced in on your visions."
Bonnie has nightmares about fire. About Damon cloaked in fury. They're one and the same, really. Bright, white-hot, and untouchable. Except that she does touch him. Every inch of him. Skimming her palms over the hard, smooth expanse of his chest. She always feels like her hands should blister, like the skin should blacken and split, but they don't because she's on fire from the inside out.
Now, looking at him --at him daring her to admit aloud what they've both seen-- it's only her cheeks that heat. "Shoo," she tells him. "Go away."
But he doesn't. He moves so fast she can barely register it, and he's suddenly straddling her, knees girding her hips, boots probably trailing dirt all over her bed. "Come in or go out," he whispers. "Don't just stand there in the doorway like a fool."
That implies that she's on the threshold of something.
Bonnie doesn't know what that is.
"I could cook you to a crisp," she tells him, even as he raises their linked hands and studies the contrasts. Size. Shape. Skin tone. And she's alive, and he is dead. "I should."
"You should," he agrees, adding as if it's an afterthought, "You won't. Just like I won't tear out your still-beating heart. Because Elena would get upset, and Stefan would brood… and, frankly, it's a miracle he doesn't have permanent furrows. Why put them through that?"
Damon is entirely too close. Weighing her down. His touch is chilly, but his gaze is warm. She should scream. Common sense dictates that she should bring the entire house down because there is a strange, murderous man in her bed.
"Do you really want me to leave, Bonnie?"
Common sense is overrated.
She's not even aware that they're kissing until she's in the middle of it. His mouth overpowers hers, razor-sharp teeth scoring her bottom lip but not drawing blood. She rises up, into the cradle of his hips, pressing her breasts to his chest. Bonnie lifts her free hand to his hair, half-expects it to feel like a raven's wing. But the soft dark brown strands at his nape slip through her fingers like silk.
They kiss until she can't think, until she wants to shimmy out of her thin cotton nightgown and crawl inside him… until he has to pull away and throw himself back to the foot of her bed. He sprawls there, not like a bird, but like a man. Or at least what used to be a man. He's the one who shakes now, and the blood vessels in his face flush red in warning while his pupils go dark. "Fuck," he hisses, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.
Seconds tick by while she regains her senses and he reins in the pressing need to bite her. His eyes still warn of death, but his eyebrows arch and his scowl curves into a smile. With something that actually seems to be a begrudging respect. And then he shows her his palm… where the imprint of her much smaller hand is seared into his flesh. "It seems we both underestimated you, Bonnie Bennett."
She traces a line along the bunched up sheets, all the way to his knee. And then she opens her fingers like a blossoming flower or a burst of fireworks. She even makes the accompanying sound effect.
She knows she won't ever have nightmares about Damon and fire again.
But Damon… from now on, he'll have an insatiable desire to burn.
December 26, 2009