Chapter Text
How long can you go before you feed on your best friend?
The words keep circling in Damon’s head, over and over, some macabre goldfish trapped in a bowl as the water drains. No escape, just swimming in circles as time ticks down. Akin to how he and Enzo are trapped in this house, actually. Wes and his witchy backup had scattered after setting up their little trap, leaving Damon and Enzo and Damon’s hunger.
And a dead body, but Damon’s ignoring that as one of the least important things in this mess.
“You can stop pacing now,” Enzo tells him, lying on the remains of the couch. It’s missing a leg and some of the upholstery is across the room, but Enzo doesn’t seem to care. Which, fair enough. A half-destroyed couch is still more comfortable than a prison cell.
Not pausing in his pacing, Damon viciously kicks a piece of what may have once been table. It embeds itself into the wall, plaster raining down. “I don’t actually want to kill you,” he says, lacking enough vitriol that it comes out with too much honesty. But sue him if this whole Ripper virus thing is leaving him a wee bit too uneasy to maintain his usual levels of acidity.
Enzo doesn’t respond. The only sounds in the room are the frustrated footfalls of Damon’s attempt at keeping his mind off the other vampire’s heartbeat. And that makes Damon stop. Everything goes silent. He turns and takes in Enzo’s neutral expression. “You know I don’t want to kill you, right?”
Only smirking at him, Enzo gives a languid shrug. “I know you don’t want to put your brother and ex’s lives at risk over my certain death. Or was it your pride? Wasn’t entirely clear.”
Damon thinks the worst part is how unsurprised he had been. Like, of course Damon had chosen them over him. And Damon can’t tell him otherwise, because it’d be the most obvious kind of lie. It’s Stefan and Elena. Two of the whole points of Damon’s entire fucked up existence.
So, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t bother to make any more promises about finding another way. Neither of them had believed the first. And Damon doesn’t truly have the words or the right to say that Enzo is important to him. Can’t say it, certainly hasn’t shown it, it’s no wonder the other vampire doesn’t seem to understand that killing him might end up killing Damon too. It had once, after all. Metaphorically, only emotionally, but still. He’d spent years functioning on half of himself because he couldn’t deal with his own emotions. Damon doesn’t actually understand why other people keep being surprised Enzo is important to him. You don’t flip your switch for unimportant people.
Eyes narrowing, Damon cocks his head to the side, something about that thought catching his attention. Flip your switch…. That’s an idea. Not a great idea. Or even a good one. But it’s an idea. Half of a plan begins forming in Damon’s mind.
Oh, this is stupid. Not the stupidest thing he’s ever done—that’s a high bar—but it’s up there. Is the other vampire worth something Damon is sure will put even further cracks into what’s left of his relationships with everyone from Mystic Falls? Darting a glance at Enzo, Damon watches him tap out a beat on the side of the couch, motion seemingly unconscious as his brain is no-doubt spinning to come up with his own escape plans. He may appear relaxed, as much as one can while magically trapped in a house with a Ripper and the clock ticking down until dinner time, but Enzo doesn't do the whole ‘giving up’ thing. Damon’s always admired that about him.
Yes, he answers himself, quickly and easily enough that he’s a little surprised by it. Yeah, Enzo is worth it.
“Enzo,” Damon says, a bit slowly. He’s not all the way sure this is the correct action to take. It could go so, so badly. But it’s still better than Damon killing his friend. Also, something about Wes’ smug certainty that his little experiment will turn out exactly as he wants is getting under Damon’s skin. Spite is almost as great a motivator as desperation.
“Finally seeing reason?” Enzo asks him, sounding as if he’s not actually expecting it to have happened.
“No.” He definitely doesn’t want Stefan or Elena anywhere near him right now. And especially if he goes through with this plan. They’re done with him anyway, his latest series of fuck ups finally pushing Team Mystic Falls over the edge of the cliff they had been see-sawing on since Damon’s first step into their collective lives.
“Didn’t think so.”
Throwing caution to the wind, Damon speeds over and kneels by the couch, putting them at eye level. “This isn’t reason,” he says seriously. “Or reasonable or rational. But it may be our best shot.”
Turning his head to look Damon fully in the face, dark eyes flat, Enzo says, “Oh, that’s encouraging.”
“Very,” Damon agrees grimly.
“And what is this plan of yours?”
Damon does not actually want to open his mouth. Because saying it out loud kind of sounds like a terrible idea. Or, rather, an awesome idea that has a lot of potential to go horribly wrong. Instead, he says, “So, you know how some vampires have an extra trick or two?”
And Enzo, who is barely one forty and had spent over half his immortal life being tortured by crackpot humans, only blinks at him. Makes sense. Most vampires don’t talk about it, not in polite company. Or impolite company. Or any company at all.
Any extra skills mean target. It’s the kind of thing that gets you taken out by over-zealous hunters. Or worse, collected by the older ones of your own kind. There was this one girl—some young thing, newly turned and high off of no guilt and immortality, she had been less than discreet—turned sometime in the late thirties. Damon doesn’t know her name or anything about her really, other than how her story had ended. In the end, she had become a sort of cautionary tale. Something that he had heard and ended up taking to heart. She basically got ripped in half between warring groups when word got around that the precocious kid could fly, of all things.
Oh, there were a lot of skilled vampires out there; those whose compulsions are more powerful, some not even needing eye contact. The ones with heightened senses, beyond even the inhuman standards of the rest of their kind. Those who are stronger, faster than any their age have the right to be. But the big stuff? That is a whole different league. Flying, elemental control, shape changing. Vampires who blur the line between monster and demon, too powerful for anyone’s own good. The kinds of talents that leave coven leaders and hunters alike salivating at the thought of getting their hands on them.
A lot of vampire covens scooped up the unwary as soon as they learned of it, especially the older, more established ones. The kind of covens that claimed cities as territories, as old as the seats of their power. Although, press-ganged might be a more accurate phrase. Talents like those tend to run in sire lines, passed down with the blood. So, a coven grabs the vampire that has a special skill, makes sure they’re loyal, via good old-fashioned manipulation or threats or both, and boom: their very own line of vampires with an extra punch.
By the time he had developed them, Damon had long since learned to keep his mouth shut about any tricks he may or may not possess. He doesn't really do the whole coven thing. Most are too traditional for him, and he’s got this problem with authority. Mainly, that he doesn’t respect it. In return, authority tends to have a problem with him.
“You’re not talking about compulsion,” Enzo says, sitting up. His jacket shifts with the motion, momentarily bringing attention to the line of his throat. Damon has to drag his eyes away from it.
“No.” He stands, wanting some distance between them. Leaving Enzo and his delicious smelling blood behind, Damon makes his back to the window. No crazy mad scientists, no singing witches. Good. He inhales fresh air, the breeze untainted by how good Enzo smells, how much like food. And Damon bets he’ll taste good too, all sweet and spiced, and Damon just wants to sink his teeth into—
Enzo’s voice jolts him out of the direction his thoughts had taken. Still facing the window, Damon brings a hand up to his face and grimaces at the veins he can feel, swollen and burning under the skin. “What are you talking about? Somehow I doubt dream walking will help in this situation.”
“Yeah, not dream walking.” Which was closer to a twist on compulsion than anything, with the way it involved exerting power over another’s mind. “I’m talking about the fun stuff. Weather manipulation, shape shifting, the works.”
“Damon. This isn’t Dracula. We can’t turn into mist or bats or what have you.”
Damon can’t turn into mist. Or a bat. But— “I was thinking a crow, actually. The barrier might not stop an animal.” Putting distance between them would do some good. Finding a random vampire to snack on would be even better.
And if that fails, then Damon’s going to break out the more dangerous gifts he possesses. He’s going to wait until Wes is in range, then he’s going to sing. Which could be a bit of a hit or miss. Might make Wes desperate to let Damon out to win his favor. Might make him set the house on fire so no one could have him if Wes couldn’t. And who knows how the Travelers will react, with magic thrown into the mix.
He doesn’t actually like using that particular gift of his all that much, it usually ends in a mess. Which could be fun, if only for Damon, but annoying to clean up. Not quite compulsion, vervain doesn’t stop it all the way, even if it does dim the effect. It’s more weaponized empathy than mind control, provoking uncontrollable emotion in the victims.
After taking a moment to absorb that, and to make certain that Damon isn't just screwing with him, Enzo asks, “And you haven’t done this before, because…?”
Damon bites the bullet. “Only figured it out post-sixties.” During his Augustine revenge spree, actually. Best he can figure, all the bloodbaths on top of flicking his switch for the first time unlocked something. “And I can’t do it with emotions on.” The way Enzo’s face goes blank makes Damon talk faster. “I mean, it’s possible, technically. I guess. But I really don’t have that level of inner peace. You need stability—a strong sense of self and no distractions. There are vampires that can use it without taking that short cut, but they’re all ancient and kind of cuckoo besides. I cheat. No emotions, no distractions, no problem.”
Well, one problem. Just the tiny little snag of no emotions equaling a good chance that Damon will give less than a fuck about Enzo’s continuing survival and might just say fuck it and drain him anyways. Good news! There’s a solution to that, Damon thinks, only half despairing over Part One of Plan A. At least it’s Enzo. Just about anyone else and Damon doesn’t actually think he could force himself to go through with this.
Of all the people Damon would trust with this, Enzo would be at the top of the list. And if Enzo does use this against him— Well, it would make them the littlest bit even, wouldn’t it?
“That,” Enzo says, “may actually work. Just one slight issue.”
Yeah, Damon’s already thought of this one. “What’s keeping me from ditching you? Again?”
“Yes. That. That sums up my concerns rather well.”
“Simple solution!” Damon says with forced enthusiasm. “You, my friend, are going to have your very own emotionless pet Ripper on a leash!”
Flatly, Enzo says, “What.” He just keeps looking at Damon like he’s waiting for the punchline. Joke’s on him, Damon is serious.
“All the rage, I promise. Remind me to tell you about Stefan’s latest ‘Rippah’ binge sometime.”
Standing, Enzo makes his way over closer to Damon. But still, Damon notes, grimly approving, out of immediate reach. “So noted. We’ll go over the details as soon as we’re out of this mess. Now, I don’t suppose you want to elaborate on what you just said?”
Damon does not want to, no. But he doesn’t really have any other great options, so. “Do you know how sire bonds work?”
“Uh.” Thrown by the non-sequitur, Enzo says, “Yes? Theoretically. But I don’t understand what that has to do with—“
“Great, you know the basics. So, uh. It’s like that.” Kind of. Not really. Ish.
“I’m going to need more details than that, mate,” Enzo tells him.
Right. Details. Damon can do details. The details are as follows: Enzo is going to drain most of Damon’s blood, give him some of his own, and then temporarily kill him. It’ll create a false version of a sire bond—kind of. Sire bond adjacent. And it works better when a vampire’s emotions are muted, pesky distractions like guilt put on hold. With dulled feelings, it’s less of a love kind of thing and more like a sharp obsession, vampiric instinct taking over and suppressing any more human sentiments. Damon will want to protect Enzo, will probably get territorial over him, actually. Best part: he won’t want to kill him, won’t let anyone else kill him, and probably won’t even let him out of his sight.
Which more than solves the problem of Damon ditching him.
“And that’s it?” Enzo asks when he finishes explaining the gist of it. “That can’t be all it takes.”
Well, technically no. You have to be at least semi-willing. And like an actual sire-bond, you’ve got to have some kind of compatibility. Doesn’t have to be love, but it helps to have a baseline of trust consisting of ‘I don’t think you’d kill me in my sleep’. Damon has got that more than covered. It’s hard not to trust the man who had been responsible for saving more than just his sanity, and who had stuck around even when it had definitely posed a threat to his continued wellbeing. That, plus Damon is emotionally easy. He falls in love like some people buy shoes, for all that he does his best not to show it until he can’t anymore. He’s been at least a little in love with Enzo since those first days in that cell, when he had demanded Damon get on his feet and find a reason to keep living. And he is not mentioning that. Ever. Enzo wouldn’t believe him and Damon’s not—
He literally left him to die in a fire. The absolute last thing Enzo wants to hear is that Damon spent fifty years hollowed out on the inside because of it. Somehow, he doesn’t think that a little emotional numbness equals fifty years of confinement and nonstop torture.
“Right.” Damon winces. “You’re going to have to kill me in the same way I originally died.” He hates getting shot. But it’s necessary, something about a shock to the magic that keeps vampires undead. Temporarily confuses it. Drained of their own power, given someone else's, then magic interrupted by echoes of their original deaths, the ritual pseudo re-turns a vampire with the added addition of having another vampire’s power linked to theirs via their blood. No true sire bond, it’s supposed to wear off on its own. Eventually. Probably. The last time Damon had messed with this stuff, he’d had extenuating circumstances, so he’s a little more fuzzy on the details than he would like.
“How do you know about this?” Enzo asks, shaking his head. Damon hasn’t convinced him—yet—but he sounds curious.
“Experience. Let’s just say I knew this one lady from Paris in the seventies and—Uh, she introduced me to the concept. Anyways, some bloodplay, a little death, and done; ritual complete.”
Okay, so Damon hadn’t known what he was getting into, and the older vampire had definitely skipped out on some of the details—especially the Damon will basically be her unwillingly-willing bodyguard part. And it mi-ight have ended with Damon mustering up enough spite to behead her in her sleep, severing both the bond and her neck, but saying so would put a bit of a downer on their escape plan. And Damon just hates to be a downer.
Long story short: Thirty years or so ago, he’d semi-fallen in with an established coven through no intention of his own. He had been in the city and hadn’t quite managed to dodge the enforcers they had sent after him after he had killed some human under their protection. Being fair, the human started it by the virtue of their name having been on one of Augustine’s donor lists.
Anyways, he’d killed someone—messily too, which had been another infraction held against him—they took offense, resulting in him being dragged before their tribunal. The only reason he hadn’t been guillotined was because one of the higher-ranking members took a shine to him. The reigning coven there were the old school kind, made up of vampires who, on average, were around for the Renaissance, big into tradition and had everything set up like some kind of shadow court. Which meant that with enough influence exerted and wheels greased, Damon had gotten off with his head attached.
It had not been Damon’s best decision to stick around. He’d fallen into bed with the woman who had saved him, and she had convinced him that the faked-sire bond was actually love. He’d only figured out that it was fake—on both ends—when he’d overheard her bragging to a friend of hers about managing to snag a defender with a coveted daylight ring. So, he’d murdered her in their bed and then vanished before the rest of the coven could retaliate.
Hadn’t been back to Paris since.
“Is this a sex game?” Enzo asks, sounding even more curious. Damon eyes him, but Enzo only tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips, no alarm or dismay apparent. “Blood play plus a little death? It’s starting to sound like a sex game.”
“Yes. No. It can be?” Damon had sure thought it was, the first time he did it.
Rocking back on his heels, Enzo whistles. Then laughs. “Our escape plan consists of an esoteric vampire sex game?”
Damon could still eat him. That’s a thing he could still do. “Shut up.”
“We’re going to need a gun,” Enzo points out, once he’s finished snickering at Damon’s totally brilliant plan.
“Does that thing still work?” Damon asks, half a sneer on his face as he eyes the gun Enzo had dug out of their dead host’s closet. “It looks old enough to be the one that originally killed me.”
“It’s not a musket, love,” Enzo says distractedly. “It’s a shotgun. I know you don’t like them, but they’re not hard to tell apart.”
Damon rolls his eyes. “So you don’t have to use a ramrod, whatever.” He knows about guns. He’s over one hundred and seventy years old, he knows how guns work and knows how to use them to devastating effect. Does not mean he has to act like it. Damon doesn’t know if it’s the smell of gunpowder or the noise he hates more, but he does know that he really, really hates getting shot.
In one smooth motion, Enzo loads it, cocks it, then levels it at Damon’s chest. “Last chance to back out,” he says, looking down the barrel. His hands are steady, a professional soldier’s kind of calm. His eyes are like that too. Steady. Meeting them, Damon gives his best irrelevant smile.
“Don’t pretend you won’t enjoy this,” he says.
“Only a little.” Fair enough. But then Enzo lowers the gun. “Damon, are you sure?”
Fixing him with a look, Damon reminds him, “This or I drink you dry.”
“Not too late to call for backup.”
“Considering that it’ll take them forever to get here and we have,” Damon checks his imaginary watch, “maybe a few hours before I snap and go the Silence of the Lambs on the nearest creature of the night? That’s you, BTW. No, I do not want my only brother and my girl—... my ex-girlfriend in my vicinity.”
There’s a beat, and just as Damon is sure that Enzo is about to capitulate and finally pump a round of lead into his chest, Enzo instead asks, “What's the Silence of the Lambs?”
“Movie. We’ll watch it when we’re out of here, okay? Just shoot me already.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Enzo warns him, smiling slightly before any gentleness falls away from his face as he once more points the shotgun at Damon. “And draining you and re-turning you will work after I shoot you? The order doesn't matter?”
Because Damon with a blood deficiency plus Enzo bleeding will set the timer right off, no countdown needed. It’ll probably be fine. Probably. “It’s fine,” Damon lies, hoping he’s correct. He really doesn’t have any better ideas. He swallows, teeth clenched before he forcibly relaxes his jaw. He hates getting shot. “Just get it over with.”
Elena’s not going to like this, he knows. Broken up or not, she definitely wouldn’t approve of this newest scheme of his. Just like he knows that Stefan’s going to try and fix him if he catches wind of this—will probably get the rest of the gang to join in as well. Ugh. They’re going to be insufferable about it too. If he doesn't kill anyone or make them hate him. Again.
“Don’t let me do anything too stupid?” Damon asks, shoving down memories from the last time he had the switch set firmly on off. Bonnie’s throat ripped out. Caroline flinching away from him. Enzo’s face as Damon leaves him to burn.
Silently and solemnly, Enzo nods.
Damon inhales, one last time, the burn in his throat reminding him why he’s doing this. And then—
He lets go.
As the shot rings out, Damon’s guilt is fading. By the time he hits the floor, it’s gone entirely.
Waking up with the taste of blood in his mouth isn’t unusual. Waking up in a bathtub to Enzo sitting next to him with a shotgun in his lap is a little weird and it takes a bit for Damon to recall why he’s there, blood-soaked and calmer than he’s been in years. Well, calmer might be the wrong word. Emptier, maybe.
Damon looks at him for a moment, taking in the intense way he’s being studied. Meeting dark eyes, Damon inhales. “Anyone ever tell you you smell like a bakery?”
It’s faint, but Damon’s not actually exaggerating all that much. Enzo smells delicious. The scent of Damon’s own blood is the strongest in the room, from where it’s crusted around the edges of the tub, still wet in some places, but he can still smell something sweet lingering. Traditionally, Enzo would have drank it instead of letting all the blood drain away, but Damon has the supernatural equivalent of rabies right now, so that step was nixed in their planning phase.
“No, actually,” Enzo tells him, his grip on the shotgun relaxing minutely when it’s clear that Damon’s not planning on lunging for his throat right off. He doesn’t put it away though. Smart man. “No one has ever told me that I smell like a bakery. Because that’s a weird thing to say to someone, Damon.”
“Kinda cinnamon-y.” Damon licks his bottom lip, tasting the blood still clinging there. He wants more. “You taste good too.”
With false-enthusiasm, Enzo says, “Just what I’ve always wanted, a cannibalistic ripper telling me I taste good.”
Humming, Damon licks his lips again, savoring the flavor. “I’m hungry,” he says. Damon doesn’t know how long he’d been dead for, but he can tell he’s getting close to his time limit. The way his jaw aches, fangs itching to force their way down, is a good clue.
“And I don’t like where this is going,” Enzo informs him, pointedly racking the gun. Damon only ignores it, instead stretching so he can check the damage. He winces a little, but it seems he’s mostly healed up. Being drained of more than a few pints must have slowed his healing down enough that it’s just now finishing.
“I’ve forgotten how weird this feels,” Damon complains as he sits up, frowning down at his shirt. It’s absolutely soaked. Judging from the patterning, Enzo had slit his throat. He really should have taken it off before Enzo shot him. Oh well. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.
“How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve just been shot.” Duh. “Other than that? Peachy-keen.”
Kind of numb, actually. Lack of strong emotions and all that. The storm that had been raging in his chest since Elena had dumped him has quieted. Not gone, but quieter. Everything is suppressed rather than straight up gone, but that’s expected. Damon had been like this before too. Life would be pointless with no emotions, after all. He still gets them; they’re just fleeting and don’t matter as much.
Well, he thinks, wryly, most don’t matter as much. He fiddles with the holes in his shirt, then mentally shrugs and strips it off. Tossing it behind him, Damon eyes Enzo, quickly looking him up and down. He still wants to bite him and drain all that sweet, delicious blood, but that’s tempered by all of Damon’s instincts insisting that Enzo is currently the most important thing in this world and the next right now.
Oh hey. Their not-a-sex-ritual sex-ritual worked.
“Great.” Enzo gestures at him to hurry up. “I would like to get out of here before the clock ticks all the way down.”
“In such a hurry to escape my company?” Damon asks him, smirk pulling at his lips.
“To escape death via your fangs, actually,” he’s reminded. Enzo starts for the doorway. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I think I want Maxfield’s head on a nice and shiny platter.”
“Aww, tesorino, all you had to do was ask.” Enzo’s steps stutter, just the briefest of hesitations, but Damon still notices. He smirks harder. “Would you like it wrapped in a bow as well?”
“How about you use those fancy parlor tricks you were on about and we get out of this place, hmm?”
“Parlor tricks?” Damon asks, offended before the spark of it rapidly fades, shifts into muted amusement. “Just watch. I’ll show you parlor tricks.”
“Don’t expect me to hold my breath.” Enzo freezes in place. “Damon. What are you doing?”
Stepping closer, Damon’s gait is closer to a prowl than anything. Enzo doesn’t run—there’s nowhere to run to—and doesn’t raise his gun. Damon’s faster than him. They both know it. By the time Enzo has it aimed, Damon will have his fangs buried in flesh. But Enzo is the type to try anyways, so in a flash, Damon grabs him, one hand on his shoulder, the other cradling the side of his head. The gun clatters to the floor at their feet. Kicking it aside, he backs Enzo up to the wall, the hand on his shoulder sliding higher, until the threat of a broken neck is keeping him in place just as much as the physical barrier of Damon’s body is. Leaning in close, Damon tracks the pulse of Enzo’s neck. His heartbeat is still calm, despite Damon being in the perfect place to rip out his pretty throat.
“How about another taste first?” Damon murmurs, craving something he isn’t sure he knows how to name. Only that whatever tangled web of obsession the bond is generating has collided with the virus and mutated into hunger. He doesn’t want to kill him, or even drain him. But he does want to bite him, wants to be awake for the taste of him. For half a second, he considers dropping to his knees. There’s more than one way to taste a man. “Just a taste, cosa dolce.”
Enzo’s heart skips a beat. Some portion of Damon tracks it with avid interest, listening as it evens back out into a more stable rhythm. “You won’t stop,” he says, voice steadier than his heart. “There is no taste with you, not right now.”
True enough. Damon doesn’t want to hurt him—which is such an odd notion when Damon knows he’d be down for killing just about anyone right now—so he squeezes, just enough to get the point across that Damon is the stronger one between the two of them. Then he steps back and away. Nonchalant, he asks, “Not right now? That means later, right?”
“It means,” Enzo says, straightening his jacket, “that you get us out of here, and we’ll see about picking you up some kind of snack on the way to the good doctor.” Then they both pause, tilting their heads as they listen to the sounds of a car approaching their isolated little cabin. With a half-wary glance at Damon that comes across more as annoyance than anything fearful, Enzo picks up his gun off the floor. “Or he comes to us. That works too.”
Trick the first: Enzo disappears. That is to say, Enzo and his gun find a perch near a second story window while Damon lingers downstairs.
When Wes nears the house, it’s to see Damon waiting for him in the doorway, bloody shirt back on and no humanity in his eyes. The picture it paints is obvious. There are only three Travelers trailing behind him this time, nothing compared to the crowd there had been before.
Damon is feeling underestimated. Good. Makes it more fun when he gets to rip out Wes’ heart. If they want to get really poetic about it, Enzo can turn the man first, so the scientist can get his data on his Ripper virus firsthand, when Damon drains him into a used-up husk.
Studying the seemingly alone vampire, Wes tsks in exaggerated disappointment. “I overestimated your self control. And here I thought 12144 was your best friend. Killed him already?”
“Just like I killed Aaron,” Damon agrees, smiling. “Ripped out his throat and drank him dry.”
Wes loses the creepy grin. His nostrils flare. “Careful, 21051. You might be Patient Zero now, but you're still replaceable. Tell me, do you think you’d last longer if it was your brother in there with you?”
Damon shrugs, unconcerned by the threat posed as scientific curiosity. “Probably not. Stefan is annoying. Even more so in close confinement. I’d give it an hour. Tops.”
“Let’s put that to the test,” Wes says, making a hand gesture at the Traveler closest to him. But before the witch can do anything, a gunshot rings out. The body hits the ground, and the rest of the humans jump, scrambling back further into Enzo’s range.
Damon can’t help it, he laughs. If they had run forward, they would have been under the porch roof and in a blind spot, safe from both the gun and still out of Damon's reach. But they don’t. Oh, Wes definitely underestimated them.
“The window!” one Traveler manages, before a bullet goes through his skull, a neat shot straight through an eye socket. Damon makes an annoyed face at the echoing gunshot. Vampire hearing plus sudden and loud noises sucks.
Wes’ own gun jerks up and finds Enzo perch.
Second trick: “Wes!” Damon cries out in Aaron Whitmore’s voice. “Help me!”
And Wes’ attention jerks, heartbeat stuttering and aim in ruins. “Aaron?” he calls, wildly looking around. But the only people there are the Travelers dead, dead, and dying around him and Damon, eyes reflecting nothing but malice back at him, “Aaron, where are—”
This is the finale: In a blur of shadows and feathers, Damon flys through the barrier in the shape of a crow. Scarcely a second later, he lands in front of the last Traveler standing, back in the shape of a man, fangs bared and eyes black. Before the warlock can open his mouth to sing any spells, Damon has his hands in the man’s rib cage. He doesn’t bother going for the heart, just rips until his chest is flayed open and bone and organ alike is visible.
Enzo drops down beside him, the barrier gone. Wes flinches back, eyes wide and crazed. Oops. Damon thinks he broke him. Admiringly, he says, “That was creepy as fuck, mate.”
Damon preens. “Right? You should see what I can do with fog.”
“You’ll have to show me later.”
Then Enzo’s crouching down near a downed Traveler, the raspy noises making it clear the witch’s borrowed body still lived, despite the rapidly spreading puddle of blood pooling on the grass around her. Enzo had shot her in the lung. After a glance at Damon, who moves a few yards away in response, Enzo bites his wrist, letting blood dribble into her mouth. She gasps, choking and trying to spit it out, but Enzo just clamps her jaw shut.
Soon enough, she’s in transition. Just in time too.
Damon is starving.
Luckily, she’s a fast riser. When she wakes up, Enzo rips the throat of one of her friends open with his teeth, then jams the neck of the recently dead corpse into her mouth, wasting no time. Just like Damon doesn’t waste any time in biting into her recently undead throat. By the time he’s done, Wes is finished with his little breakdown.
“How? How did you—” Wes stutters, gun pointed at Damon. Enzo ignores him, instead pulling out his phone to show Damon the seven hours and thirty-eight minutes gone by on his eight-hour timer. Huh. Cutting it kind of close.
Turning to Wes, Enzo drawls, “Good timing. Any longer and I’d have been dinner.”
Switching targets, the gun swings in Enzo’s direction. Yeah, no. By the time Wes’ finger touches the trigger, his head is in Damon’s hands, even as his body slumps ingloriously to the ground. Dropping Wes’ head at Enzo’s feet, Damon smiles. “No platter, but….”
This is kind of embarrassing. Or it would be if Damon wasn’t just mostly pleased right now, covered in blood and giving Enzo the best present. He’d done this with Agatha too, thrown corpses at her feet like some feral cat. She’d smirked and praised him for a job well done. Enzo just stares down at Wes’ unseeing eyes and then fixes Damon with a done-with-your-stupid stare.
“You killed him,” Enzo says flatly. Wow. He sure doesn’t sound pleased for someone whose torturer has been beheaded. Had Enzo wanted to be the one to kill him? Maybe Damon should have found some ribbon.
“Yes?” Damon nudges the head with the tip of his boot. “He’s very dead. Did you want the rest of the corpse, too?” he wonders. It might be a little annoying to extract from the pile of bodies, but Damon is sure he can find it.
“No, Damon, I don’t want the rest of his corpse. What I want is to know how you’ve survived this long with all the impulse control of a fruit fly!” Rude. Enzo jabs a finger down at where Wes is still leaking blood and spinal fluid onto the grass. “That man was our only hope of getting a cure. And now he’s dead and you’re stuck a cannibal!”
Oh. Right. Damon looks down at Wes. “Oops?”
“Oops?” Enzo laughs. “That’s all you have to say? Oops?”
Damon shrugs. “I mean. Can’t really glue the head back on. Well, we could, but that wouldn’t help and would be weird besides.”
“How the hell are you still alive?” Enzo repeats, looking like he would very much like to know. “You have no self-preservation instinct.” Rich from a man who had willingly accompanied Damon’s aforementioned cannibal ass into this mess.
Damon only shrugs again. “Believe it or not, not the first time I’ve been asked that.”
“I bet,” Enzo agrees, cutting.
“So, we figure out another way. Simple.”
“Another wa—” Cutting himself off, Enzo strides forwards, murder in his gait for all that his face is a mask.
The next thing Damon knows is that he’s pinned, back pressed against the outside of the house and Enzo pressed to his front, in a parody of earlier. But there’s no threat of teeth sinking into his throat, but the warm pressure of a kiss.
For an entire second, Damon is frozen. “What?” he mumbles, word coming out dazed and muffled. Surprise kicks against his chest, in tandem with his heartbeat. The emotion is there and then gone in a flash, but Damon’s a bit busy automatically kissing back to miss it when it leaves.
Teeth nip at Damon’s lower lip, not drawing blood, but the sharp pressure of them threatens to. Half an octave lower than usual, Enzo says, “Just let me have this. Please. Before you manage to get yourself killed or before you kill me, I want this one thing.”
“I think this is what people call playing with fire,” Damon says. Unconsciously, he licks at his bottom lip, tasting human blood and something more subtle, something that makes him want more, just to puzzle out what it is. Enzo watches him with dark eyes, one hand still cradling the back of Damon’s neck, another rubbing its thumb along the line of his jaw.
“Yes, well, as I’ve said: I’ve always been fond of fire,” Enzo says, then goes back to kissing him, every touch hotter than a brand, heat sinking into overly sensitive skin. For a moment, Damon loses himself to the sensations, higher reasoning taking a back seat to desire.
“Wait,” Damon eventually gets out, but doesn’t actually take his hands off the other man. King of mixed signals, he grips the back of Enzo’s shirt, bunching fabric as thin as Damon’s remaining line to sanity.
Between the kissing, the heady smell of Enzo’s blood, the beat of his heart, he’s struggling to concentrate. He doesn't want to hurt Enzo. Doesn’t want to bite him. Doesn’t want to drain him of all his blood, no matter how much he aches too. God, Damon can almost taste it again, sweet and spiced on his tongue and—
He’s so hungry, the pit in his stomach warring with self-restraint under attack from all sides. He wants to kiss him. He wants to kill him. Damon can’t decide which would be better. Carefully detaching his hands from where they had managed to end up settled onto Enzo’s hips, he pushes lightly at the other man’s shoulders.
“Stop,” he says, except it’s nowhere close to as firm as Damon would like, instead coming out more of a sigh. So he tries again, with more success this time, “Stop.”
Enzo pulls back, just enough so that Damon can think. Pupils blown and lips swollen, the picture he makes is a gorgeous one, like some gold-leafed painting, every stroke of the brush a love letter to beauty. The blood dotting his skin only adds to it. Damon has to restrain himself from surging forwards to continue where they had left off. “Stop? Tell me you don’t want me, and I will.”
Damon shifts, exhibiting exactly how much he wants him. “I also still want to eat you. And not just in the fun way.”
“You just ate,” Enzo reminds him. “Not ten minutes ago.”
“And? What does that have to do with anything?” If Rippers are characterized by anything, it’s the fact that they don’t stop. Full of blood, sick of death, high on pain—it doesn’t matter. There is no satiating their appetite. Damon’s got some experience with the subject, thanks to Stefan. And Stefan’s diaries.
“You can’t control yourself for ten minutes?”
Unable to pass up the opportunity, Damon snickers. “Only ten minutes?”
“Juvenile,” Enzo chides, but he’s smirking too.
“Apparently, you’re into it.” Something that’s still throwing Damon for a loop, no matter how fond he’s growing of the results.
“A modern tragedy.” The words are deadpan, but the way a smile curls at the corner of Enzo’s mouth makes Damon want to match it. Or kiss it. Or bite it.
The impulses tangle together, until Damon’s not sure if it’s the hunger or lust or some unholy mix of the two that prompts the way he takes a step forward, until their bodies are flush. “I could hurt you,” he says, quiet as a confession. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then don’t,” Enzo suggests. And the words might be cavalier, but the way he says them, like he has total faith in Damon, is anything but.
“Enzo, I could kill you. By accident,” he points out, to remind the both of them that kissing had never been so dangerous. One slip of a tongue against sharp teeth and it’s over.
“Some things are worth the risk.” And Damon knows he understands the risks. Has been an up close and personal witness to everything this virus results in. Which means the stubborn man has weighed up everything that can and will go wrong and made his decision despite them.
It should be frustrating, not endearing, the way Enzo’s passion for life has him press his luck again and again, chasing after something that might end in his death. But Damon’s always had a thing for people who live their lives to the absolute fullest, that run down tightropes with only the briefest regard for the drop beneath.
Not that Damon’s any better. He’s more than tempted too, halfway to convincing himself that everything will be fine, that they can have this one thing. That they’ll stop at a kiss and that as long as he’s careful this won’t end in more blood than it already has.
Wes is dead, they’re out of that house, and Damon is unrestrained for the first time in years. Power roils under his skin, scarcely confined to the human shape of him. There’s no guilt, no worry, no vague sense of Elena-related impending doom. And Enzo has kissed him, something that Damon had daydreamed of more than once, for all that he’d never have admitted it out loud. It’s an intoxicating combination, a victory high, like two fragile wings and death waiting, but freedom no matter how this ends.
Icarus has nothing on them.
“Not you,” Damon tells him. “You’re not worth the risk.”
“You are.”
Oh.
For half a second, it doesn’t matter that his switch is flipped, that Damon’s emotions are on a well-earned vacation. For half a second, even the ever-present hunger fades away, eclipsed by the way Damon’s heart jolts.
Almost without conscious thought, Damon leans forwards. Scarcely a breath away, he says, “Stop me.”
The only answer he gets is a kiss, close mouthed and surprisingly chaste, then rapidly becoming less so as lips part. Blood and spit mingle as Damon gives in, gives up, grabs Enzo by the hips and pulls him until their legs are slotted together, until there’s no space for anything between them, much less doubt.
Time blurs, slipping away like mist as they make out like a pair of teenagers, albeit both of them bloodied to different degrees. Surrounded by death, Damon has never felt so alive as he gets pushed into the exterior of the house, impact pushing the breath out of his lungs, but he barely even notices, occupied by chasing the flavor that’s driving him to distraction.
“What even brought this on?” Damon asks some indeterminate amount of minutes later, very much not complaining. He kisses Enzo again, further smearing the half-dried blood. The other vampire making a face at the taste of the vampire Damon had drained still lingering, but doesn’t pull away, just switches to pressing hot kisses down Damon’s jawline.
“Other than the adrenaline rush from making it out of a sticky situation, not only alive, but at least moderately victorious?”
Damon laughs, tipping his head back to give Enzo better access to his throat. “Other than that, yeah.”
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a very long time.” As if to punctuate his words, Enzo presses an open-mouthed kiss further down Damon’s neck, briefly worrying at the skin there as one of his hands slips under the back of his shirt.
How long is a long time? Damon wants to ask. A day? A week? Fifty years? He knows what his own answer would be.
“Not because I gave you a decapitated head?” Laugh a little breathless, he says, “And I thought for sure that was why.”
“I thought,” Enzo says, sounding vaguely annoyed even as he noses at Damon’s neck, “that this bond thing of yours is one sided. I don’t usually find creepy displays of vampire magic intriguing. And I don’t usually find the ill thought-out gifting of body parts to be endearing.”
Yes! He did like Damon’s gift!
Groaning, Damon spreads his legs wider, lets Enzo press between them, shoving his knee right against Damon’s rapidly growing interest in this newest situation. “It is,” he bites out, using his grip on Enzo’s ass to encourage him closer. “Very one sided.”
He knows that from experience. Last time he’d been like a puppet, strings wrapped around his lover's little bejeweled finger. She hadn’t given a damn about him—oh, wow, he really does have a type. First Katherine, then her? Freaking Agatha. It might have almost killed him to do it, but sliding that knife through her neck had been freeing in more than one way.
Hands pause in their mission of tracing a trail of fire down Damon’s chest. “Oh.”
Damon does not like the way that sounded. He likes the way Enzo pulls away even less. Panting and trying really hard to keep his face human, Damon slumps, letting the chipped wall of this shit hole of a cabin in bumfuck nowhere take his weight if only for a second before he straightens up onto his own two feet. Confused and still aroused, he asks, “Why did you stop?”
“You didn’t want to,” Enzo says, voice just a little unsteady as he watches Damon. His face is unreadable, save for the touch of wild light in his eyes. “You didn’t want to before, but then you changed your mind. Why?”
Because it took a minute to process you kissing me? Damon thinks, still confused. Enzo takes a step back, then another when Damon makes to follow him. “I don’t understand,” Damon admits. “Don’t you want me?”
Damon could understand if he didn’t. But he had seemed to, when he’d pinned Damon to a wall and attacked his mouth like he was the starving one.
“That’s kind of the problem, love.” Enzo runs a hand through his hair, messing it further. “That I want you.”
And there it is— Sparks flicker their way up and down Damon’s spine, lighting him up inside. Foreign and not all at once. Damon thinks he could get addicted to the feelings Enzo brings out in him, fireworks going off in otherwise clear skies. Damon tilts his head to the side, more than game for round two. “Really not seeing a problem here.”
“You don’t? A few hours ago and you were still mooning over your girl and now you’re kissing me? Tell me that doesn’t sound the least bit off.”
“It doesn’t sound the least bit off,” Damon echoes, shrugging. “You’re hot, I’m hot. You smell like a cinnamon roll—“
“Must you constantly bring that up?” Enzo asks him, seriousness momentarily replaced by exasperation. “No one else thinks I smell like baked goods.”
“Or they just haven’t said it to your face.”
Enzo pinches the bridge of his nose. “No.”
Damon takes a step forward, inwardly pleased when Enzo doesn't retreat again. “Have you considered that I currently give less than half a damn about anyone else? Let alone someone who broke up with me because they forgot it was a murderer they were playing house with. Maybe I just want you. Ever think of that?”
“You don’t want me,” Enzo says, blunt as a stake through the heart. “You’ve already proven that.”
“I want you now,” Damon says, and then immediately figures out it was the wrong thing to say.
“That’s the problem,” Enzo bites out, shaking his head. “You want me now. Not when you learned I lived, or three days ago, or fifty years ago! Or even scant hours ago, when you were ready to throw away both our lives to spare your brother and your girl so much as a hangnail.”
“I—”
“This is my fault,” Enzo says, steamrolling over Damon’s protests.
Damon blinks, a little taken aback. “How is this your fault? I’m the one that got stabbed by a freaking college professor.”
Meeting Damon's eyes with resolve already set in stone, Enzo tells him, “I won’t let this happen again. My feelings for you are my own problem.”
“Wait. You—” Damon cuts himself off. Enzo has what for him? Lust, Damon can understand. He knows what he looks like. And he’s had his fair share of people who loathed him or were ambivalent about him at best still sleep with him. But feelings? Feelings feelings? Sure, he called them a problem, but feelings? For Damon? Damon, who had left him to die in a fire?
Would full access to his emotions make this easier to understand? Damon wonders, the slightest tinge of unease coloring the thought. For some reason, he doesn’t think they would.
“You said you would want to please me earlier. I think I’ve been projecting. You don’t really want me. I just want you to want me,” Enzo reasons, calm now that he’s got a plan of attack. “All we need to do is fix you, break the bond, then we can both go our merry ways. Easy.”
Enzo mentioning leaving is what breaks Damon from his inertia. “What? No. You’re not going anywhere.” Not without Damon he’s not. Enzo is his.
“I’m not going to take advantage of you.” What the fuck. Damon would love for Enzo to ‘take advantage of him’ against the wall right now. Or on a bed. Or the half-couch. The frigging floor would be fine, so long as they don’t get too close to the corpse.
“That’s not how this works,” Damon argues, still thrown. “You can’t—infect me with feelings or whatever it is you’re thinking. That’s not a thing. Trust me, I wanted you way before today.” He doesn’t use the word love, because Enzo apparently doesn't believe that Damon is even attracted to him. Damon doesn’t know what would happen if he confessed an embarrassing amount of pining since 1953.
“Or that’s what you think I want to hear.”
Oh, this is torture. Why does Damon like stubborn people? This is karma of some kind, it has to be. This is Fate stomping him in the balls. He’d ask what he had done to deserve this, but he’s sure there’s a laundry list of reasons.
Enzo wants him—against all reason and logic and odds, he actually wants him—and doesn’t believe that Damon wants him back. Actually thinks that it’s because he wants Damon that Damon wants him. And he won’t believe Damon when he tells him their little DIY blood bond doesn’t work like that because Damon is the afflicted party.
“It’s not an actual sire bond,” Damon points out. “It’s just some vampire instinct bullshit. You’re my territory”—Enzo is definitely his. Damon’s friend, Damon’s sweet-smelling knight in bloody armor—“not my boss.”
Agatha had wrapped Damon around her finger by virtue of being old and crafty and leading Damon to believe that any emotions awoken by their little bedroom game had been genuine. He had thought himself in some kind of miracle love, developed in spite of his lack of feeling. Even his obsession with Katherine had grayed out in the face of the bond, for all that even then Damon had never given up on her. He’d just slotted Katherine and Agatha on level; Katherine a dream of the past and a hope for the future, Agatha the breath stealing present.
It's different this time. For one, Damon knows what’s going on, so he’s not under the mistaken impression that he’s managed to fall in love again. For two, Damon knows himself. There’s nothing false about him wanting someone like Enzo. Stubborn and brave and kind under all that ruthless efficiency.
Also, he's a bit of a bastard. Damon appreciates it.
“This can’t happen again,” Enzo decides. Sometimes, Damon corrects. Damon appreciates it sometimes.
“Alright,” Damon says. It’s not a surrender. Just an acknowledgement.
“No more insisting that you have feelings for me, then?” Enzo asks, eyes narrowed at Damon’s easy concession.
Damon snorts. “Fuck no. We’re just going to fix me and then snap the leash once I don’t need it. You’ll have to believe me then.”