Title: finding neverland
Spoilers: second season general
Pairing: implied Damon/Caroline. Damon-centric
Summary: Vampire Barbie being in love with Saint Stefan would be tragic if it wasn't so amusing.
Author's Notes: Written for softly_me's comment-ficathon. Mostly because I'm having strong Damon/Caroline feelings all of a sudden. I love Delena in the show, but in fic D/C could be epic. For the prompt by eenaangel (I haven't figured user!tagging yet,ugh) 'A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love her.'
What does this have to do with the prompt-- your guess is as good as mine :s
He’s lived a hundred and sixty odd years and he can sum up everything he’s learned about love in two words—
Mostly he doesn’t notice her. She’s the annoying buzzing at the back of his head as she flits around the Boarding House, asking Stefan ridiculous questions about being a vampire; questions that she’s obviously picked up from Buffy and/or Twilight and he thinks he wants to strangle her. Stefan, ever the white-knight, always answers patiently. They talk about death and morality and redemption and love and choice like they know what the fuck they’re saying.
(He thinks he could teach her better; lust and hedonism and need and want and fulfillment. She never asks though).
She’s always there.
He only become conscious of this fact because his stash of alcohol and blood seems to be miraculously thinning, and he’s not the guy he was a century ago- he doesn’t share anymore. So he catches her by the throat because he’s still that guy, “next time you take something that belongs to me Blondie, I’m running something hard and wooden through you, and that’s not an innuendo.”
Next thing he knows is he’s on the ground with Stefan standing over him, and she’s escaped with a burst of delighted laughter. It’s the surprise element, because they all know Stefan is much weaker than him, the blood of Disney creatures might be chicken soup for his undead soul but it doesn’t do much else, “stay away from her.”
“Does Elena know you’ve moved on to blonder pastures? Because I think the shoulder she’d want to cry on is attached to my body.”
“Stay away from her”. Stefan doesn’t take the bait, not that he’d expected him to, ‘boring’ was his one-word definition.
He rolls his eyes, the over-protective father act got old about twenty miles back, “get over yourself. I made her, she belongs to me. I’ll do whatever the hell I want to her”.
He’s still on the ground but he can see the smile drop off her face, her hands clenched at her side, and he knows what she’s thinking because he’s thinking it too. About another time when she’d almost belonged to him. He hadn’t wanted her and she hadn’t been willing but that was all just fine print in the grand scheme of things.
His brother seems to intercept the thought wave because he’s on preach-mode instantly, “she’s not a thing, Damon. She doesn’t belong to anyone.”
“I’d stake myself,” she says, and it’s thoroughly entertaining how this child, who’s taking her first steps into his world, thinks she’s being threatening, “If I thought I was linked to you in any way.”
(She’s gone before he can tell her that staking is rather drastic but she might want to cut her veins open if she wants to be free of him. He’s flowing through her bloodstream).
He realizes the ‘why’ of her constant visits about two weeks later.
She’s looking at his brother, her hands clasped like an obedient child’s, listening to his daily sermon on being a good vampire, all the while religiously ignoring her phones’ insistent buzzing. He watches as she leans in slightly, her eyes too wide, her smile too bright and thinks— oh.
(Vampire Barbie being in love with Saint Stefan would be tragic if it wasn’t so amusing).
She’s slurring her words ten minutes into the alcohol and he has a sudden horrible suspicion that she’s been throwing away his bottles out of sheer spite instead of drinking them as he’d originally thought. She couldn’t possibly have drunk all that was missing; she can’t handle the hard stuff as is becoming painfully obvious.
“He called me,” she says, “he called me. I didn’t come on my own like I usually do. He called me here. He actually—”
“…called you,” he finishes, her vocabulary has obviously reduced to forty-five words, thirty-nine of which have to do with Stefan having called her, “but he’s busy now, so just go back and paint your nails or something.”
Elena’s soft moans reach him, and he hates, hates his hearing abilities, he hates that she never remembers he can hear, he hates that she probably does and doesn’t care.
Her hand in on his thigh, in a misguided gesture of comfort, and then he’s got it in a death-grip between his own, and he knows he’s crushing it, but he’s not the kind of guy who cares, she should remember that. She flinches but looks at him straight, “I’m sorry. About Stefan and Elena. I know you’re in love with her. Can’t be easy.”
He doesn’t need her fucking pity, who the fuck does she think she is? “Not half as sorry as I am for you. What is Stefan- guy number five hundred and fifty four- who’s left you for Elena? Poor Caroline, always the second choice.”
She stiffens, the alcohol blunts her reflexes but he’s obviously touched a nerve. With a lighted matchstick. “You bastard.” She tries pulling her hand away, but he’s not drunk and he’s stronger. He can see the long-repressed fear making its way in her eyes, the attack of déjà vu. They’ve been here before. “Let go of me.”
“Oh, come on, Care,” he rolls the ridiculous nickname on his tongue, his death-grip relaxing into slow strokes of the soft skin of her hand, “Stefan obviously doesn’t want you. We can drown them out, you know.”
She raises her other hand to strike him, the child. He catches it easily, leaning in, “don’t do that. Ever. Again.”
She’s afraid now; he can see the flesh memory making her skin crawl and it annoys him. Because it hadn’t been all about the compulsion and control. She’d wanted him then, wanted him desperately. She should want him now.
He slides his free hand between her legs and she thrashes wildly. He can almost taste the pride that stops her from screaming, her desire to avoid disturbing them in any way greater than her fear of what he can do. He slows his movements up her legs, just running his hand up her thighs, till she stops twisting wildly. And then she’s just trembling under his hand, and he’s the one aching.
“Damon,” he looks in her eyes, and she’s not shaking anymore, the fear is gone, replaced by fierce determination, this is who she’s always been, “stop.”
Later, when she’s gone, and Stefan’s driving Elena home, he sits in front of the fireplace and realizes that he didn’t hear Elena leave.
She doesn’t visit for a week. He drinks too much. He can afford to since she isn’t stealing it or throwing it away or whatever.
A week later his John Varvatos shirt is ripped apart and his mirror is taped with black cloth pieces twisted to form letters- ‘‘YOUR WARDROBE NEEDS REVAMPING. DICK.'
Because, even undead, she’s still a teenage girl, so she wears her shortest skirt to her next lesson.
“Really,” he says as she jumps at his closeness and he really needs to reprove Stefan on his ghastly work on her reflexes. Worst teacher ever, “that’s your grand plan of seduction?”
She gives him her best, prim, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ look and tosses her head in a gesture that he remembers, “whatever, Damon, I don’t have time for this.”
“Pull your shirt down,” he whispers fake-conspiratorially, “cleavage always works.”
She puts her hand to her cheek in an instinctive gesture, and he can almost feel her disappointment when her skin remains cold, the blood-rush that indicated a blush, absent, “shut up.”
He ruffles her hair and she looks like she wants to bite his hand off, it’s endearing in a completely infuriating way.
She shifts suddenly in the periphery of his vision, smiling as Stefan makes his way through the door, her golden hair catching the sunlight in a way that reminds him she’s going to be young for all eternity. Her hair will always catch the sunlight in the same way, her skin will always be as smooth to the touch, she’ll be seventeen forever.
And she’ll hate it. Because he knows her, knows her body, soul and mind. She wants the whole fucking nine yards of family life- with the white fence and the dog and little blonde children and she’ll never have that. She’ll have to stand by, watch every single person she’s ever loved die, while her eyes remain as bright as ever. He wonders if Stefan’s told her yet, or if she’s figured out— probably not, they’re both good at putting a gloss on the unpleasant stuff.
But maybe she’ll die too, in this war that they’re blindly rushing into. Maybe she’ll die protecting Elena, in an irony that possibly only he and Sabrina the teenage witch will be able to appreciate.
She looks up from the table, where she’s sitting talking with Stefan, and the smile on her face takes time to change into her usual frown as she realizes she’s looking at him. He loves Elena, but he doesn’t want Barbie to die. Not yet.
(Maybe it’s because he hasn’t had sex with her since she turned. It’s probably that.)
He thinks he’d like to stake her about three times a day. He thinks he’d like to fuck her about three times a day. He thinks she’s making a fool of herself with the whole being-in-love-with-Stefan business about once a day. (That’s about seven more times than he’ll admit to thinking about her).