Bonnie stands on the edge of the roof, higher than the trees and houses and the people who’ve begun to look and feel so small. Damon shifts his feet beside her, impatient, ready to get on with things. He’s never been one for sunsets or reflection or (let’s be honest) thinking about things too much.

Bonnie thinks constantly, so much that she envies him sometimes. He takes joy in the smallest things, the most basic acts, while she doesn’t feel much beyond pain or sadness, definitely not remorse. What she’s doing—

It should be harder than this.

The first time was awkward, sloppy. She almost died—the asshole almost let her die (“But you didn’t,” He gives an impressed whistle, “I always told Stefan to watch out for the nice ones.”). After that things got easier.

No, not easier.

Things started to make sense.

...

Night falls and Bonnie (finally) slides a lazy index finger across his wrist. Damon looks up with a lethal grin and says, “This’ll be fun.”

They choose nightclubs, underground parties because there’ll be more of them there, larger groups. Vampires are usually solitary creatures, but they can never resist showing off to one another, parading their conquests. The blondest blond, the prettiest boy or in his case, the only Salem witch for miles. One so nubile, so clean of dark magic that she vibrates with unspent energy.

He wins every single time.

They push past the bodies, draw several curious stares. It’s the shock and awe, the spectacle of the thing, fuck, he loves that. He loves how the music thumps in his chest, steady, rapid, like a terrified heartbeat. It brings the vague memory of his own heart, one that makes him mildly sentimental as he takes her hand in his.

Damon whispers, “This is how it was,” while strands of her hair graze his mouth. He leans in close, breathes her in. “Before the war, there was nothing but dancing.” She’s wearing perfume, some flowery concoction to cover the lingering smell of smoke. He pulls her closer, thinks of charred lilacs. Singed rose petals.

This is his Achilles heel, the dirty secret that makes him vulnerable. It’s the part of himself he hates. One hint that he’s soft and he’ll have ten newbs on his ass, trying to prove themselves. There’s nothing more annoying (more dangerous) than an insecure vampire. She brings this out in him, this romanticized nostalgia bullshit. The good old days weren’t actually that good—they were mostly shit, dirt, and war—but she makes him wish he had better, more impressive tales to spin.

Damon presses his thumb against her pulse and pushes, harder, until it’s a jackknifing drum, until it’s faster than the music and his own heart, now cold and useless, lying dormant inside his chest. He manages to say, “Enjoy this while you can,” without the hard edge of envy.

Bonnie doesn’t flinch or pull away. “It’s too late for that.”

Their dance is slow, all writhing hips and roaming hands as the space between them closes. He lifts the edge of her skirt, but she shoves it down, glares at him. Damon grins, “You’re adorable,” and lifts it again, pushes his thigh against her crotch to hold it in place. A tighter grip and some strategic rubbing and she’s into it again.

(Maybe.)

It always starts this way, this back and forth, this pretending she doesn’t know how it ends. He likes the game and can tell that she (grinds herself against him, places a hand on his ass and squeezes so hard that he’s the one that flinches) yeah, she kind of likes it too.

He tongues her mouth; tastes but doesn’t bite, not yet—but soon. He’ll drink as long and much as he wants because that’s the agreement. He gets a witch and she gets every ounce of vengeance that her pretty head desires. That’s it, that’s their deal.

The fucking’s just a bonus.

...

Bonnie answers his kiss like they’re lovers (like they’re human) instead of just flesh and bone, just vessels for all this rage and power that ebbs and flows between them. Her skin feels hot and tight; an aching, uncomfortable glove she’ll shed and let glide uselessly to the floor. She knows this will happen, that one day she’ll implode and float into the air, leave nothing, no sign that she was here, just dust and ash and whispers of vampires cursing her name before they died.

She’ll tell him when its finished, when her throat is ripped and throbbing, while they’re naked and clammy with (her) sweat, caked with dried blood (hers too), she’ll tell him that she’s hollow inside, that her soul’s been burned away. He’ll shrug; wrap a lock of her hair around his index finger and say, “So I’ll turn you. Then you’ll live forever.”

(She won’t let him do that. She can’t let it get far enough for him to offer because she might say yes and she will never, never do that.)

They’re still dancing when the pain—her skin—makes her scream. He kisses her, swallows the sound as those blue eyes go red and shining. Bonnie screams again, louder—something tears inside her throat it’s so loud—and then the flames—sparks shoot up from each side to form a crooked, hot circle around them and the wailing beings, sounds louder, more desperate than she could ever make, while lit bodies streak toward exit doors sealed shut just seconds before.

They die.

All of them.

They’re dying.

She thinks of Grams. She thinks it should be harder than this.

I should feel something.

Release comes with a dizzying high that sucks the strength from her legs. She sinks toward the ground but he catches her—he always catches her before she falls. Damon holds on until the planks warp and lift from the floor, until flames wither and collapse, until they’re all that’s left. He circles her waist, coos blood-tinged whispers against her cheek while she clings to dead flesh that’s always so cold. She feels like fire.

She burns when she’s with him.

...

Damon asks why she’s different, “Besides the granny thing, that’s obvious but—what changed?” Bonnie shrugs and slides her leg between his.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Enjoy this while you can.”

The End