S02 E07        𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊

TRIGGER WARNING ✶ for character deaths + description of violence/gore
(only a minor character deaths! but it's a bit of an unhinged one!)

✶ VIRGINIA, UNITED STATES ✶
200 YEARS LATER.

(give or take a few)

When Lucy Bennett was a kid, she'd learned that there were consequences to every action.

It was more human that the rest of the stuff that had been so witch.

It was the basic stuff, for sure, the kind that you got taught in diapers with one hand in the cookie jar: learning to make decisions and having to deal with the events that came after it, that was just life.

Human nature was just stripped back into the basics.

And sure, maybe she should've paid more attention to fate or to destiny, but she'd gotten stuck on the immediate things: The dominoes that fell and the butterfly wing that fluttered halfway across the globe.

Lucy had been an adventurous kid too, the kid that took big risks with mixed payoff.

Sometimes, climbing an extra branch of that tree paid off: the nice view over their smalltown suburban neighbourhood and the satisfaction of going higher than any kid ever could. Other times, it was a broken leg and cast that itched like mad for weeks.

Then, suddenly, in the blink of an eye–– it was having to leave a bloodsoaked town in the dead of night, eyes wide and body electric from the sudden rush of a sudden betrayal.

Shit.

Maybe if she'd been more into that whole destiny thing, then she would've seen this coming.

As a kid, all of those consequences had felt so large and yet, now behind a steering wheel, they felt so small, so insignificant. When she hadn't studied for a Math test and failed, failed so bad that her Mom had confiscated her Buffy boxset until she promised to get back on track. Or, when she hadn't been nice enough to her first girlfriend so she'd eventually just moved on and found someone new––

And now, all those years later, Lucy was pretty sure she was running for her life.

That was the consequence here, right?

She'd done something bad and now she was going to get a broken leg (or any assorted bone, probably a couple in her neck and a few punctured organs for good measure).

She'd done something bad and now she was going to have much more than a couple of DVDs confiscated–– probably something fucking sick like having her teeth pulled out or whatever the fuck these sick-minded assholes could think of.

She'd done something bad and she'd been the one to leave.

She'd been the one to drop everything and sprint–– and now, she couldn't afford to even look over her shoulder.

Shit, indeed.

Lucy wasn't exactly sure who she was running from or what, but she knew just something... someone out there, was going to make her pay for the betrayal she'd just dealt.

After all, she knew the kind of people Katherine Pierce associated with and figured that it would always be death, one way or another.

──────

Meanwhile, ten miles up the road, a man approached a woman in a bar.

"Aren't you a pretty little thing?"

It came with a yellow smile flickering in the corner of her gaze and the kind of breath that almost made her gag. An elbow eased itself up against the bar.

She, ever so silently, wished it'd slip. It flickered like a film reel at the back of her head: that bare skin sliding against wood, throwing him off balance as he attempted to sit down. His body jolting as gravity crushed against him and dragged his head down towards the bartop as he flailed–– the crack of a nose–– 

No, the crack of a skull–– like a perfectly perforated shell–– the splinter of bone and the immediate and devastating influx of blood––

And then she blinked, just to hydrate her bottomless eyes.

"Been stood up, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

She was sweet.

Sweet.

It took everything within her not to roll her eyes.

She could say the same for him.

She'd been able to smell the guy before she'd heard him. He came with a cloud of heavy body odor and enough liquor to make the bartender do a double take.

She caught on how the woman on the other side of the bar sighed to herself and immediately float away, as if his shadow left a cast that she couldn't stomach. It was a fast and inconspicuous motion— she supposed she wouldn't have noticed have noticed if she wasn't fine tuned to the flight of prey from a predator.

Interesting.

The pretty little thing felt her jaw clench as he occupied the empty bar stool beside her.

This was a place she had no interest in, filled with people she didn't glance twice at, and he was no exception.

The man with his swollen eyes, trucker cap and the kind of heavy gait that had her wondering how hard he'd throw a punch. The bar-goer, with his blatant disregard of the way her eyes glazed over slightly, caught up in a momentary daydream of obscene and malevolent violence––

She'd found, these past few centuries, that she couldn't see a man without thinking of how she'd kill them.

An idle thought at the back of her head wondered if he'd taste as sweet as she seemed to him.

With a crisp, almost-bone-crush snap, she split a peanut in between her fingers.

"Don't worry..."

Her nose burned with the urge to twitch as he swayed nearer to her.

She wasn't sure how much he'd drank, but it was enough for almost all of his letters to blur together into one.

No, he wouldn't taste sweet, She concluded as she placed a deshelled peanut into the growing pile beside her, All sweat... Cholesterol... Beer... God Bless America.

He struggled to balance himself, hands slamming against the bartop to equal his weight.

He, much to her disappointment, did not slip and happen to break his neck in the process. He didn't even catch a vein.

Shame, she could've done with something to drink that was more to her taste.

This place notably wasn't. It was an in between-places kind of place, one that would burn down at the back of her mind and never be thought about again. A banner over the head of the bartender proclaimed this night to be a club night, but to her, it'd just been hours of questionable music choices that made her regret ever living through the 80s.

At least, a voice at the back of her head supposed, it's not karaoke.

A small cell phone that had seen better days sat on the bar top in front of her. With a cracked corner and a slightly dust-blown screen, it had been silent for the past hour she'd been stuck here.

Ever so often, her pupils would twitch towards it, teeth buried in the tip of her tongue as time just ticked, ticked, ticked on past.

"You'll be safe with me, pretty girl," He slurred as a muscle ticked over in her jaw, too, "I'll keep all the bad men away, eh?"

In the corner of her eye, she felt the weight of his gaze as it worked its way down her–– past the dark sheet of red hair, the dark jeans, the curve of her pale forearm and the talon-like point of her nails.

But he missed the spark that zipped across her eyes, like electricity leaping from a live wire.

Bad men...

An indignant breath fell through her nose.

Why was it only ever the men that were bad?

"Juno, darlin'!"

He called across the bar to the woman working the bar, the same woman who had high-tailed at the sight of him, as if to hide. Now, however, there was no hiding the distinctive flinch that ran through her at the summoning.

For the first time since she'd sat down, the redhead patron's eyes flickered away from the door.

Her head tilted to the side as Juno walked gingerly toward them, a twitchy smile failing to meet her eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Let's get a round for this lovely lady here," Big Sam's declaration made the bartender look, fleetingly, at the observer. She watched a slight look of wariness flicker across Juno's gaze–– all as she desperately avoided Sam's heavy stare herself. "On the house, get her whatever she wants––"

"Sure, boss."

The bartender spoke quickly.

She was reminded of someone trying to rip off a band aid: fast and in a fluid motion, as if it would help minimise the pain.

Then, when Juno looked towards her to take her order, she could see that same shadow ripple over the back of her eyes.

"I'm good," the pretty little thing said back, and Juno nodded and, once again, fled as fast as she could to the opposite end of the bar.

As soon as she was gone, and a suspicion confirmed itself at the back of her mind, the woman sat beside Sam let out a light sigh. She stretched from a position she'd been stuck in for hours, like a statue coming to life. She wondered if Big Sam could here the groan of her marble lips or the crunch of her bronze joints as she flexed at the sight of warning in another woman's eyes—

Her lips twitched and she shot him a look across her shoulder.

It was dark and deliciously demure.

Couldn't girls have some fun too?

"Boss?" She echoed Juno's words back, eyebrows lifted, "Are you important around here or something?"

How easily her eyes went round and her pupils blew— as if he was the kind of something she'd find noteworthy.

She watched something a lot like pride stretch a smile across his dry lips.

"Sure am."

"Sam?" She questioned, her head tilting, delicately to the side, "Like Sam's Motel, Sam?"

She'd seen his name written, ever so boldly, across every inch of this building: from the sign hanging over the door to the rooms fixed to the back of this place.

The blown neon signs, however, were as cheap and cracked as the man himself. She didn't doubt, looking at him head on, that he had as many lice as the rooms in his motel out back.

Big Sam, meanwhile, gestured to himself as if he fancied himself a king, "The one and only."

Her eye twitched.

She'd never cared much for self proclaimed rulers.

"That's impressive," She said, "This is an impressive place."

Lie. It wasn't. This place was shit. He was shit. She'd once had sex in Versailles and even that hall of mirrors had been dull and dreadful eventually.

"It is?" He questioned back. But then he seemed to realise the opportunity here and she watched his demeanour shifts. A yellow grin made her eye twitch slightly as he smiled back: "It is."

A light chuckle fell between her lips.

It was sweet, like the kind of sweet that covered poison. A lump of sugar coating cyanide. A saccharine flower with one hell of a bite.

She sank onto one arm, head propped up in her palm. For a moment, the whole universe twinkled through her eyes––

"Wow," She hummed, "You're gonna keep me safe, big guy?"

(She wondered, idly, if he thought about murder, too.)

He blinked at her like sunspots were scattered across his vision.

(If he did, how would he do it?)

Her voice was a perfect drawl and the kind of husky that made his skin warm.

A southern accent very briefly flickered at its edges, but the kind that had been worn down over time and hid in certain letters and pauses.

"Okay then," A rush of air pushed through her lips, a smile pinched cold muscles in her face, "I guess it's your lucky night."

She watched his unfocused eyes waver on her, as if he was a depraved man waiting for a heavenly sign, and then felt that familiar burn at the bottom of her throat.

(She bet he'd use his hands.)

Her own eyes paused on the side of his neck, flash of something pale and human beyond a thick beard under his chin.

Her pupils pulled out, tongue stuck to an incisor as she watched the skin flex––

What a shame it was that he couldn't have slipped. He could have done himself so many favours if he'd just given himself a peaceful, tragic death.

"You got a smoke?" She asked.

"Have I got a smoke?" He repeated.

Her head tilted to the side and she smiled––

"Yeah," She said, "Big Sam, have you got a cigarette?"

──────

Okay, so Sure...

Maybe the more Lucy thought about this situation, the more she realised she hadn't thought of any of this through at all.

She'd known how a friendship with Katherine Pierce worked for years, all after crossing paths with her in a bad place. (Not mentally, just Florida.) She'd watched it before her very eyes, how quickly things turned and soured and rotted–– until Katherine had saved her ass, all because Lucy had made some bad decisions.

And now, it was because of that debt that Lucy was now tearing up the dark back roads of Virginia, taking speed limits as suggestions and burn enough rubber to take a couple of layers off the ozone.

It hadn't been planned and it hadn't been logical, but, honestly, Lucy wasn't sure much of life was either of that anyway.

If she'd thought if through in the first place, she never would've ended up in that town anyway. She never would've answered a call from a stranger in the night and appeared to return the favour Katherine had paid her.

Hell, she would've never climbed that tree either.

She knew better–– or whatever! Sure!

Lucy knew she knew better. It wasn't exactly rocket science.

She knew that nothing in the world was stronger than a witches intuition and that, that little voice at the back of her skull, was why she'd known this would bite her in the ass eventually––

What she guess she hadn't known, however, was that the person who would betray this so-called friendship, would be her.

She'd thought about it all the way between Virginia and the next state over, tearing around dark corners and swerves in the road. She'd tried to make something coherent out of the adrenalin and anger that had coursed through her veins as she thought through the events far more than she'd thought through any decision––

Betrayal. That was not a word she took lightly.

That was the kind of thing interwoven directly into the pain of her DNA.

A Bennett witch, especially, knew the anatomy of a betrayal better than any other.

In Salem, it had been a stray accusing finger, pointed at their door. It had been the violent whispers, the second glances and the death warrants signed with blood-stained ink.

Then, it had been the riverbed or the firepit–– the wrath of common folk hadn't been picky about that.

They'd tended to go for whichever made them hurt more or really hammered in the fear of God.

And now, on the night-struck roads of Virginia, betrayal was seeing how fast Lucy Bennett's car would go before something, inevitably, gave out.

For the past two hours, the speed limits had just been suggestions.

That was the thing about this particular kind of betrayal: the normal stuff felt stupid. Stop signs felt redundant when she was running for her life.

Even the lines on the road, the flicker of the cats eyes and the looming figures of trees overhead, they had all felt like spectators to a silent crime that only Lucy had played a part in.

Her eyes flickered from the road to the rearview mirror, almost to the beat of the heart that felt heavy on her tongue. A cell phone sat in her hand, spilling a dialling tone through the tight space, service dropping out with every bump in the road.

"Pick up... pick up... pick up..."

Her mumbling almost sounded like a prayer.

But Lucy was sure people had begged far more obscene things on these back roads and bends. In fact, she knew it. This was backwater country, where every turn was sharp and every shadow seemed so much deeper than the inside of her eyelids.

Miracles were scarce out here, but a getaway from the kind of karma she could physically feel hunting her down was something she was desperate enough to gamble.

That was the curse of that Bennett witch intuition, Lucy figured.

She tended to know something bad was going to happen before happened–– and knowing, simultaneously, that she'd brought it onto herself, was torture.

With a cell phone in a shaking hand dialling back an unknown caller and hell on her heels from the moment she'd left Mystic Falls, she was pretty sure she'd end up paying the budget of a small country in fines.

She couldn't stop. She wouldn't.

Hell would freeze over before she paused, even for a second.

But first, that miracle she'd been looking for–– a break of cell phone service in a stretch of road in the open. So open, she would've seen the stars. Her breathing hitched as she heard the dial tone ring into a voicemail inbox–– she'd never pressed 1 so fast in her life––

"What the hell?" was all she could say first.

(It felt more efficient than a greeting.)

Then a pause as she fumbled with her words, as if she couldn't possibly even begin to express what exactly––

"What the fuck?"

(That felt more right.)

She was still driving. Still going fast. Trees and road flashed by as a dent eased its way in between her eyebrows. A slightly unhinged laugh fell past her lips as she slammed an expressive hand against the

"Did you know––?"

Lucy cut herself short.

Of course they'd known. This was Katherine Pierce–– this was a woman who existed in a tight spider web that she'd spun out of spite–– an exasperated sigh fell through her lips––

"Oh screw you," She said, breathlessly, "Of course you did–– Of course you both did."

Katherine had known who she was going after, of course she had. The realisation had been the twitch in Lucy's fingers and the change in her loyalty. Lucy knew her–– vaguely and coldly–– but she did.

Knowing that bitch from hell, she'd meticulously planned every moment–– she'd known exactly what she'd been getting Lucy involved in.

And Katherine had known her too. She'd smirked and tilted her head to the side and said she'd had Lucy pegged from the moment they'd met.

What the fuck!!

And Lucy had had no idea–– She'd had absolutely no idea.

WHAT THE FUCK!

"You should've told me," Lucy said, despite knowing that neither of them owed anything to each other anymore, "You or her, one of you should have told me."

They should've told her she'd be going against one of her own.

──────

Big Sam didn't ask before touching her.

So, naturally, she didn't ask before getting her hands on him.

Really, he was a little too handsy for her taste.

He'd stuck to her from the moment they'd left the bar, overwhelming her delicate nose with whatever had rotted and died in between his front teeth. His touch was too heavy, too clammy, too wet–– she'd almost gagged from the moment his hand had laced its way around her waist and threatened to stray further––

He'd pressed his lips against her neck so she'd been generous and returned the favour.

And now, the cigarette between her lips was stained with blood.

...

Oh well.

She'd never been good at people politics anyway. She didn't have the patience for communication. It bored her. She was far more interested in actions rather than reconciliation.

As far as she was concerned, people like Big Sam didn't deserve to be communicated with anyway.

With a long sigh, she used those very same hands to light the end of her cigarette. They were precise hands, dainty despite the blood chipped underneath her peeling black manicure. As delicate as the finger on the trigger or a scalpel blade— and, once it was lit, she dragged in smoke into lungs that hadn't worked much in centuries.

She felt it wind its way through her airways, flooding her with the same kind of grey that swallowed the moon. She looked up at the sky as she did so, chin tilting upwards until her whole face was bathed in the cocktail of warmth and cold from the street light and moon alike.

Dark eyes trailed through the dark night, and she exhaled and it looked like the whole world was up in smoke––

She smiled and wiped Big Sam's blood from the corner of her lip.

Her ringtone rang out into the dark, the opening bars of Joan Jett's Bad Reputation and the call she'd been waiting for all night. What had been so slow and calm burst to life, just like a split vein. In a sudden blur of movements, her empty hand pressed the device to her ear––

The person on the other end of the phone spoke quickly too.

Something dark flickered over her eyes as she realised it was, notably, not the caller she'd been expecting.

And then, she sighed––

"No contact?" She echoed their words back to them, "And you lost it?"

Her voice was pinched in a moment of brief disdain. A dent clenched between her eyebrows and she chewed on the tip of her tongue.

For a moment, just a split moment in time, she was the angriest she'd been in years–– angrier than she'd been with Big Sam's fingers creeping up her thigh with such entitlement that her pupils had blown–– angrier than burn of her virile temper at the back of her throat––

She'd show them losing it.

(She'd used that to break every bone in his dominant hand. Now, it simmered in an sharp exhale through her nose.)

All the while, the bloodstained cigarette bled smoke into the dark night, smouldering like the desperate backfire of a speeding car.

"And the witch?"

Her next question came with a palpable pause––

When the caller hung up, her jaw was clenched.

She took a moment, again, to take a long drag of nicotine–– exhaled––

But, the muscles wouldn't ease––

The hand holding the cigarette trembled––

What felt like a ligament snapped in her chest and her form blurred–– in a burst of frustration, her foot slammed downwards against the skull of the man laying at her feet––

God Fucking DAMMIT!

A yowl of pain filled the alleyway as the sound of splintering bone cracked through the night––

She let out another breath, shoulders relaxing as if the violence relieved her.

Her breath was patterned grey. Just like almost everything here in the passing of time–– aside from the red of her hair, the under her nails and the red of a man bleeding out onto the concrete of some alleyway in the dead of night.

Her anger was red too. It had always been–– from a night-swept street in New Orleans to a backwater shit hole with a owner who liked to touch his young staff–– she'd always had a very precarious and short fuse––

(Shorter, dare she say, than her maker.)

With a silent resolution and a mouth of venom, she dropped her cigarette and extinguished it under her heel.

Doing so, she met the blood-shot, terrified eyes of the property around her.

"I'm sorry, Big Sam," She sighed, "I didn't mean it... Everythings gone wrong and I just, uh, I don't really do real well with a change of plans..."

And with that, she crouched gently. Her body balanced with the ease of a feline predator, the kind of deadly that didn't need to be spoken–– but still was with the blood capping her teeth in her grin. Her thumb, very gently, traced the outline of his trembling face––

"I know you had some plans and all," She drawled, "But it looks like I've got somewhere I need to be."

If you needed something done right, after all, you needed to do it yourself.

His pupils, blown with horror, just wheeled in the sight of her bloody smile. All of the adrenalin swept from his broken and bloody bones, Big Sam was forced down into the dirt, into something so much smaller––

Her smile sparkled in the glow of the streetlamp.

Her bloody finger wiped away a terrified tear.

"Oh don't get upset, big guy," She said softly, as if she was sharing a secret, "Don't worry–– I'm not done with you quite yet."

──────

When Lucy Bennett had realised Katherine was planning on killing another Bennett witch, she'd debated the logistics of killing Katherine instead.

Her role in Mystic Falls had been clear from the beginning: she was one of Katherine's witches, there just to carry out the bidding of whatever twisted scheme she'd been implementing in the town for weeks. She was to follow instruction, as given to her both by Katherine herself and some mysterious voice on the end of a cell phone, and not ask a single question.

But when she'd seen Bonnie Bennett standing across from her in the middle of that masquerade ball, Lucy had had nothing but questions.

Like Why the fuck was she going up against a girl she'd spent half her life sending Christmas cards to?

It'd boiled down to a short but calculated list of pros and cons:

Pro –– the Bennett name was something she was willing, more than anything, to betray some for (once again, learnt in Salem with the whispers and the accusing hands). Pro –– Lucy had grown sick and tired of Katherine Pierce's mind games––

Con –– She was pretty sure someone would be out there plotting to kill her for it.

Turns out, one list had easily outweighed the other.

It was the weight of her family name that now fell heavy on her shoulders when she turned off the engine. It haunted her in the silence and the sudden still.

Family, in Lucy's opinion, was the most important thing in the world.

Her lineage had learnt that long before they'd been burned at the stake and drowned in the river–– and she'd sold Katherine Pierce away for it so easily the decision had been quicker than the spell to enact it.

It was what she'd left for this–– set aside her obligation as an older sister to come betray her own blood in the name of who? Of a woman she'd thought was her friend? Of an unknown caller telling her she was needed by a bad situationship that had gone sour––

Oh god.

Lucy almost felt like putting her head in her hands.

Hell, she almost did when her car rolled to a stop–– instead, she just bit back the urge and stared up and across the parking lot, towards the dark, dimly lit building she'd been renting in for the past few days.

She didn't know what she felt worse about, the fact she'd betrayed Katherine or the fact that, just like so many others, she'd been dragged under and spat back out by a sycophant's sick scheme.

Sigh.

Whatever it was that had pulled her out of Mystic Falls had lead her to the dirty turn off down a backwater lane. Call it divine fate, call it the steady hand of an ancestor, on her shoulder ––

It'd lead her over a bridge and under the blinking lights spelling the same name as the key fob in her back pocket.

Even when she stopped, foot finally inching towards the brake, Lucy couldn't let go.

Her eyes, for the first time, flickered down to her hands–– she was gripping that wheel so hard she didn't know if the muscles would work the same anymore.

She'd told Bonnie she was sorry. She'd meant it. Now, she was trying to will her heart to stop teetering over towards a heart attack.

She squeezed those eyes closed, tight.

She slipped her key from the ignition and steadied herself against the door handle.

This would be fine. She'd made it fine. This would all turn out fine.

(Right? Haha. Right??)

"If you knew what was good for you," Lucy had said, nodding towards Katherine's unconscious body as it was carried into a tomb, "You'd lock that door and throw away the key."

And god, she hoped they'd listened.

The air outside didn't taste like the stale air of that church crypt. It was fresh, like a sharp bite against her cheek as she took a moment to lock her car. Lucy drew her jacket closer to her and cast a wary glance over her shoulder––

No, she'd had enough hours of paranoia soaked stress. She'd done enough staring into darkness, trying to make sense of figures that weren't there––

Katherine Pierce was in that tomb and there was no way she was getting out. Bonnie had assured her of that. When she'd betrayed Katherine for her the protection of her family, Lucy had been sure that Katherine would be there to rot.

Wherever Katherine Pierce went, misfortune, betrayal and undoubtedly, death, followed.

Lucy could only hope she'd lost all of them on a few of those hair pin turns.

The motel was lit poorly with a string of lights, the kind that flickered and strobed from the lack of maintenance that was long overdue. She held her breath whenever they went dark, then let her shoulders ease whenever the world came to her in a glimpse of light.

With her ears full of her own footfalls and faded music from the next building over, Lucy couldn't help but twitch with every passing second.

She bit the tip of her tongue as she passed the front office.

(A sign on the door said the owner had gone for break.)

She'd just be quick. In and out with her crappy suitcase and a handful of things.

She'd pack this rental car and then run state lines until she went cross-eyed. She'd disappear between two named towns and find some kind of clarity in the sunshine of a nothing-place.

She'd look out for her own back, just like she'd looked out for Bonnie–– and this whole thing would blow over by morning.

Inside the motel room, she kept her head down.

Her duffle bag was dumped on the bed and refilled with the belongings she'd unpacked only this morning. Fistfulls of toiletries and clothing stuffed indiscriminately with the same feeling that had grasped her since Mystic Falls.

She tossed her cell phone across the sheets, raking fingers across her scalp as her body began to ache––

Her magic tossed and turned in her veins.

If she tensed, she could almost taste riverwater. The murky stuff. Good 'ole fashioned Salem freshwater, the kind that flushed her out and turned her cold–– boiled her organs in spite and dragged her down deeper to a watery grave.

If she squinted, she could see the flames begging to burn her alive––

She'd known better.

God dammit.

She was not going to ruin her life over Katherine fucking Pierce.

At that thought, a light vibration rumbled its way through the room.

Lucy glanced upwards, watching the screen of her cell phone blink with the acknowledgement she'd finally found cell phone service. The backroads, paved with their looming trees and shadowy creeks, had played wicked games with the calls she'd been desperately making.

And now, with her head bowed, Lucy watched her voicemail deliver to its intended target.

It'd been an impassioned voicemail, the kind where she'd just talked and talked and talked–– expelled anger like she was physically reaching down the phone line to twist and pop their brain cells with an extended palm. It'd gone one for a while, far longer than maybe even her cell service had allowed––

She hadn't known the recipient of it, just figured it was another one of Katherine's expendables, roped into this by some debt or favour of their own. And, if Lucy thought about it for too long, she figured it probably didn't help the situation at all.

After all, telling someone you'd just betrayed to Fuck Off probably didn't work well in the grand scheme of things.

At that thought, Lucy just shook her head, sighing to herself.

A breath left her as she recalled what she'd said––

A sick twist in her stomach—

And then a sound emanated from the next room.

...

Lucy froze.

...

..

.

It took her a while to realise what it was.

At first, she'd wondered if it was the next motel room— some late night blunder of someone coming back from the bar adjacent to the motel.

A flyer that had been shoved under her door said it was karaoke night.

Maybe that was it? Someone drunk and bumbling? knocking over something just as she was at her most tense and ticking her anxiety over?

It took her a lot longer than she would've liked to admit, to realise that the sound wasn't in the next apartment. It took her even longer to realise that it didn't sound like a falling object or a blundered step––

No it was closer.

Lucy stared at the bathroom door.

It was more distinctive.

It'd sounded like the faint buzz of a cell phone on silent.

It wasn't a drunk mistake at all.

(Far more of a calculated move.)

The sound occurred again and Lucy found her mouth drying until swallowing was almost painful–– her eyes burned into the wooden partition between herself and the small ensuite, the room of suspiciously black mould between tiles and a tiny cracked bathtub.

With her heart in her mouth, she listened for it–– strained her ears against the ringing silence and frowned when she realised she could, very faintly, make out words––

Wh...t the h...ll...?

She was beside the door now, hesitantly pressing an ear against it as she struggled to hear it––

What the f...k...?

Slowly but surely, her eyes widened and the bite of vomit burned at the back of her throat–– Oh god–– Lucy could hear it now. A muffled but faint voice playing on some kind of device–– a voice patterned with agitation and exasperation–– set to the backing sound of a rush of air––

Did you know?

Oh god.

Oh screw you... Of course you did––

It was her voicemail being played right back to her.

You should've told me... You or her...

Lucy scrambled back, as if the door had scalded her.

You should've told me––

A shaky hand raised towards it as Lucy took a deep, terrified breath––

You sick fucks.

––and blew the door clean off the hinges.

She winced as the wood burst, flying across the room. It filled the air with the scent of charred coal, smoke filling the doorway as she struggled to catch her breath. For a moment, amongst the thick grey air, she could've swore that she saw a figure––

And then she saw nothing at all.

With her heartbeat erratically booming through her ears, Lucy found herself staring into an empty doorway. She slammed the lightswitch and, again, found herself staring at an empty bathroom, at the cracked porcelain and strained overhead light–– she blinked with each trip in the electric wiring, an uneasy muscle tensing as she realised there was no one there.

There was no one there.

Lucy could feel it.

She felt the silence pound against her ear drums.

Stagnant, lifeless air filled her nostrils.

There was no life in that bathroom and there was no one else in here, either. Lucy felt her skin bristle with the kind of energy that could put this crappy motel to shame and her gut twisted and twisted and twisted until it was in knots––

And then, in the blink of an eye, a silhouette appeared in the doorway.

A strangled scream caught at the back of Lucy's throat.

──────

Outside, it was still quiet.

The night hadn't far changed from how Lucy had known it–– Orange, neon still lights bled into the darkness and thin. The dusty sidewalks and lone alleyways still stood untouched. The sign for Sam's Motel and Bar loomed high above all of it––

And it's cheap walls held back the muffled sounds of an altercation going south.

And she loved it.

A new cigarette had been lit between here and the parking lot. It balanced between her fingers as she kicked at gravel on her way. She let in a long breath, a smile twitching on her lips, and just took it all in.

Above the not-so-far sound of splintering glass, cracking floorboards and piercing yells, she hummed a light tune under her breath.

1, 2, 3... 1, 2, 3...

(Something, in another lifetime, almost like a waltz.)

As she went, she counted her way through Lucy's attack, catching every single scrape, bruise and spell. Across the sidewalk and past the vending machine, down past the owner's Office with the 'We'll Be Right Back' sign on the door.

1, 2, 3... 1, 2, 3...

She swirled a waltz against the dirt-smeared concrete slabs, boots thudding against each other as she slid from side to side. She held hummed along as if the sound of obscene violence was an orchestra, swelling for a final aria.

1, 2––

Shame, the woman thought to herself as she heard a floorboard split behind her.

He was the first person she'd turned in nearly a century and he'd barely even lasted five minutes.

──────

Was it naive to say Lucy had hoped she'd have more time before she was fighting for her life?

That was the thought that hit her first as an unfamiliar man threw himself at her, mouth ajar and teeth sharp: all of that running had been for nothing, and now she was going to die at the hands of some overweight, balding fuckhead who looked like he'd come straight out of The Walking Dead.

Her second thought was along lines of this: She fucking hated Vampires.

At first she thought it'd been a cruel hallucination, the kind of imagined horror that she'd blinked into existence. But then she'd blinked a second time and that image had stayed––

A snarling, twisted face. Far from human and even further from witch.

Heaving, blood-spotted, cruel and deadly.

With dark veins, like the hands of the devil, clawing its way under their black, bottomless eyes––

All with the kind of sudden horror at the back of Lucy's throat that had almost burned through bone.

The yelp that left Lucy's throat was almost subhuman.

Vampire.

Her whole body recoiled as a lamp smashed against the wall.

A wall socket sparked and the electricity in the room flickered.

Lucy found herself clenched and heaving as the panic got stronger.

(1, 2, 3... 1, 2, 3...)

He'd swung for her and she'd swung back.

Suddenly, every object in this room was a weapon. This wasn't a motel but an armoury.

Her body shook as the man crashed through the place, blurring between violence and blood-spotted hands glazing her skin––

(1, 2, 3...)

Furiously muttering Latin under breath, Lucy was determined to get out of here alive.

She'd never fought a vampire like this, but she'd seen movies.

She'd learned something in those black and whites, those sharp stakes and the flaming sun.

(Once, in bed, Katherine had turned to her and smiled; they'd been wrapped up in sheets and she'd pressed Lucy's hand to just above her naked breast and nipped her ear:

("We could kill each other right now," was all she'd murmured against her neck and Lucy had stayed silent with her breath held, "Wouldn't that be fun? A stake right here. A bite there–– and that would be it, right?")

But it wasn't that easy. Lucy wished it was that easy.

She wished it was as easy as it had been with Katherine.

All it'd taken was a spell when she hadn't been suspecting it–– but it wasn't like that now–– not with this guy––

No matter what she threw at him he didn't slow.

(1, 2, 3...)

He was clumsy and quick, throwing himself off balance and saving himself in the same breath–– Almost as if he didn't realise his own strength.

When his eyes met hers, there was nothing kind there. Nothing remotely like anything Lucy had ever even seen.

He kept growling at her, moving and swinging towards her––

As if he was nothing but an animal.

So like an animal, she replied––

Kicking and scratching as if she was backed into a corner, and popping the vessels in his brain one by one with a twist of a finger.

(1, 2––)

Until he had her pinned against the wall.

It'd been just as she'd resorted to setting him on fire with the same rage that had kept her ancestors out of it–– he'd caught off guard.

Everything about this had fucking caught her off guard.

Something had slipped between them, he'd come at her fast and used his god damn supernatural strength to slam her backwards, cheek to plasterboard.

And then, just as his blood-stained, vein-traced face loomed in hers to tear her throat out, it all just stopped.

──────

"What the hell?"

Really, that felt like the appropriate reaction to the last five minutes.

She couldn't really blame him for that.

She smiled at it ––

She smiled at the incredulous and horrified look on Big Sam's face as his chest heaved and he came to –– the red mist cleared and she watched the motel owner's face flush as he saw his hands ––

He stared at them as if they were unfamiliar to them ––

And then, what really got him, was the witch bleeding out on the floor.

It'd all happened so suddenly. It'd all happened too quick and too out of the blue for stupid brain.

The redhead in the doorway, shoulder pressed against the threshold, chuckled.

"That was beautiful," She praised, despite thinking he was the worst excuse for a vampire she'd ever seen.

Big Sam turned to her, his body caught off-guard by the kind of sober he hadn't been in years. There was blood on his chin. There was blood on his hands. There was blood on most things, actually. He'd been messy with his first (almost) kill.

"What the hell just happened?"

Another, arguably, very valid question.

The woman in the doorway, however, looked down at the threshold in front of her. She traced an eye, delicately, across the wooden hem where the outside met inside.

With a light squeak, her boot cleared it –– and, within seconds, she was standing in front of Big Sam, a beautiful and starry-eyed smile painted across her face.

"You protected me," She said, and the way she said it, immediately, made Big Sam sick.

He stared at this stranger, this mysterious patron he'd drunkenly swung up to just a half hour ago in his own goddamn bar, and he felt sick. She had a dizzy smile with glassy eyes. She looked at him, frazzled and flickering like another live wire.

Her palm pressed against his cheek and he flinched ––

"You said you would," She said and she just kept smiling. Smiling and smiling and smiling until he was sure her muscles would stretch, "And you did –– you kept all the bad men away––"

He scrambled away from her as if she'd scalded him––

"What the hell?" He repeated, his voice pitched, "What the hell––?"

All the while, Lucy Bennett bled out onto his floor.

The woman watched him look down at her, slumped and pitiful in the corner. She watched the horror strike almost speechless, stuttering over F's, U's, C's and K's until he was a stammering mess –– not a vampire by any measure, but a fucking fool.

She paused in the centre of the room and felt her smile, slowly tarnish.

Oh what the hell, she'd never been much for smiling anyway.

"W-What did you––"

"It's a gift, love," She said, and when she did, the words never really sounded like they were hers, "Go on, thank me for it––"

"D-do to––"

"I gave you a new beginning––"

"T-to me––?"

"––and now, look at you..."

She gestured to him –– to the monster of it, of the way his muscles bunched and his brain wheeled with too much all at once. She'd taken that rotten core of him and made it into something productive. Something with worms and fangs and grit.

Someone had once looked at her in this very moment and pressed their hand to her cheek and said there was a beauty in it.

She didn't have much to say on that anymore.

Big Sam fell silent. There were tears in his eyes.

Good, was all she could think.

Now maybe he understood what danger really looked like, and for him, from the moment she'd stepped into his bar, she'd been the biggest threat to his wandering hands and hungry eyes for miles.

Wasn't that sweet?

She hummed to herself.

"Look at you, Big Sam," She said, and he just recoiled from her. She was sweetly reminded of how he'd tried to pull away when she'd really sunk her teeth into him. She smiled, "You kept your word..."

And then the pretty little thing had her hands on his chin again, forcing him to look her dead in the eyes.

Her lips, ever so gently, dipped into a pout.

"What a shame you couldn't have kept your hands to yourself, too."

──────

To concur, Lucy Bennett had recently discovered double-crossing a vampire hurt a hell of a lot more than breaking your leg.

She wasn't dead, but nearly. In a blackout she dreamt that the walls were moving and ceiling was gone and she could feel the breeze on her face and see stars––

But when she came to, she felt like the whole world was stuck stiff.

The room was hot, the air was solid and the man who had almost killed her was taking his final, although undead, breaths.

There was death in this air. It was that kind of heavy odour that made her, for a moment, feel sick. 

She felt it in everything: the floorboards, the ceiling, the wallpaper, the skirting board and even in the folds of her eyelids when she blinked. She felt the world sag around her like paper newly wet, reality blanch at the edges and swim with a divine inconsistency as her grasp on her consciousness swayed and flickered.

Lucy had had her eyes shut when Big Sam died.

It didn't occur to her until she felt everything come into a startling focus, that she was dying too.

Lucy didn't see her attacker's body go rigid, seizing with the suddenness of his heart being pulled out of his rib cage. She didn't watch the violence of it, suspended like a classical painting, like something startlingly raw. She didn't see his skin grey, his chin falling back as the rest of his body gave way––

Lucy did, however, hear it all.

She heard the tear of muscle, flesh and bone.

She heard his last gasp and, following, the unceremonious thud of his split heart against the matted carpet underfoot.

But she didn't understand it until she opened her eyes and saw a dead man slumped over her: a desiccated vampire, beyond undead and blood pooling at her feet.

For a moment, all Lucy could do was stare at it.

Eyes barely open, organs weakly flickering in her chest.

She was slumped, eyelids heavy from the blood staining both her and everything else in this place. She dragged in a weak breath through her nose and almost choked––

All the while, Big Sam's eyes stared at her, unblinking.

A foot passed her, taking a wide step over his undead, withered corpse.

Lucy barely had the energy to follow it, but if she had, she would've seen the motel owner's killer picking their way across the room.

Instead, all she could see was the flicker of red hair amongst the blood, patterned a thousand times over alongside the sunken eyes, ripped flesh and broken shards of violence.

"Vampire," Lucy mumbled.

The woman in question paused on the threshold of the ensuite.

Just out of view... Just out of reach...

Ten minutes ago, Lucy would've been all too ready to fight back.

Now, Lucy didn't have the energy to be scared anymore.

For that, at least, she could be grateful.

"Hello to you too, sunshine," The vampire drawled back. Lucy couldn't see her face but something told her she was smirking. A pause and the second vampire of her evening sighed: "I would say Witch! but that's so 1692."

Lucy didn't reply.

She couldn't. She just laid there, heavy with death and exhausted from a few too many blows. She'd exhausted herself with the magic–– throwing things, fighting, surviving in the tradition of the woman she'd had the misfortune to love. Then there had been the blood––

Was the blood. Lucy was slick with it. She'd bled so much––

When she attempted to chuckle in reproach, her whole body just trembled.

Man, Lucy thought to herself. She really had fucked up.

All of that effort and now here she was, just a stain and aching flesh, waiting for some redhead in a leather jacket to put her out of her misery.

For a moment, she wondered if this was what it had felt like for Katherine when Lucy had snapped her neck, and then, for a second, figured No, she was already dead.

Not only in form but in practice too.

She blinked black spots out of her vision as the sound of light humming filled the room. The bathroom door opened and closed. An object waved in the far corner, the humming stopped to make space for another chuckle––

"I guess I have you to thank for that sweet message, hm?"

Tired, she listened to the footsteps make their way towards her. The realisation that this was everything she'd been running to avoid flickered across her foggy mind. She watched a cell phone dangle itself in front of her face and opened her lips to speak–– only for no sound to come out.

"I have to say I was impressed," the vampire hummed, "I haven't heard that many bad words since I last got laid."

And then Lucy saw her––

In any other scene, for a moment, she would've sworn she was an angel. A pale slender face with eyes so dark they slid straight through her. Hair a murky red, the exact shade as the lips that now perked into yet another smile.

Her eyes sparkled and Lucy could almost see her own reflection wrapped around her irises. There was something there, something torn, aching and bloody–– and then Lucy was looking towards the cell phone in her hands and realising something with her slowly fading, failing brain––

It was too much effort to form the word.

"You..."

The woman's head tilted to the side. Her smile widened.

This. This was the woman who had dragged her in–– this was the voice on the end of the cell phone. This was the woman who had gotten her teeth in at the behest of Katherine Pierce and pulled––

Lucy's lip almost trembled––

This would be the woman who finished her off.

"Thought it was time for a catch up," The woman said and Lucy couldn't control the distaste as it rose through her. The redhead's eyes flickered over her wounds, "I would apologise for the situation, obviously, but..."

She shrugged, as if to say 'C'est la vie.'

But, Lucy wasn't finished.

"You... set... me up."

She said it slowly but firmer than anything else, and the woman let her. She drank in everything. Her eyes watched her form every letter.

Was there blood on her teeth?

Her spit felt thick–– did it match the blood on the vampires teeth, too?

Was she marked with death?

Lucy had so many questions and so little time.

Why the fuck had it needed to be her?

"We both know I can't take all the credit," The redhead replied, "Let's just say getting over a bad breakup is not one of Katherine Pierce's strong suits."

Lucy groaned, pain flickering through her bruised body and her eyes fluttering shut–– the woman made a noise of disapproval and, very lightly, tapped her cheek. Lucy would have flinched if she'd been capable of it––

"No," She tutted lightly, "Eyes on me, Lucy."

Bloodshot eyes, reluctantly, focused on her.

"There we go," The redhead murmured, face millimetres from hers, "Good girl."

And then she paused.

Just as she had with Sam, she reached down and gently brushed Lucy's hair out of her face. It was only in that moment that Lucy realised she'd been crying. Like a child or like a mourner, Lucy couldn't decide. Either way, the stranger, who she'd only ever known by her voice, shushed her softly, wiping a tear away with her thumb.

"And look at you," The vampire murmured. Lucy just stared. "Even dying... Say what you want about that ex-lover of yours, but she has one hell of a taste––"

If these were final words, so be it.

"Fuck... you."

She was clumsy in it, like a child saying their first swear word.

The vampire laughed. Loud.

"You might be her type," She said with a flash of something sharper, "But, no offence, sweetheart, you're not mine."

Lucy struggled to breath when the woman stood up. She found herself gasping on a heavy perfume–– or maybe that was blood? She coughed something up, felt every wound on her body pucker and weep–– but Lucy didn't know what the hell was going on anymore. She could feel herself slipping slowly.

The world, suddenly, got very quiet.

She'd die before this conversation was over.

The world felt so far away. Sleep felt more final than it ever had before––

Maybe this was it, and maybe this was the kind of shit Lucy had been raised to expect before she closed her eyes that final time. Her family meant the world to her, but that image was the only thing that flickered on the inside of her eyelids when she clumsily blinked––

An angel dipped in blood with a red halo, leather for wings, death as it's perfume and daggers for teeth.

She barely heard the woman speak as she turned to look her over, and, for the final time, Lucy wondered what she must've seen.

(The answer? A witch who had fucked up a plan that had been hundreds of years in the making, and a very puzzle case for the Sunday newspaper.)

But for now, there was just this moment: Lucy, her killer, and the light sigh that passed between them like a parent scolding their child.

"Oh, Lucy Bennett," The vampire said, "If only you'd just done what you were told."

──────

The woman knew just killing a witch was easier said than done.

Someone, once, had told her that there was something about the relation between a vampire and a witch that was complex and sharp––

They'd told her it'd all started in a clearing over family and she hadn't doubted, for a second, that it'd end over that too. A witch had been a vampires maker, and now, a thousand years later, Lucy Bennett died for it.

Well... Sure, betrayal had factored in there too.

Usually she had a lot more hesitation when it came to violence against women. Call it a factory error or a flaw in her code, but she'd always spared them. She'd always thought twice, always hesitated, always wondered what if––

But, for Lucy, it'd just been putting her out of her misery.

It'd been too easy in the end. Lucy had made it too easy.

What kind of person ran straight to the motel Katherine had paid for and she, herself, had personally booked? It'd been like a mouse running right into a trap.

What kind of Bennett let themselves get wiped out by a newborn?

What an idiot.

Lucy had deserved it anyway.

The redheaded vampire had thought about it from the moment she'd got that call.

How embarrassing it was to die for family.

How mortifying it was to die for love.

If she was willing to die for that, then of course, it was just Natural Selection.

(Men, meanwhile... always deserved to die. No matter what.)

(Obviously.)

──────

Humming the same tune that had followed her for centuries, she replayed her walk from the parking lot to the motel room in reverse.

She counted her seconds in 3's and spun a lighter in her hand like a bad habit.

A motel key was thrown in a bush and a wallet was flicked through just for spare change.

She stopped at the cigarette machine at the bottom of the stairs and bought a 12 pack, watching intently as the small container fell. It was only when she had that pack in her pocket that she felt like it was time to leave–– and then she noticed the witness across the parking lot.

A woman was standing with her back to her. A familiar woman, somewhere on the list of faces that she'd actually bothered looking at. She pretended to squint through the glow of the street light above her.

(The same streetlight she'd stood under when she'd forced immortality onto Big Sam, just like he'd tried to force his hand down her pants.)

"Boss let you keep your tips?"

Juno startled.

The bartender from the establishment behind her, turned abruptly, a cigarette in her hand as she wobbled on the sidewalk.

Blood vessels dilated and she could hear it so clearly: the rush of blood through Juno's body, the sudden pounding of her heart and the erratic scare of being approached by a stranger in the dark.

The vampire smiled, but it was a lot friendlier than her brain's current fixation.

The bartender squinted back, cupping a hand over her eyes as she made out the redhead's silhouette against the vending machine.

She waved back, friendly and non-confrontational, all with Juno's bosses' blood crusting her cuticles.

Juno, after a few moments of studying her, shook her head.

The woman, with a gentleness that had not translated to how brutally she'd broken Lucy Bennett's neck, tossed Sam's wallet towards her.:

"Keep the change."

It was an easy throw and the bartender caught it, momentarily oblivious to the owner of the wallet's content. A bright smile was exchanged, the woman nodded to her and Juno just stared at her as she walked away.

It was only when the woman had disappeared, almost melting into the pitch black night, that Juno opened it. Discarding her cigarette on the floor and extinguishing it under her heel, she thumbed through the small, leather wallet until she reached the small ID inserted behind a transparent plastic window.

With her heart, momentarily and deeply ironically, stopping in her chest, Juno's head raised to stare at the motel room that woman had just left.

...

..

.

Good fucking riddance.

It'd be empty by dawn.

──────

Until way past dawn, a party was happening back in Mystic Falls.

It was a party for one. A couple of glasses of bourbon and, specifically, his idea of fun. He'd closed the door of the parlour of a house far younger than him, and slid his way across the varnished floors. He'd thrown his arms up in celebration and spun.

This was a good day–– No, it was better than good, it was fucking incredible. He'd opened a bottle of alcohol he was pretty sure his long dead Dad had been saving, one day, for his wedding day.

Screw it–– this was better than his wedding day.

It was the day he could finally say they'd outsmarted the woman who had haunted him for nearly 150 years. They'd caged the survivor and made her look so stupid that if he thought long enough about it, he could barely breathe.

And then, somewhere between the third Johnny Cash song and the fourth, his cell phone had buzzed and he'd groaned and made it all go quiet.

It was across the room from him and he didn't hear her first call or her second. It wasn't until it'd thrown itself off the sideboard that his head had lazily swung round to it. Three glasses in, he'd retched loudly, as if the interruption was personal, and took his time fishing it back off the floor.

With a roll of his eyes, he dusted it down–– never once, putting down his alcohol.

He was in no rush. He didn't even check the Caller ID.

It'd be his brother, he bet. He'd been ignoring a lot of calls from his brother tonight.

(C'mon, 150 years... he figured with Katherine gone, he was at least entitled to some 'Me-Time'.)

"Katherine Pierce Extermination Service," He recited on his answer, "If you've got a vengeful, heartless, no-good, vampire bitch, I've got the stake and the Bennett witch––"

"The IRS know you're running a home business now?"

He froze, a glass of bourbon moments away from his lips.

A pair of blazing blue eyes blinked at a distant art piece in the corner.

That voice, admittedly, he hadn't been expecting.

It took him a moment to register it: the vague Southern drawl that curled around the woman's wry amusement.

It took him an even longer moment to assign the face in his head. Something pale. Something 70s. Something wild. With every blink, it seemed to come in to focus. By the time she'd finished speaking, he could see her, just as the day they'd parted.

With a slow-growing smile, he drained the rest of his glass and chuckled, almost fondly, while shaking––

"You know me," He said, as if he hadn't been stopped in his tracks by the mere reminder of her, "I'm a good boy. I declare all my blood bags for a tax return."

"I do know you," was her response, without a moment of hesitation, "They'll put a monument up for you one day..."

He raised an eyebrow that she couldn't see.

"You think?"

"Damon Salvatore," She said, and both of his eyebrows lifted at his full name.

She said it like an inside joke and, as if it really was the 70s again, Damon was momentarily perplexed at how transparent her just naming him, made him feel.

Yeesh. She was just like that, he'd found, and he'd yet, in all these years, to find anyone else quite like it.

The woman finished with her own chuckle, as if she couldn't take it seriously either: "Outstanding and Uplifting Citizen of Mystic Falls, Virginia..."

His lip twitched.

"Touching," Damon said, imagining what the human folk of Mystic Falls would do with a statue like that. "Really. You're making me blush. I'd like to dedicate it to all of my fans..."

He filled his glass again as he spoke. The line filled with her laughter and, if he could make it out correctly, the faint sound of an engine revving.

(On her phone and driving? Well, someone wasn't getting one of those statues anytime soon.)

The interruption hadn't put the damper on his night like he'd thought it would. It wasn't Stefan. Thank God, it wasn't Stefan. This was someone he could actually stand talking too. Granted, he hadn't heard her from her in a good forty years but, hey, who was he to complain.

"Not to question a good thing," He began, smiling down at the amber liquor as it swirled out a bottle, "But to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Well, it sounds like I might be able to crash a party..."

He reply made him, for the second time in the last few minutes, blink at the wall.His eyebrows seemed permanently raised in surprise. As if she could sense it, he heard the smile ripple through her voice–– and, as she spoke, a voice from all those years ago reminded him of an invitation he'd extended with his hands on her ass and his mouth full of blood.

"If I bring some hard liquor, will you forgive me?"

At those words, the door Damon had all too gleefully closed, opened a wedge and a man walked in.

Alaric Saltzman's head cocked at the sight of the vampire stood in the far corner,

His head raised to look at the vampire standing in the far corner, and then flickered back down to the glass of alcohol in his hand. Silently, he seemed to understand immediately what was happening and went too, to pour himself a drink.

It was only when Damon didn't move, even an inch, that he shot his good friend a weird look.

"You're here?" Damon echoed, almost unable to wrap his head around it.

He turned to pace half way across the room, absently skirting around Alaric and various antiquated furniture. Alaric's head turned with him, brow furrowing slowly with every step.

"You're in Mystic Falls?"

"You said if I'm ever in town, so..."

"Mystic Falls?"

"I think that's what that sign says," She hummed lightly with a deliciously sarcastic curl to her words, "But who knows... I was born before they even thought women could read..."

In the background, Alaric sunk down onto the sofa, figuring that maybe the entertainment to his evening was watching the various stages of acceptance flickering across Damon's face. He watched it intently, observing Damon's conversation with a mystery caller as if it was an episode of reality television.

"I think they might be in Mystic Falls," Alaric interjected flatly.

From the look Damon shot him, Alaric had a feeling the Salvatore wanted him to change the channel.

"I think your friend might be right," The woman agreed in his ear, and Damon had to listen to her laugh at the exact same time Alaric just shrugged. "I also think there's a boarding house around here that might have a few spare rooms..."

Damon took in a sharp breath. His face scrunched into a wince as he attempted to rake through a thousand thoughts all at once.

"So what d'ya say?"

A pause.

What he wanted to say was not what he said at all.

What he was tempted to say was that this town was finally feeling like it was settling. What he wanted to say was that things were different— Katherine Pierce was locked in a church crypt, the sun was shining and Elena Gilbert was beginning to sink, very slowly underneath his skin—

The woman sighed and he could picture the look on her face so clearly. It was the same expression she'd had in a dead end motel a hundred miles away and forty years back; chin on her wrist as she sighed—

("That's just what I am, y'know?" She'd said, and she'd giggled as if the whole world knew exactly what she was going to say before she said it: "I'm the girl no one can say No to.")

And he couldn't. He never had.

What Damon said was: "What the hell, why not—"

And somewhere out there, the woman smiled.

"It'd be a pleasure to have you."

He didn't breathe again until he hung up.

When he did, Alaric was sitting there, already tipsy from his glass and comfortably seated in the front row of Damon Salvatore's very sudden and quickly-forgotten reckoning—

"And Who was that?"

Alaric's question made Damon, immediately, turn to his full glass.

It was the way Alaric said it— half laugh, half scoff, as if he'd expected better than a flustered phone call thrust in the middle of festivities. Damon took a moment and then drank a whole glass of bourbon in one shot—

He inclined his head as he tossed his cell phone down.

"That," he said, and neither of them could figure out if the pause was for dramatics or to steady his breath: "was Lila."

(God help them all.)

　　AUTHOR'S NOTE ! . . .
did this take me a year to write? yes.
am i happy to be home? absolutely.
did i miss kolila dearly? with my whole intact in my chest heart.
is lila going to terrorise mystic falls with reckless abandon? haha.

baaaby let the games begin!

WORD COUNT ! . . . 11100
WRITTEN ON THE 8TH OF MAY 2024