I was going to wait till tomorrow to post because I won't have any time today to devote to it....
...but I'm obviously posting it now!
fluffyfrolicker said, IF YOU BUILD IT, THEY WILL COME! [and we shall just ignore the part where she stole that from a Kevin Costner movie] and shipperjunkie made banners. So here we are.
A Damon Salvatore ficathon!
( Read more... )
fluffyfrolicker said, IF YOU BUILD IT, THEY WILL COME! [and we shall just ignore the part where she stole that from a Kevin Costner movie] and shipperjunkie made banners. So here we are.
A Damon Salvatore ficathon!
( Read more... )
“The scones are good here,” the voice said, in English, startling Damon out of his book. He couldn’t see the counter from where he was seated, at the very back of the pastry shop, but it took his brain negative time to place the voice that replied.
“I’ve never been one for scones,” Stefan said, tonelessly. “But I’ll take a coffee, if they make it.”
“Deux cafes, s’il voux plait,” the first voice said in flawless French.
Fact: Stefan knows French. Damon was there when he learned it, helped him with his conjugations. That Stefan isn’t suavely stepping in and ordering or attempting to bully this girl could only mean one thing: she was a vampire, and Stefan was sober.
Damon hadn’t seen his brother in at least twenty years, but the last time he had, “sober” was not a word he would bring within a mile of Stefan. He meant that in every sense of the word: liquor, blood, insanity, Stefan had been drunk on all of it. And people had the temerity to talk down to him, like Stefan was a saint.
The girl spotted him first. She was blonde, dressed comfortably and fashionably, and obviously old blood. Damon could appreciate her surety. He gave her a grin in acknowledgement, setting the chances that Stefan would outright ignore him at a solid five out of ten. Unless Stefan’s sobriety program included a step for confronting people you hate and avoid the shit out of, what had initially been a morning for coffee and reading -- the sort of thing you do when your life doesn’t revolve around revenge, and anger, and pain, and you’ve maybe started to try to move on -- should have been allowed to stay that way.
Unfortunately, Damon had forgotten how very Stefan Stefan had a tendency to be.
“Damon,” Stefan said, tone barely escalating in his voice, but his posture pulling into something wary as he turned the corner after his friend with both of their coffee. “What are you doing here?”
There was suspicion in his voice. Of course there was. Why wouldn’t there be? Damon did, occasionally, very occasionally -- all right, there had been a period where it had been a hobby -- show up simply to fuck with Stefan’s day. But he hadn’t done that in thirty years. Even then, it had been after a particularly bad dead end. Damon had once drunkenly given it the rationale of vampire brother bonding, but he’d eat a sock before he’d ever say that aloud.
“Having coffee, little brother,” Damon replied. “Same as you. Only, you’ll note, I got here first. Being as I’m not psychic, I’m going to have to say I’m not stalking you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Stefan tensed further. “Okay,” he said, clearly nowhere near okay. “But what are you doing in Nice?”
Damon resisted sighing in frustration. It would not become him. He had a carefully cultivated image, after all -- or, at least, he was working on one. “I’ve been here for a week. I’m visiting the library.” He raised an eyebrow. “Did you know, little brother, that Nice is one of the oldest human settlements in Europe?”
“The library,” Stefan said, voice incredulous, but Damon could see that his shoulders had relaxed. There was no keeping Damon from books; that had been fact through both their lives. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
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