A Reason for Standing Still [Tag TVD pups, but OTA]
There was some sort of running cliché that ran around in vampire fiction and movies where at least one vampire had to sit around brooding, raging against whatever fate had made of him. For all his admiration of Anne Rice, Damon had often wished someone would just stake Louis and put him out of his misery.
Possibly that was due to the fact that, honestly, fiction reflected fact a little too much for his liking, and he was forced to live with the fact that he'd been faced with the brooding vampire, raging against being a monster, denying his own nature, for nearly six hundred years now. Oh, he didn't see him in the mirror or anything quite so lame. Not at all. Damon was quite happy with what he was.
He did, however, share a last name with him.
To be fair to vampires everywhere, Stefan had been broody as a human, too.
None of which explained why Damon was the one lounging at a table in P3, having fucked off from his shift, contemplating a bottle of whiskey he'd nearly finished, playing with tracing his finger around and around the rim of his glass. Because Damon didn't brood. He never brooded. He took life as it came, and if he didn't like what it handed him, then he reshaped it to be what it ought to be. He made life bend to his will, dammit.
Until a slip of a girl came in and turned that all upside down, and brought 600 years of buried...whatever crashing to the surface with her forced stupid promises...and now...
He was really going to need another bottle of whiskey.
Or one of his pets.
Or someone brand new to remind him of just how much he didn't give a damn about any of them, and wasn't like them, and didn't want to be, and fuck all of them anyway for making him feel like this. Stefan hadn't even gotten properly pissed to find out Damon was fucking Elena. Hadn't taken a good swing or anything. Hadn't even...stayed shocked at the suggestion of joining them, though he hadn't quite...given in to it, either. Which was utterly unsatisfying.
There was a temptation to hurl the glass, but he was in his place of employment where he actually sort of liked working, and that would be a waste of damn fine whiskey anyway, so for once, Damon Salvatore exercised restraint and downed the glass instead, before pouring himself another.
Damn their eyes, the lot of them.
Possibly that was due to the fact that, honestly, fiction reflected fact a little too much for his liking, and he was forced to live with the fact that he'd been faced with the brooding vampire, raging against being a monster, denying his own nature, for nearly six hundred years now. Oh, he didn't see him in the mirror or anything quite so lame. Not at all. Damon was quite happy with what he was.
He did, however, share a last name with him.
To be fair to vampires everywhere, Stefan had been broody as a human, too.
None of which explained why Damon was the one lounging at a table in P3, having fucked off from his shift, contemplating a bottle of whiskey he'd nearly finished, playing with tracing his finger around and around the rim of his glass. Because Damon didn't brood. He never brooded. He took life as it came, and if he didn't like what it handed him, then he reshaped it to be what it ought to be. He made life bend to his will, dammit.
Until a slip of a girl came in and turned that all upside down, and brought 600 years of buried...whatever crashing to the surface with her forced stupid promises...and now...
He was really going to need another bottle of whiskey.
Or one of his pets.
Or someone brand new to remind him of just how much he didn't give a damn about any of them, and wasn't like them, and didn't want to be, and fuck all of them anyway for making him feel like this. Stefan hadn't even gotten properly pissed to find out Damon was fucking Elena. Hadn't taken a good swing or anything. Hadn't even...stayed shocked at the suggestion of joining them, though he hadn't quite...given in to it, either. Which was utterly unsatisfying.
There was a temptation to hurl the glass, but he was in his place of employment where he actually sort of liked working, and that would be a waste of damn fine whiskey anyway, so for once, Damon Salvatore exercised restraint and downed the glass instead, before pouring himself another.
Damn their eyes, the lot of them.