8 Bonnie Bennett one-sentence (but not actually) drabbles
More one-sentence (but not really) drabbles - this time Bonnie Bennett (and some Bonnie/Jeremy, not much though). These tables are kind of addictive. All ratings ranging from G to M. I can't even remember the last time I wrote for this character, so forgive me if these are totally off because like - I don't even know what this is.
Bonnie Bennett
1. (A) Hero (is not) (2.21)
The night Elijah escapes with Klaus, she doesn’t sleep. She spends hours combing the forest with Stefan, until her feet ache, and her hands are covered in bramble scratches and mud and pungent-smelling tree sap, and blood drips down the side of her face, into her mouth, so she can taste it, all salt and bitterness and failure.
Damon calls in the morning. Elena is awake, she’s asking for you-both of you. She looks to Stefan whose body tenses as if he might flash away that second to be with her, to see her. (Bonnie is numb, the spell worked, she is thankful for that but there is still…). She can see that for Stefan this is enough: Elena lives, Klaus roams free. They won.
(She is happy too, and tries to show it, a tired smile. But they also lost. Too much.)
Bonnie has never wanted to be the hero of this story. She knows that’s not what she is. She thinks that maybe heroes don’t have it as bad as all this. Maybe once in a while they win. They sleep at night, warm in the knowledge of it. They don’t live in this strange moment, a single frequency that is fear and dread, and hands that never unclench. They don’t cry.
If this is what it means to be a hero-then she thinks sometimes she’d rather be dead like Grams. But that’s not an option-and it never has been. (And when that time comes, and it will, she doesn’t think she’ll have any choice in the matter anyway).
2. Dark (season 2)
Luka lies prone before her, his body limp as an old doll’s, and his mind open. She can feel him, his essence, as her fingers comb through his mind, drawing out memories, plucking at secrets.
“E-Elena… has to … die,” he says, a barely discernible whimper.
For a second, right there as he struggles beneath her iron grip, sweat making him clammy, breath squeezed out of his throat as he panics and tries to escape, to pull away from her; Jeremy’s half-pleading, half-frightened voice, Maybe that’s enough, Bonnie, as she tightens the grip she has on his mind, twists incrementally in a circle, almost vindictively-she feels powerful.
3. Grave (episode 2.17)
She could feel them-feel their pain. It was everywhere, heavy in the air, stifling. They were weeping, and the sound of it was an ink-dark abyss, centuries of loss and death and suffering. It scratched at the edges of her mind, like picking at a scab, her spirit, and drew blood.
She cried out.
4. Beginning (episode 2.10)
When she looks back now, she cannot for the life of her, remember how this all began. So when Jeremy’s hand rests heavily on her cheek, his calloused fingers fumbling along her cheek, caked with blood and dirt, and he leans in to her, his breath hot on her lips, she sways backwards vertiginously-blinking herself awake. He’s watching her with hurt on his face. She just runs.
She stops at the bottom of the drive, grips the roof of her car, the cold steel solid and comforting. She can’t remember the first step or the second that led to them being here. She thinks if she runs away and keeps running; it might never have to start.
5. Poison (episode 3.04 - 3.06)
Jeremy tells her about Anna, and Vicki, and the veil of the worlds through which he can now see.
When the words stop coming, she finds herself at a loss. What should she say? What should she do? Is this her fault-another thing that’s her fault. She messed up, and she won’t stop paying for it. How will she fix this-how can she fix it?
When she lays in bed at night and watches shadows play against her ceiling, the leaves from the willow outside her window taking on the aspect of claws in the dark, ripping across the white paint restlessly like some trapped animal, she acknowledges that she’s scared.
“Bonnie, it doesn’t change anything-not between us, I promise.”
It changes things.
In spite of herself, or maybe not, she starts to pull away, when all of this starts to chip away at them and what they have.
The hurt look on Jeremy’s face confuses her (and annoys her too). How does he not see?
Every kiss, every touch, every word makes her aware of them. They aren’t alone anymore, two kids clinging to each other with everything they have left. There are other voices in the room, and no matter how much he says he doesn’t hear them, she can see it in the sometimes-faraway look he gets, the absorbed stare at some fixed point in the distance before he shakes himself and avoids her gaze for a minute or two. Yes everything’s changed, like a splatter of dark ink in a jar of water, like poison flowing through veins, leaching everything in its wake.
She wonders a lot of things. She brought this on herself, so perhaps she deserves it. He doesn’t blame her though; he’s said that often enough.
But mostly, she wonders why if he has a choice now (Vicky or Anna…) why would he possibly pick her?
6. Blood (post-1.14)
The first time Bonnie bleeds, she’s alone.
Grams has been dead for two weeks and she is still staying with her aunt. She keeps to her room for the most part and reads the grimoire. Reads and reads and reads. Until her eyes ache, until she can barely decipher the words on the page, and they become a blur that gives way to dreams. And nightmares.
When she jolts awake-always a jolt, never that peaceful drifting into wakefulness that comes from more pleasant dreams-she is hunched over the tome, or curled around it protectively, clinging to it so the tips of her fingers turn white. It’s the only thing she has left and the closest tie she has to Grams, to everyone who’s come before and who left their marks on the book.
She is practicing a simple locator spell. This time, she chooses her mother.
She holds an old locket in her hands, it’s oval-shaped and gold filigree patterns, slightly raised, line the top; and on the bottom, the letter ‘A’ curls across. It used to belong to one Abby Bennett. Mom.
The metal is cool and remote in her hands. When her father gave it to her years ago on her thirteenth birthday, after she’d spent hours waiting on the front porch because she’d been promised a special surprise-one she’d known to be her mother coming home for her big day. She remembers her feet shuffling in circles on the floor as she sat on that porch swing, the dull creak of it, the grain of wood scratching at the backs of her thighs, and the empty silence of her mother’s not-coming.
She also remembers crying until she could barely see straight, her eyes swollen, and her father’s hands latching the necklace around her neck, the coolness of the metal settling in the middle of her chest. She didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Bonnie-you know she’s not well. Maybe next year, okay. I promise.
She’d run to her room back then and thrown the necklace to the floor, the clang it made as it bounced two times and landed on her rug was tinny and disappointingly quiet. She’d locked it in a drawer after a few days, and pretended not to look at it or to care. But here it was, in her hands, cool, the white gold metal catching the sparse light of her candles.
She puts the locket down beside the grimoire and grabs a knife. Holding her breath, she cuts herself, a slash across the palm, and a line of dripping blood that follows it. She supposes she didn’t have to be that thorough about it. But the pain is good, something she can wrap her mind and heart around, and use as sharply as any weapon.
She squeezes her hand into a fist over the map and the dark red drops dot the paper. There’s something obscene about it, blood on white paper; something that makes her think about Grams and that makes her angry.
She says the incantation under her breath, haltingly. She has only just memorized it. The words slide over her tongue familiarly though and it’s hard to remember there was a time she didn’t know magic, or that she didn’t think that this was a part of her.
There’s a heavy, weighted feeling in her head and she feels a burst in the pit of her stomach, a sick plunging feeling, and a static crackle over her skin. Her eyes follow the drops of blood as they tremble by the force of some unseen wind, and coalesce in one wine-colored bubble, and then begin to move, drawn by a thread of magic. She begins to rock in her seat, without even thinking it, a nasal hum in the back of her throat. Her eyelids drift shut and she feels dizzy, like she might throw up off the side of a rollercoaster. She opens her eyes and the room sways, and she feels the slick wet trail on her mouth, dribbling down passed her chin.
A nosebleed, ruptured blood vessels, the pop and bubble of it that makes it hard to breathe. She grimaces, and reaches for a tissue.
You push too hard, magic always pushes back, baby girl.
The voice in her head comes warm and whiskey-laced, it sounds like Grams, and her eyes sting before she blinks those tears away. It’s not the time for that now.
She looks down at her handy work. The drops have landed above a vague spot in Massachusetts, between Fall River and Brockton, names she doesn’t recognize. Maybe there’s a hospital somewhere in the space between Fall River and Brockton-or a bar. Locator spells aren’t generally specific but this one worked.
It’s nice, she supposes, that she knows where her mother (who is not here, nor has she ever been) is now.
7. Pretty (season 3) (some adult-ish themes here)
They scramble in from the porch, a gush of laughter bursting through the door, sopping wet like two wet rats, hair plastered to their faces, and clothes soaked through.
“I am so sorry, I thought we were gonna make it,” he says, brushing his hair out of his eyes so it sticks out comically in a cowlick on his forehead. Bonnie chuckles, rings out her hair lightly, and peels at the shirt sticking uncomfortably to her torso. “Well, only shows that you should always to listen to a witch when she predicts the weather-and listen to your girlfriend since I’m clearly always right.”
He rolls his eyes and walks toward her. The grin on her lips, and the cocky slant to her head makes him, quite suddenly, want to kiss her senseless-so he ducks down, and does just that. Or tries to, before her hands stop his progress less than an inch from her mouth, “Oh no, we are both soaking wet, we’ve gotta get out of these clothes.” She looks pointedly at the puddle they’re making on the wood-paneled floor of the foyer.
Jeremy grunts in annoyance.
She smiles, her eyes drift momentarily to his mouth and she gets that look on her face that he’s come to recognize, the one that draws her teeth out to nibble on her lower lip, and makes her eyes turn dark as a forest at night. He loves that look.
But Bonnie is nothing if not practical, and before he can convince her to forget about puddles on polished floors and wet clothes, she’s trudging awkwardly to the stairwell, picking at her wet pants. “Come on, you can change into something upstairs and I’ll put our stuff in the wash.”
-
When they get upstairs she tosses a pair of sweat pants that must belong to her father, along with an oversized t-shirt, at him and leaves him in her bedroom to change. He starts to strip off but is startled when she barges back in without warning and freezes in the doorway.
“Oh, I’m sorry-I just need to get myself a better shirt.” Is she asking permission to come into her own room? He raises his brow, and says, “It’s your room, come on in.”
She wanders in and he notices her looking at him, in his soaked pants. His own eyes do a quick rundown, and he has to stifle a groan. The shirt she’s wearing is white, and while dry it might have been normal, wet and clinging to her skin like it is right now, it’s lethal. Her pale blue bra, all lace, is clearly visible, and he can see the dark shadow of her nipples underneath (or does he imagine it). He gulps.
Without consciously choosing to, he finds himself walking to her, hovering awkwardly behind her while she digs through a drawer, reaching a hand out to touch her arm, cover her hand, stop her motion. She looks over her shoulder at him in question and he does the only thing he can think to do right then-he kisses her.
-
She tastes like the storm they left outside-sweet and wild, warm as the sun and spiced earth. He licks at the corner of her mouth, down her chin, to a tender spot on her neck where her pulse beats. She tastes like rain there too, and something else that’s completely hers.
-
If someone asked him, he wouldn’t be sure how to answer the question of how he found himself on a bed with Bonnie Bennett straddling him, and her mouth on his, and her hands everywhere. He wraps his fingers in her hair, and rolls them over, sinks into the soft space between her legs, fingers the scalloped edge of her bra, squeezes her nipple through it.
Bonnie gasps into his mouth, warm breath, and he pulls away to suck in much-needed oxygen.
She catches his eye and a smile tugs at her mouth, then she giggles, and he thinks she’s probably just as surprised as he is to find herself here, nearly naked, him too, kissing as much of the rain as they can off each other. He tugs on her bra strap, watches it band tight halfway down her shoulder, and the way the tops of her areola peek out from the top of it. He presses a kiss in the center of her chest, cants left and feels the stutter of her heartbeat and grins at how unsteady it is.
He raises himself up on his elbows, she’s toying with the waistband of his briefs, and he thinks to reach down and help her when he gets distracted by her. All of her, lying underneath him like this.
He can’t look away.
Her hair is damp, frizzing as it dries, and she looks smudged. Or mussed might be a better word, the eyeliner bleeding out under her eyes and her lips swollen.
Everything has been heavy lately, first ghosts, then a crazed hybrid, then a master vampire hunter, and that’s not even counting Stefan. But there’s a lightness to her in this moment that he loves; that he wishes he could hold in his fingers, bury in a pocket to pull out and look at, savor, later when he’s alone or when the real world pierces this storm-bound cocoon of theirs.
The curve to her mouth is languorous, her fingers reach up to brush back his hair, trace the line at his temple. There’s a glimpse of sun peeking through the clouds outside her window, pale yellow light dappling through the drizzle and landing on her face, a limn of light that makes her eyes glisten momentarily.
He thinks that he’s never seen anything prettier than she is right now-not in his entire life. When he was a child, he’d said that phrase, “my whole entire life” with all the innocence and incomprehension of a six year old. He’s lived now, and died, twice, he can attest to it. “You’re… beautiful, Bonnie.” The words slip out unintentionally.
The hand at his temple drifts down to his cheek, the left side of her mouth lifts up, “So are you.”
He doesn’t complain at the compliment, just smiles.
8. Summer (between season 2 and 3)
Bonnie was bored out of her mind.
She stared blankly at the sky, the formless clouds drifted as aimlessly across the blue expanse. A leaf twirled and unfurled in the air above her, moving to a rhythm set by her fingers and a whisper in her mind.
After what seemed like a long, long time (but was in reality, only a year), she now had to re-learn the simplest things. How to just sit around. And relax in the sun, and sleep full nights of sleep; and eat seemingly endless mounds of food, chew long enough to taste it, and swallow; amble, not run; and laugh at bad jokes; and gossip about parts of the family no one likes, and just be (no heavy magic powered by the spirits of hundreds of dead ancestors, no curses, no sacrifices, no blood).
Wasn’t there a time when she had done this sort of thing naturally?
Bonnie Bennett
1. (A) Hero (is not) (2.21)
The night Elijah escapes with Klaus, she doesn’t sleep. She spends hours combing the forest with Stefan, until her feet ache, and her hands are covered in bramble scratches and mud and pungent-smelling tree sap, and blood drips down the side of her face, into her mouth, so she can taste it, all salt and bitterness and failure.
Damon calls in the morning. Elena is awake, she’s asking for you-both of you. She looks to Stefan whose body tenses as if he might flash away that second to be with her, to see her. (Bonnie is numb, the spell worked, she is thankful for that but there is still…). She can see that for Stefan this is enough: Elena lives, Klaus roams free. They won.
(She is happy too, and tries to show it, a tired smile. But they also lost. Too much.)
Bonnie has never wanted to be the hero of this story. She knows that’s not what she is. She thinks that maybe heroes don’t have it as bad as all this. Maybe once in a while they win. They sleep at night, warm in the knowledge of it. They don’t live in this strange moment, a single frequency that is fear and dread, and hands that never unclench. They don’t cry.
If this is what it means to be a hero-then she thinks sometimes she’d rather be dead like Grams. But that’s not an option-and it never has been. (And when that time comes, and it will, she doesn’t think she’ll have any choice in the matter anyway).
2. Dark (season 2)
Luka lies prone before her, his body limp as an old doll’s, and his mind open. She can feel him, his essence, as her fingers comb through his mind, drawing out memories, plucking at secrets.
“E-Elena… has to … die,” he says, a barely discernible whimper.
For a second, right there as he struggles beneath her iron grip, sweat making him clammy, breath squeezed out of his throat as he panics and tries to escape, to pull away from her; Jeremy’s half-pleading, half-frightened voice, Maybe that’s enough, Bonnie, as she tightens the grip she has on his mind, twists incrementally in a circle, almost vindictively-she feels powerful.
3. Grave (episode 2.17)
She could feel them-feel their pain. It was everywhere, heavy in the air, stifling. They were weeping, and the sound of it was an ink-dark abyss, centuries of loss and death and suffering. It scratched at the edges of her mind, like picking at a scab, her spirit, and drew blood.
She cried out.
4. Beginning (episode 2.10)
When she looks back now, she cannot for the life of her, remember how this all began. So when Jeremy’s hand rests heavily on her cheek, his calloused fingers fumbling along her cheek, caked with blood and dirt, and he leans in to her, his breath hot on her lips, she sways backwards vertiginously-blinking herself awake. He’s watching her with hurt on his face. She just runs.
She stops at the bottom of the drive, grips the roof of her car, the cold steel solid and comforting. She can’t remember the first step or the second that led to them being here. She thinks if she runs away and keeps running; it might never have to start.
5. Poison (episode 3.04 - 3.06)
Jeremy tells her about Anna, and Vicki, and the veil of the worlds through which he can now see.
When the words stop coming, she finds herself at a loss. What should she say? What should she do? Is this her fault-another thing that’s her fault. She messed up, and she won’t stop paying for it. How will she fix this-how can she fix it?
When she lays in bed at night and watches shadows play against her ceiling, the leaves from the willow outside her window taking on the aspect of claws in the dark, ripping across the white paint restlessly like some trapped animal, she acknowledges that she’s scared.
“Bonnie, it doesn’t change anything-not between us, I promise.”
It changes things.
In spite of herself, or maybe not, she starts to pull away, when all of this starts to chip away at them and what they have.
The hurt look on Jeremy’s face confuses her (and annoys her too). How does he not see?
Every kiss, every touch, every word makes her aware of them. They aren’t alone anymore, two kids clinging to each other with everything they have left. There are other voices in the room, and no matter how much he says he doesn’t hear them, she can see it in the sometimes-faraway look he gets, the absorbed stare at some fixed point in the distance before he shakes himself and avoids her gaze for a minute or two. Yes everything’s changed, like a splatter of dark ink in a jar of water, like poison flowing through veins, leaching everything in its wake.
She wonders a lot of things. She brought this on herself, so perhaps she deserves it. He doesn’t blame her though; he’s said that often enough.
But mostly, she wonders why if he has a choice now (Vicky or Anna…) why would he possibly pick her?
6. Blood (post-1.14)
The first time Bonnie bleeds, she’s alone.
Grams has been dead for two weeks and she is still staying with her aunt. She keeps to her room for the most part and reads the grimoire. Reads and reads and reads. Until her eyes ache, until she can barely decipher the words on the page, and they become a blur that gives way to dreams. And nightmares.
When she jolts awake-always a jolt, never that peaceful drifting into wakefulness that comes from more pleasant dreams-she is hunched over the tome, or curled around it protectively, clinging to it so the tips of her fingers turn white. It’s the only thing she has left and the closest tie she has to Grams, to everyone who’s come before and who left their marks on the book.
She is practicing a simple locator spell. This time, she chooses her mother.
She holds an old locket in her hands, it’s oval-shaped and gold filigree patterns, slightly raised, line the top; and on the bottom, the letter ‘A’ curls across. It used to belong to one Abby Bennett. Mom.
The metal is cool and remote in her hands. When her father gave it to her years ago on her thirteenth birthday, after she’d spent hours waiting on the front porch because she’d been promised a special surprise-one she’d known to be her mother coming home for her big day. She remembers her feet shuffling in circles on the floor as she sat on that porch swing, the dull creak of it, the grain of wood scratching at the backs of her thighs, and the empty silence of her mother’s not-coming.
She also remembers crying until she could barely see straight, her eyes swollen, and her father’s hands latching the necklace around her neck, the coolness of the metal settling in the middle of her chest. She didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Bonnie-you know she’s not well. Maybe next year, okay. I promise.
She’d run to her room back then and thrown the necklace to the floor, the clang it made as it bounced two times and landed on her rug was tinny and disappointingly quiet. She’d locked it in a drawer after a few days, and pretended not to look at it or to care. But here it was, in her hands, cool, the white gold metal catching the sparse light of her candles.
She puts the locket down beside the grimoire and grabs a knife. Holding her breath, she cuts herself, a slash across the palm, and a line of dripping blood that follows it. She supposes she didn’t have to be that thorough about it. But the pain is good, something she can wrap her mind and heart around, and use as sharply as any weapon.
She squeezes her hand into a fist over the map and the dark red drops dot the paper. There’s something obscene about it, blood on white paper; something that makes her think about Grams and that makes her angry.
She says the incantation under her breath, haltingly. She has only just memorized it. The words slide over her tongue familiarly though and it’s hard to remember there was a time she didn’t know magic, or that she didn’t think that this was a part of her.
There’s a heavy, weighted feeling in her head and she feels a burst in the pit of her stomach, a sick plunging feeling, and a static crackle over her skin. Her eyes follow the drops of blood as they tremble by the force of some unseen wind, and coalesce in one wine-colored bubble, and then begin to move, drawn by a thread of magic. She begins to rock in her seat, without even thinking it, a nasal hum in the back of her throat. Her eyelids drift shut and she feels dizzy, like she might throw up off the side of a rollercoaster. She opens her eyes and the room sways, and she feels the slick wet trail on her mouth, dribbling down passed her chin.
A nosebleed, ruptured blood vessels, the pop and bubble of it that makes it hard to breathe. She grimaces, and reaches for a tissue.
You push too hard, magic always pushes back, baby girl.
The voice in her head comes warm and whiskey-laced, it sounds like Grams, and her eyes sting before she blinks those tears away. It’s not the time for that now.
She looks down at her handy work. The drops have landed above a vague spot in Massachusetts, between Fall River and Brockton, names she doesn’t recognize. Maybe there’s a hospital somewhere in the space between Fall River and Brockton-or a bar. Locator spells aren’t generally specific but this one worked.
It’s nice, she supposes, that she knows where her mother (who is not here, nor has she ever been) is now.
7. Pretty (season 3) (some adult-ish themes here)
They scramble in from the porch, a gush of laughter bursting through the door, sopping wet like two wet rats, hair plastered to their faces, and clothes soaked through.
“I am so sorry, I thought we were gonna make it,” he says, brushing his hair out of his eyes so it sticks out comically in a cowlick on his forehead. Bonnie chuckles, rings out her hair lightly, and peels at the shirt sticking uncomfortably to her torso. “Well, only shows that you should always to listen to a witch when she predicts the weather-and listen to your girlfriend since I’m clearly always right.”
He rolls his eyes and walks toward her. The grin on her lips, and the cocky slant to her head makes him, quite suddenly, want to kiss her senseless-so he ducks down, and does just that. Or tries to, before her hands stop his progress less than an inch from her mouth, “Oh no, we are both soaking wet, we’ve gotta get out of these clothes.” She looks pointedly at the puddle they’re making on the wood-paneled floor of the foyer.
Jeremy grunts in annoyance.
She smiles, her eyes drift momentarily to his mouth and she gets that look on her face that he’s come to recognize, the one that draws her teeth out to nibble on her lower lip, and makes her eyes turn dark as a forest at night. He loves that look.
But Bonnie is nothing if not practical, and before he can convince her to forget about puddles on polished floors and wet clothes, she’s trudging awkwardly to the stairwell, picking at her wet pants. “Come on, you can change into something upstairs and I’ll put our stuff in the wash.”
-
When they get upstairs she tosses a pair of sweat pants that must belong to her father, along with an oversized t-shirt, at him and leaves him in her bedroom to change. He starts to strip off but is startled when she barges back in without warning and freezes in the doorway.
“Oh, I’m sorry-I just need to get myself a better shirt.” Is she asking permission to come into her own room? He raises his brow, and says, “It’s your room, come on in.”
She wanders in and he notices her looking at him, in his soaked pants. His own eyes do a quick rundown, and he has to stifle a groan. The shirt she’s wearing is white, and while dry it might have been normal, wet and clinging to her skin like it is right now, it’s lethal. Her pale blue bra, all lace, is clearly visible, and he can see the dark shadow of her nipples underneath (or does he imagine it). He gulps.
Without consciously choosing to, he finds himself walking to her, hovering awkwardly behind her while she digs through a drawer, reaching a hand out to touch her arm, cover her hand, stop her motion. She looks over her shoulder at him in question and he does the only thing he can think to do right then-he kisses her.
-
She tastes like the storm they left outside-sweet and wild, warm as the sun and spiced earth. He licks at the corner of her mouth, down her chin, to a tender spot on her neck where her pulse beats. She tastes like rain there too, and something else that’s completely hers.
-
If someone asked him, he wouldn’t be sure how to answer the question of how he found himself on a bed with Bonnie Bennett straddling him, and her mouth on his, and her hands everywhere. He wraps his fingers in her hair, and rolls them over, sinks into the soft space between her legs, fingers the scalloped edge of her bra, squeezes her nipple through it.
Bonnie gasps into his mouth, warm breath, and he pulls away to suck in much-needed oxygen.
She catches his eye and a smile tugs at her mouth, then she giggles, and he thinks she’s probably just as surprised as he is to find herself here, nearly naked, him too, kissing as much of the rain as they can off each other. He tugs on her bra strap, watches it band tight halfway down her shoulder, and the way the tops of her areola peek out from the top of it. He presses a kiss in the center of her chest, cants left and feels the stutter of her heartbeat and grins at how unsteady it is.
He raises himself up on his elbows, she’s toying with the waistband of his briefs, and he thinks to reach down and help her when he gets distracted by her. All of her, lying underneath him like this.
He can’t look away.
Her hair is damp, frizzing as it dries, and she looks smudged. Or mussed might be a better word, the eyeliner bleeding out under her eyes and her lips swollen.
Everything has been heavy lately, first ghosts, then a crazed hybrid, then a master vampire hunter, and that’s not even counting Stefan. But there’s a lightness to her in this moment that he loves; that he wishes he could hold in his fingers, bury in a pocket to pull out and look at, savor, later when he’s alone or when the real world pierces this storm-bound cocoon of theirs.
The curve to her mouth is languorous, her fingers reach up to brush back his hair, trace the line at his temple. There’s a glimpse of sun peeking through the clouds outside her window, pale yellow light dappling through the drizzle and landing on her face, a limn of light that makes her eyes glisten momentarily.
He thinks that he’s never seen anything prettier than she is right now-not in his entire life. When he was a child, he’d said that phrase, “my whole entire life” with all the innocence and incomprehension of a six year old. He’s lived now, and died, twice, he can attest to it. “You’re… beautiful, Bonnie.” The words slip out unintentionally.
The hand at his temple drifts down to his cheek, the left side of her mouth lifts up, “So are you.”
He doesn’t complain at the compliment, just smiles.
8. Summer (between season 2 and 3)
Bonnie was bored out of her mind.
She stared blankly at the sky, the formless clouds drifted as aimlessly across the blue expanse. A leaf twirled and unfurled in the air above her, moving to a rhythm set by her fingers and a whisper in her mind.
After what seemed like a long, long time (but was in reality, only a year), she now had to re-learn the simplest things. How to just sit around. And relax in the sun, and sleep full nights of sleep; and eat seemingly endless mounds of food, chew long enough to taste it, and swallow; amble, not run; and laugh at bad jokes; and gossip about parts of the family no one likes, and just be (no heavy magic powered by the spirits of hundreds of dead ancestors, no curses, no sacrifices, no blood).
Wasn’t there a time when she had done this sort of thing naturally?