Not Every Day by Panavatar 04/06/03: PG-13 It's around noon when Damon climbs out of bed. He dresses quietly, careful not to disturb the others, and is still fastening his belt as he shuts the bedroom door behind him and heads downstairs. He knows before he looks out the window that the sky is overcast. Damon's accustomed to using the Powers for such things, but he's in San Francisco, so he doubts he'll need to be managing the weather any time soon. Thinking about this reminds him that July is one of the coldest months here, and he moves to the central hall to turn up the thermostat a bit. Not affected by temperature, he's going to need to train himself to pay attention, for Elena's sake. He's doing a lot for Elena's sake today. It's their first real day here, after the flight in the early hours of the morning and the groggy ride in from the airport. A taxi had brought them through the hilly, narrow streets of the City, up to the house on Lombard; Damon hired a man to pick up his Ferrari and drive it here, but he of course would not arrive with it for days. So here they are, in a home he hasn't lived in for half a century, with no provisions for their human companion, no clothing for her except borrowed things that all fit poorly. And there are so many problems to sort out, none of which are directly Damon's concern (he has found that, in most situations, consistancy on his part can be more stabilizing than any sort of obvious interference) but all of which will affect his daily (nightly) life, to one degree or another. The house has been vacant for three months, because Damon cleared out the tenants with plans to part ways with his brother in Florence. Recent events have caused his plans to be modified drastically. Either way, the kitchen cupboards are bare, the whole room smelling sterile and modern, and Damon has shopping to do. He slides on his sunglasses, grabs his attache case, and heads out the door, locking it behind him. The building is (by no fault of his, more's the pity) part of one of the principle tourist attractions in the City. The street in front winds like a serpent, the image of twisting red tiles emblazoned on postcards in seemingly every store in the whole town. Damon takes the slow-passing cars in stride, moves with practiced ease through the herds of humans lining the walkways, absorbed in his thoughts about where to go, what to do. Damon is a man of immediacy. The former, less-complex question doesn't take long, and the latter is quickly passed over. Damon, in general, doesn't make big decisions, just rides the flow of unlimited time at his disposal and watches what becomes of it all, and why should this be any different? He is self-contained, always. He walks to Union Square, into Neiman Marcus because unlike his dear brother he isn't so insipidly tied to his native country to insist on buying Italian no matter what. He buys what he likes, and right now the all-too-conventional turn of European male fashion is not what he's looking for. Damon knows what Elena would have wanted, and not what she would want now. He knows she's going to think there should be some change, so he's going to get what he thinks will look good and if she doesn't like it she can return it. He selects a few dark-colored shirts, mostly black, in soft fabrics because he has every intention of having his hands on the skin underneath as often as possible. He won't compromise her, but last night they slept in the same bed and he's no fool. She's changed in ways that he can at least superficially understand, and it's making her reevaluate everything. The shirts are intentionally nondescript, maybe even androgynous, though cut for a male form. He can estimate her size by memory. Memory works differently for vampires than humans. Mortals will remember the important, significant things only, and maybe even then not entirely. Damon's memory is like reliving his entire life, with video pause and playback functions. It is three-dimensional, complete with sense recollections, and misses nothing. He remembers the exact sensation of Elena's hands around his waist, the weight of her body in his arms, the smell of her skin. He buys her slacks, too, narrow-hipped ones in indigo denim, in black suede and gabardine wool. Lastly, he picks up a few sets of plain white satin pajamas, and another pair in red, picturing the feel of the cool fabric against his body, the sight of her walking through the house in just the overlarge shirt, looking debauched. He smiles at the thought and unintentionally makes the girl behind the counter blush. He leaves without making small talk. She wasn't his type; too childish and giggly behind hands with pearly pink enamelled nails. Once outside he stops at a bench and places his shopping bags in the leather bag he still carries. Damon always feels very cheap and commercial, holding or wearing things that advertise entities other than himself. He's been told that's a holdover from his aristocratic past, but it's really a habit acquired by most successful vagabonds--Never do anything that might gain someone else money, unless you are being paid. And now he walks down through the town, seeing how the place never really changes, like Florence, except in ways which that much-older city cannot yet grasp. Damon finds himself on Grant Avenue, passing through China Town, where on a whim he buys new table and bed linens, and then goes another unexpected step, purchasing three luxuriously-embroidered kimonos, in three patterns, sizes and colors: black, green, blue. From there he continues north on Grant until he reaches North Beach--Little Italy. He remembers these buildings, even some of the shops and cafes, remembers from fifty years ago when his pale skin and dark clothing made him blend in perfectly with the Beat children who gathered at crowded tables, dreaming impossible dreams. He hears less of his first language here than he once did, but so much remains. Here, he knows this old butcher shop, recalls that it had been there for decades even when he last saw it, birthed in the wave of rebuilding done after the Great Earthquake. Damon enters, purchasing meat and cheese and good bread, olive oil, other essentials. From there he goes to another small grocery to find milk, fruit, eggs. He buys upscale because he can afford it and because the modern, brightly-lit supermarkets repell him. Outside he hails a cab, and is back to his new home in no time at all. ********* Damon is stocking the kitchen when he senses the others stirring upstairs. He can feel Elena's shock at waking in a strange place, other shocks, sense his brother's continuing awkwardness. The two bedpartners exchange trite-sounding formalities that quickly dissolve into something more appropriate--something more like acceptance. Damon relishes in his mind the suddenness of their hands touching, too-long-repressed need, then returns to his own tasks as the couple quickly part. The whole house seems to radiate want, of several different kinds, and Damon clenches his fist around a handful of tablecloth, feeling his own greatest want: to tell them how to save themselves and have them listen. Instead Damon flexes the muscles in his hands and lays out the cloth on the oaken dining table, smoothing it gently. He slices sausage, caramelizes onions on the stove, pushing away his own awakening hunger for the time being. He is arranging the ingredients on bread for a sandwich when Elena descends the stairs, still in her clothes from the night before, drawn by the smell. When Damon hands her the plate she looks at him quizzically and smiles. "Should I even ask what you've been up to today?" "If you like." Damon watches her avidly as she sits at the table and samples the food. She nods appreciatively as he takes a seat acress from her. He knows that if he sat any closer, he'd be a needless distraction. Damon is well aware of the importance of enjoying a meal. "I wouldn't have thought you knew how to cook," she says shyly. "It's very good." Damon nods politely, but reflects, rather sadly, on how little she had been able to learn during her brief life as a vampire. "It's a useful skill to have. For one thing, people generally assume that if you cook food, you eat food; and for another, as you can see, it makes life much more enjoyable for the humans in your company." He pauses, relishing the way her eyes rest on him, before continuing. "And though you certainly never knew this from my brother, as long as we're sated, we can eat whatever else we like without difficulty." Elena ducks her head when he speaks of Stefan. Damon blinks and in the time it takes to do so he knows that his brother is showering. He catches a quick image through Stefan's eyes of running water on unblemished skin, and he opens his eyes quickly. "I bought some clothing for you today, as well." More shock from her. Does she really think him so inconsiderate? Yes...and no. Expectation and belief are often unconnected in the human mind. Damon lifts his case from inside the doorway, laying the contents out on the bare stretch of table. He is careful to leave the kimonos inside, hoping for a later time when they would seem more appropriate. Wiping one hand on a napkin, Elena reaches out and runs her hands over the fabric. She doesn't voice her thoughts, but he can hear them anyway. She is afraid of reacting negatively, but she wants to tell him, "These aren't mine. They're someone else's." Upstairs, Stefan is towelling himself off, pulling on a pair of snug jeans and a slightly-wrinkled t-shirt, feeling apprehensive. Damon blinks back to his body. There is an ocean of silence between them. His muscles tense, protesting his sudden need to break it, break something, make everything balance out. And then Damon can feel Stefan's presence against his back, and he turns, and there he is in the doorway. Sudden flash of the exact feeling of his brother's mouth warm and slick on his wrist, and Damon can't even tell whether the image is Stefan's or his own. Damon holds back. Above all else, he is self-contained. "Hello, brother." Stefan inhales through his mouth, and his thick swallow is loud in Damon's ears. He says, "Hello," looking like the world is shifting under his very feet. Damon watches as his brother takes in the room, Elena, the things on the table. Then Stefan steps closer until they are all within arms' reach of one another. Damon snaps. He has his brother by the shoulder and he is kissing, kissing him, hungry deep inside for more than just blood. Stefan isn't pushing away. He's responding with a fisting hand in Damon's hair, another firm on his hip. Damon reaches out without looking away from his brother's face and grabs Elena by the wrist, pulling her in so their mouths are all meeting, threefold. Elena gasps and in the pause he whispers to himself, "I lied." Elena's slim fingers jerk in his hand as she pulls herself closer, close as she can be. Stefan makes a strained sound and Damon can feel the change in him, the weight of his teeth on his tongue as they extend. He kisses him harder, lets go of Elena's hand to rub at her flat plane of a chest through the borrowed shirt that she wears. Somehow they make it up the stairs, huddled together as if denying all the rest of the world. They are sinking into the mattress on the bed, Damon sprawled on top of the others, tumbled beneath him. They are kissing him, each other, moving in a dance that has no steps and no pattern at all. Stefan's teeth scrape against his cheek, and Damon returns the favor, teeth pressing into his upper lip just deep enough to smear red. He pulls Elena's shirt up, over, her skin hot and damp against his steady searching hands. ********* Later, slipping into his green kimono, Stefan will ask him, "Why did you say you lied?" And Damon will tie the belt at his brother's waist. "It's not important. I was only lying to myself." Damon is not self-contained. He is the wolf, the crow, needing pack and murder to keep him steady and strong. He knows that it's not every day when everything can come together so perfectly, but when it can, he doesn't skip out on the opportunity. END.