[tvd] fic | In A World Gone Crazy (Caroline + Damon)
Title: In A World Gone Crazy
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Characters: Caroline + Damon
Word Count: 930
Rating: PG-13
♥: For ladygawain at the trolling!comment ficathon
Summary: Damon reflects on his short lived career as the lead singer of an eighties glam rock band. True story.
"We opened for Iggy Pop once. I was the lead singer. Obviously."
Damon shrugs. Caroline blinks.
And then blinks again. She can feel the moment her lashes meet before her lids bounce open once more. And once more.
And once more.
"Can you please run that by me again? I think I had a stroke half way through your last sentence."
If he's affronted by her incredulousness then he hides it well.
"Why are you so surprised? It was the eighties. Granted," he huffs with a dramatic eye-roll, "a little before your time, but trust me when I say everyone was doing it."
"Everyone was doing it?" She thinks, inexplicably, that the ability to cultivate independent thought has suddenly left her.
"Well, not Stefan, obviously." He shrugs again, like this conversation didn't take a left turn about seven and a half minutes ago and end up somewhere south of pink hair and platform boots.
"Obviously..." she mimics with a nod. Because, well, obviously. Jesus. "Are there like, photos?"
"Photos?"
"Yes, photos. Images." The independent thoughts she couldn't conjure just seconds before are suddenly catapulting through her awareness with marching band vigour. "Evidence."
He shrugs again. Raises his eyebrows over the rim of a crystal cut tumbler as his lips smirk around a grin. "Sure, if you're interested." Said like he already knows that she is.
"Oh, yes! Interested! See this face?" She tilts her head a little to the left and nods as she points to her own chin, "This is most definitely my interested face."
Elena is going to die. As in, actually die.
He shrugs again, knowing grin firmly in place as he pushes to his feet, clearly enjoying the moment just a little too much. She thinks he probably missed the point where her disbelief turned to mocking and she chalks his blatant oversight up to ego and the fifth of bourbon he's managed to liberate in the past half hour.
He's at the bottom of the stairs before he pauses, turns back. She forcibly swallows a high-pitched giggle as he catches her off guard with a chastising frown.
"If you're just going to laugh then-"
She raises her hands in desperate defence. Palms out. "No, no. No laughing. I promise. This is all very serious." She schools her features calmly into a practiced mask.
He nods, seemingly satisfied. Turns back towards the stairs. "I think I've still got an album or two in the attic," he adds mostly to himself and she has to bury her face in a sofa cushion and bite through her own lip to curtail the hysteria that is fast rising.
She contemplates sending a blanket text to summons reinforcements but worries she'll scare him off before the goods are produced. Figures she can share her discovery with the others once she's bared witness to the truth herself.
He's back before she can consider her options any further, and the short turn-around time makes her think he knew exactly where to look for the memorabilia all along. He walks straight passed her and to a cabinet on the other side of the room. Pulls open its ornate doors and reveals a record player she'd not noticed previously.
She waits with bated breath. Sips forcibly on a blood bag to quell the desperate urge to giggle.
She can't quite remember then what comes first. The sound of music bursting from the speakers or the plastic protected album cover landing in her lap.
All she knows is that the world turned white. And then black.
And then hot, hot pink.
She's pretty sure her evening snack came out her nose at some point. And the ability to breathe, unnecessary as it is, ceased to be physically possible.
It's not until she's curled in a foetal position on the floor with the blade of a letter opener pierced through her left bicep that she registers the sound of doors slamming above her. She feels a fleeting pang of guilt that passes when she blinks and the momentary darkness brings the image rushing back.
The skin tight leather pants and the bare chest, admittedly; very hot. The platform boots that laced up the front. Not even in the same stratosphere as hot. The make-up and, she presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, the hair.
Oh, dear God.
The hair.
She rolls onto her side and fists her fingers into her mouth. Murmurs apologies into the tight space that she absolutely does not mean as he appears at the bottom of the stairs once more.
"I'msorryi'msorryi'msorry-" She's not. And the fact that he's blurred out behind a wall of laughter induced salt water does little to cement the notion of her sincerity.
He looks equal parts furious and devastated. The effect is disconcerting to say the least.
"It's not that funny," he states blankly. Forgoes his abandoned tumbler and drinks straight from the decanter.
"I know, I know," she manages to agree around hiccups as she sits up and removes the spike of metal from her arm. "I'm sorry, I'm just..."
She trails off because bald-faced lies have never been her strong suit and it really is 'that funny'.
"And anyway," he counters, backpedalling, "I only did it for three years."
"Three years, huh?” She thinks this entire revelation is like a gift that keeps on giving.
He nods once, a conservative up and down bob of his head.
"And what happened then?"
"The nineties happened," he laments sombrely and with something akin to deep regret. "Also, I'm pretty sure I ate our drummer."
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Characters: Caroline + Damon
Word Count: 930
Rating: PG-13
♥: For ladygawain at the trolling!comment ficathon
Summary: Damon reflects on his short lived career as the lead singer of an eighties glam rock band. True story.
"We opened for Iggy Pop once. I was the lead singer. Obviously."
Damon shrugs. Caroline blinks.
And then blinks again. She can feel the moment her lashes meet before her lids bounce open once more. And once more.
And once more.
"Can you please run that by me again? I think I had a stroke half way through your last sentence."
If he's affronted by her incredulousness then he hides it well.
"Why are you so surprised? It was the eighties. Granted," he huffs with a dramatic eye-roll, "a little before your time, but trust me when I say everyone was doing it."
"Everyone was doing it?" She thinks, inexplicably, that the ability to cultivate independent thought has suddenly left her.
"Well, not Stefan, obviously." He shrugs again, like this conversation didn't take a left turn about seven and a half minutes ago and end up somewhere south of pink hair and platform boots.
"Obviously..." she mimics with a nod. Because, well, obviously. Jesus. "Are there like, photos?"
"Photos?"
"Yes, photos. Images." The independent thoughts she couldn't conjure just seconds before are suddenly catapulting through her awareness with marching band vigour. "Evidence."
He shrugs again. Raises his eyebrows over the rim of a crystal cut tumbler as his lips smirk around a grin. "Sure, if you're interested." Said like he already knows that she is.
"Oh, yes! Interested! See this face?" She tilts her head a little to the left and nods as she points to her own chin, "This is most definitely my interested face."
Elena is going to die. As in, actually die.
He shrugs again, knowing grin firmly in place as he pushes to his feet, clearly enjoying the moment just a little too much. She thinks he probably missed the point where her disbelief turned to mocking and she chalks his blatant oversight up to ego and the fifth of bourbon he's managed to liberate in the past half hour.
He's at the bottom of the stairs before he pauses, turns back. She forcibly swallows a high-pitched giggle as he catches her off guard with a chastising frown.
"If you're just going to laugh then-"
She raises her hands in desperate defence. Palms out. "No, no. No laughing. I promise. This is all very serious." She schools her features calmly into a practiced mask.
He nods, seemingly satisfied. Turns back towards the stairs. "I think I've still got an album or two in the attic," he adds mostly to himself and she has to bury her face in a sofa cushion and bite through her own lip to curtail the hysteria that is fast rising.
She contemplates sending a blanket text to summons reinforcements but worries she'll scare him off before the goods are produced. Figures she can share her discovery with the others once she's bared witness to the truth herself.
He's back before she can consider her options any further, and the short turn-around time makes her think he knew exactly where to look for the memorabilia all along. He walks straight passed her and to a cabinet on the other side of the room. Pulls open its ornate doors and reveals a record player she'd not noticed previously.
She waits with bated breath. Sips forcibly on a blood bag to quell the desperate urge to giggle.
She can't quite remember then what comes first. The sound of music bursting from the speakers or the plastic protected album cover landing in her lap.
All she knows is that the world turned white. And then black.
And then hot, hot pink.
She's pretty sure her evening snack came out her nose at some point. And the ability to breathe, unnecessary as it is, ceased to be physically possible.
It's not until she's curled in a foetal position on the floor with the blade of a letter opener pierced through her left bicep that she registers the sound of doors slamming above her. She feels a fleeting pang of guilt that passes when she blinks and the momentary darkness brings the image rushing back.
The skin tight leather pants and the bare chest, admittedly; very hot. The platform boots that laced up the front. Not even in the same stratosphere as hot. The make-up and, she presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, the hair.
Oh, dear God.
The hair.
She rolls onto her side and fists her fingers into her mouth. Murmurs apologies into the tight space that she absolutely does not mean as he appears at the bottom of the stairs once more.
"I'msorryi'msorryi'msorry-" She's not. And the fact that he's blurred out behind a wall of laughter induced salt water does little to cement the notion of her sincerity.
He looks equal parts furious and devastated. The effect is disconcerting to say the least.
"It's not that funny," he states blankly. Forgoes his abandoned tumbler and drinks straight from the decanter.
"I know, I know," she manages to agree around hiccups as she sits up and removes the spike of metal from her arm. "I'm sorry, I'm just..."
She trails off because bald-faced lies have never been her strong suit and it really is 'that funny'.
"And anyway," he counters, backpedalling, "I only did it for three years."
"Three years, huh?” She thinks this entire revelation is like a gift that keeps on giving.
He nods once, a conservative up and down bob of his head.
"And what happened then?"
"The nineties happened," he laments sombrely and with something akin to deep regret. "Also, I'm pretty sure I ate our drummer."