Protecting At It's Finest || SEQUEL

Nine;

"Do I even want to know?" Damon says absentmindedly from his place on the bed, a book in his hands, and his eyes glued to the pages. He's without a shirt, so his muscles are on full display, and he has a pair of checkered pyjama trousers on.

I sigh in the doorway, stripping my leather jacket off and hanging it up. It stinks of dried blood, Damon can probably smell it.

I can't find it in me to care right now.

"There's no witch." I tell him, sighing softly.

"Dead?" He lifts his head, meeting my gaze.

"She is now." I retort, sending him a shrug when he raises his eyebrow at me.

I walk over to the desk by the balcony, picking up the half full bottle of Bourbon, and an empty glass, and pour myself a glass of it. I'm going to drink away my frustrations tonight. One of the many upsides to being a vampire; I can't get liver failure.

"That was highly impractical of you." Damon scolds, sounding more humoured than mad.

As fucked up as it is, I think that pisses me off more than if he were to scream at me.

"Yes well," I snap, lifting the glass of bourbon to my lips and taking a long gulp, "I don't appreciate being thrown across a barn."

"Surprisingly, I can see why that would be unsatisfying." Damon watches me sink into the desk chair with a scowl.

He seems to be rather entertained by my annoyance; although that's hardly surprising. The glass is cold against my hand, and I lift it to take another gulp of the bitter liquid inside.

I don't know what I'm most agitated about, really: the fact I had to have Bonnie save my ass in a fight, that she lost a power struggle with a batty old cow, or that I've now got mud stuck so far under my fingernails that I can't get it out.

Honestly, when disposing of a body with a witch, you wouldn't think I'd have to bury the thing would you? What's the point of magic if it can't do the simplest of tasks? I mentioned this to Bonnie, and she promptly told me that that is why I don't have magic.

I'm pretty sure I don't have magic because I'm dead, actually, but whatever floats her boat.

I watch as Damon's eyes trail over the same page for around ten minutes or so, confusion riddling me. Damon is a quick reader, why's it taking him so long to read one page? His eye brows furrow, his eyes squinting as he grips the book tighter. He looks rather concentrated. His jaw is clenched so tightly that I'm almost afraid he's about to snap it right off.

"What's up with you?" I ask, "Did the book do something positively horrid?"

Damon rolls his eyes, sighing agitatedly and dropping the book onto his lap, "I'm looking for mentions of vampire-related pregnancies; there aren't any."

"And you're surprised because...?"

He huffs, continuing to stare at the book on his lap as if staring at it with intensity will miraculously bring him all the answers. A few strands of his dark hair fall into his eyes, reminding me that he needs a major hair cut. When do we have the time to get his hair cut? Between Caroline stressing out, Stefan brooding, and trying to research (which, okay, I delayed slightly by killing that witch), I barely have time to shower — never mind dragging Damon to the Barbers.

"Damon," I try to gain his attention, "It doesn't matter how long you stare at it, what you're looking for won't spontaneously appear."

He scowls, "Yes, I'm aware."