Conversation With A Ghost

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. This was writen for the purpose of entertainment only.

*A/N* This was (obviously) inspired by the heart-wrenching scene from "Memorial". I know the lyrics are a bit cheesy, but I like them anyway ;)
Hope you'll enjoy this, try my other stories too if you like, and please forgive my not very American English.

It's hard to walk away from the best of days
But if it has to end
I'm glad you have been my friend
In the time of our lives

-from "Time Of Our Lives" by Tyrone Wells

Damon was staring at the unopened bottle of bourbon for over half an hour now.

Of course he didn't have a clue someone had joined him in his silent moody whatever. Alaric didn't really understand how the whole thing worked himself. He grasped that people couldn't see him (apart from Jeremy, anyway), that they couldn't hear him. But if he wasn't really there, how was it possible for him to sit on this chair? Shouldn't he, like, fall straight through it or something?

Well, he supposed he would have more than enough time to ponder about this.

"Screw you, Ric."

He gave a start and stared at Damon. How the hell…? He was dead, a ghost. Even vampires couldn't see him.

"Damon?" he whispered incredulously, but Damon showed no sign he had heard him.

Instead, his friend grabbed the bottle and turned it in his hands, a bitter smile on his face. "Look at me, I can't even drink without you. Isn't that pathetic?"

Without warning, he picked up a crystal glass and threw it across the room where it shattered in the fireplace. "It's not fair. Why's it always us? Me and you and Elena. We're always the ones who lose people. And it's usually my fault." His eyes returned to the bottle. It was one of Alaric's favourites, and he knew the Salvatores owned twenty others Damon liked better. For some reason, the thought hurt.

Knowing that the bag with his weapons was still in Damon's car didn't help, either.

"Was it my fault?" His eyes never left the liquor and Alaric couldn't remember a time when he'd sounded this weak.

"No. No, for once it wasn't," he answered softly, knowing nobody could hear him, yet wishing desperately his friend could.

"I know, I know. Don't be like that, Damon. It's not my fault you don't have any other friends."

Alaric couldn't help a laugh at his poor mimicking skills.

"No, seriously. Who am I supposed to drink with? Stefan? Elena? Yeah, like that's gonna happen."

Slowly, as if it was something painful to do, he opened the bottle and poured himself a glass. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he filled another one. With a grim smile, he gently knocked his glass against the other, listening to the soft tinkle. "Cheers, mate."

For the first time since he'd died, Alaric allowed a few tears to fall before rubbing them away firmly.

He'd never believed Damon to be this sentimental. But then again, he thought not without pride, he was his best friend.

Nice to see he hadn't been the only one who cared.

.

"You know, there's something I don't understand," Damon declared a while and about one and a half bottles later. "Nobody in this town who died within the last two years actually stayed dead. Even Mason Lockwood came back to say hi," he rolled his eyes at the memory and Alaric grinned, "Jeremy's ex-girlfriends, not to mention Jeremy himself. Elena, twice, me too. You were dying all the time."

He downed another glass. Alaric's still remained untouched.

"So why does it have to be you of all people who doesn't come back?"

If only he knew. Of course, he wouldn't have said any of that if he knew Alaric could hear him, but however much Alaric liked to hear he was being missed and even his arse of a best friend cared he was gone, he would gladly trade that for not having to see him like this. Damon who'd never learned to get over a loss. He'd probably be angry about it for all eternity.

"If they all manage to come back and get on my nerves, why can't you? I mean, you were a natural at pissing me off."

"I'd love to, buddy, but I can't." He didn't really know why he was replying. This was a far too one-sided conversation for his taste.

"Right, I know. They all had a reason to come back." He emptied the bottle. "Well, fuck you, Ric, you've got reasons to come back, too!"

"It doesn't work like that," he whispered, almost apologising.

"Don't be childish, it doesn't work like that. Mason and Anna got lucky with their timing, and everyone else was protected somehow. I know, spare me all that shit. Anyway, what about Elena? She could do with your super-sensible advice. And now I have to run after the youngest Gilbert brat myself so he won't go and get himself killed somewhere, thanks a lot for that."

Alaric snorted. "Yeah, right, Damon. And that's of course the only reason why you want me back."

"You could, I don't know, come back for carrying out Jenna's duties or have revenge on Klaus or something."

Alaric squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that technically, he could just leave. It wasn't like his friend would feel the difference and there wasn't really a point in letting Damon's grief hurt him.

But he felt like he had to be there. Keep him company.

Damn, he was probably the most sentimental idiot of them all.

"Or you could just come back for me," Damon said with a bitter laugh. "Yeah, you'd love to hear me say that, wouldn't you? Come back, buddy, I need you."

He picked up the glass he'd poured Alaric, stared at it blankly and then downed it, too. "Well, I hate to admit it, but maybe I do."

With that, he left the room, not before Alaric had noticed his eyes shimmering with tears he would never shed.

Leaving the ghost of his best friend alone in the parlour, staring at the two empty glasses reflecting the flames in the fireplace.

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