A/N: Hi! *waves sheepishly* So...it's been a while. I've been busy doing the OF book thing and life things, but I promise, I have never truly left you guys and I have missed you all terribly. I'm still watching TVD every week, and loving Damon more than words can say. Right now, I'm in a time halt where I actually have the space in my to do list to write some fan fic before things hopefully get very crazy in the best way, and the show has given us one hell of a set up to play with possibilities. Mostly, with what prompts Damon to say so long to daily life and give up, in a sense, to the point that he gets in that coffin beside Elena we see in the flash forwards.

So, The Plan: THIS IS NOT A ONE-SHOT. Yes, you read that right. I'm attempting a multi chapter fic, hoping to update about once a week. How long this story will be overall? No idea. The plan is really loose as of now, and depending on outside circumstances, and how long the muse holds out, but in the meantime, I'M BACK!

A word about any errors or lack of meeting past high standards: THIS IS UNBETA'D. Mine and Trogdor19's friend-mance is strong as ever (she actually just stayed with me for a few days) but I NEVER get to surprise her with stories so I'm taking a leap. Also, if you think I'm busy, that girl is a tornado of to do lists. I may recruit her at some point, but for now, it's just me getting back into the rhythm of Mystic Falls and seeing if I can pull some strings. Connected directly to your feels, of course.

Oh, and I'm rating M for gore, but not sex. With Elena in sleepy time, it also locks us firmly into Damon POV.

Apart from that, I love you all and have missed you more, and I hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER 1: CIVIC DUTIES

I take another drink of bourbon, staring at my useless phone.

Nearly a grand worth of technological advances, and while it can translate my voice to text in any language I can think of, the piece of shit only lets me schedule an alarm one year in advance. One year. Not fifty or sixty or seventy or eighty, or however fucking long it's going to be until she's back.

My head falls back on the cushion of the chair, my eyes closing. My mind stumbles over memories: the perfect concoction of lace and skin, Bowie lyrics drifting by in the background. Her hips swirl to the beat, standing on the bed with the comforter a tangle licking up her ankles, and she's just started to tease me with the promise of losing the negligee when somewhere close by, a tongue clicks in disapproval.

"You smack your gum, too?" I ask. "Because that's not annoying or anything."

The person sitting by stays silent. It's not Stefan, who is still busy playing Gingerbread Man to Xena the Huntress. Definitely not Bonnie, who can't shut up, especially when her life depends on it. Not Matt, or Tyler, or Caroline—probably all guzzling Jell-O in the hospital since Blondie's fresh from being overstuffed with Ric's babies. It's only him, still here, playing Anti-Freud with my head.

Opening my eyes, I ignore the uniform I wore too long and take another drink. Aside from the lack of privacy, what really pisses me off is that his presence is a blaring reminder of Jeremy.

Dr. Phil would probably try to call it guilt if he ever got me on his garage-sale couch, but One: If we ever cross paths, I'm eating that pretentious balding bastard, and Two: I don't have any guilt over Jeremy. He doesn't want to take the time to call and check in? Fine. Then I don't have to spare the energy to worry. Kid should be able to take care of himself by now, and if he can't, serves him right. He should've listened when I spoke. Besides, it's not like his sister is going to wake up to his Facebook status being anything other than Dead in BFE America.

Could happen from old age. Could happen from his cocky attitude assuming his Call of Duty skills hold up against a pair of pointy teeth. It's going to happen one day, one way or another, and I'm over it. But Henry being a mooching bum in my living room is like an acid trip flashback of the little punk Jeremy was when ghosties were swarming around him, and he was happy to listen to their influence. Fuck that. I'm not some hormonal teenager who can't tell the difference between what's real and what's important.

I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, absolutely confident that what lies inside is smooth fire tinged with perfectly aged wood. Except...I couldn't tell the difference. The face to my right, smiling at me, was in that coffin. So I burned the fuck out of it. But then his face became hers, and I smelled her skin singeing into ash. I watched her lips crisp; her eyelashes vanish as though they never existed.

Bile rises in my mouth, and I throw back the rest of my drink. I'd rather see her staked, gray veins streaking over her skin. I'd rather see her with someone else, happy. I'd rather see her mouth agape with shock, as wide as the hole in her chest where her heart used to be, and have the image play on repeat for the rest of eternity. Anything other than seeing her burn. Especially when it comes to her lips.

I get up, walking over to refill my glass. The decanter clinks against the crystal, out of rhythm with the grandfather clock chiming away minutes that count for nothing.

"Drinking won't solve your problems, Damon," Henry tells me. "You have to face it."

"Shows what you know about drinking."

I pour more than I should, and then toast the stairwell before I throw back the bourbon in one gulp. No one needs me to be sober. I'm better with a buzz anyway, and I've got lots of shiny happy people to kill before I can cross that off my to do list and start on my nap. Not that I'm exactly looking forward to it. That shit hurts.

Blood squirts, coating my arm as I yank back my hand. My eyes are diamond black, reflected in the dying green of the douchebag in front of me. His heart beats three times in my palm as I smile. It thuds twice more, and then stops suddenly as his nameless body thumps to the ground.

The high of the kill rolls back my eyes in raw pleasure. It's as close as I can get to the sex I crave. The heady scent of death sweeps past my descended fangs, caressing my tongue and scorching my throat, and I'm hard as fuck and aching for my lips to sip at the slick heat between her legs.

The cotton of my shirt flirts with my skin when wind pushes against the leather of my jacket. Her hands, destroying it for keeping my skin from her. Something wet trickles down my forearm, and my chest heaves faster—seeing her head turned toward it as I drive mercilessly inside her, her tongue drawing up toward my wrist until she sinks her teeth into my vein to taste me.

A shiver rakes over my spine, my fingers tightening around the back of her thigh to draw her leg higher. Something bursts.

My eyes open to chunks of crimson sifting through my fingers, blood oozing and falling free. I tilt my head, raining the destroyed remnant of the heart I stole onto the corpse. But the blood is already starting to dry, and I shake my hand to dislodge the parts sticking to me.

"I may have ruined your day," I say to the body, "but you ruined my manicure. Not very friendly."

I smear the rest on his clothes, leaving only stained traces of pink and red on my palm. Not clean enough for what I'd like, but it doesn't really matter. By day's end, I'll be deliciously covered.

Down the street, the door of a house opens, voices overlapping. My head rises as I grin, counting three of them, and then I straighten. My shoulders are loose as I kick the body into the bushes, and they glance my direction at the sound. I hook my right hand into my back pocket as I stroll toward them, my steps a little staggered.

"Anyone know where to find a Chik-Fil-A around here?" I slur, my smile wobbly with the promise of one drink too many. "I got me a hankering for some bible thumpers."

The three of them look at one another, and then back at me as I stop in front of them.

"No problem, friend," the biggest one says. "I'll take you there myself."

I pat his shoulder. "See? Who says southern hospitality is dead?"

His eyebrow quirks, and my smile stretches to a hiss as my fingers clamp down on his clavicle. My left hand is inside his chest before his buddies can swing.

It doesn't take them long.

A blunt knee to my stomach retracts my arm. I double over, Biggun's heart slapping onto the pavement, followed by his body.

"Whoops," I cough out. "The HOA is gonna be pissed."

Two hands pin my arms behind my back, jerking me vertical.

"Get ready to die," a face dominated by a mole says to me, his arm rearing back for what looks like a punch that isn't aimed to land on my face.

"Hate to burst your bubble, but you're a little late to that party."

He snarls at me. I pucker a kiss, and then spit in his eye. Dumbass restraining me struggles to keep me pinned as Moley staggers back, catching my boot in his balls.

"Ouch," I say as he folds in half, primed for my knee to greet his nose with a cheerful, "Hello, I accept your invitation to shove the bone and cartilage into your brain."

At the impact, he sputters a sound that certifies his future diet as applesauce through a straw.

His ankle cracks and twists the wrong way under his weight, his body landing flat beside Biggun's with a hard thump.

"Jess!" the guy restraining me shouts. Moley's hand twitches, fingers spasming. Definitely gonna be sucking applesauce. Possibly through a feeding tube.

I sigh. "I just wanted a sandwich."

Two moves, and I break his hold and turn. The flat of my valentine palm shoves up against his chin. His jaw cracks together, teeth shattering and spurting out between his parted lips. His head jerks back from the impact, his weight tipping backward.

My fist catches the front of his shirt, holding him up. "And you had such a pretty smile."

He gurgles something that's all broken teeth and thick blood flooding his mouth.

"What's that?" I ask. "May not look it, but I'm getting a little old, so you'll have to speak up."

"Fuck...you..."

My brow furrows. "Is that any way to talk to a neighbor who only wanted directions?"

The fingertips of my right hand pierce the front of his throat, his eyes bulging wide.

"When I was a kid," I tell him, the guy clawing my wrist to release him, "my mother used to say if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." I shrug, feeling around in his throat for what I want. "She's dead now, because I let her die, which she deserved, but some things stay with you no matter who you kill."

He chokes on my fingers extending up toward the back of his mouth, and then I rip out his tongue through the hole above his Adam's apple. His hands fly to cover the wound as blood rushes from between his fingers, and I let go of his shirt, tossing the tongue away. His knees crack on the concrete, and I glance around.

The sky is blue, birds singing, and it's a great day for murder. Or a kite. But strings get tangled and that annoys the shit out of me, and murder I do well.

I look back to Toothless, and he's crawling past me toward Moley, still spastically twitching on the ground. I crouch down beside both of them, wiping the blood off my hands and onto Biggun's shirt.

"Here's the deal," I tell Toothless. "I don't see any need for you to die, now that you've learned some manners. Your buddy, however, is a lost cause."

Toothless leans over him, grabbing the front of his shirt and shaking him. Liters of blood pour from the hole in his throat and straight onto Moley's face, but his response is only an involuntary tic of his foot.

"Yeah," I drawl. "My best guess is that when he wakes up, he's only going to be interested in Sesame Street. So do your friend a favor and take out his heart, and I'll continue on my merry way."

Toothless collapses on his friend, and I roll my eyes. Getting up, I head over to the fence and rip off a stake, flipping it in my palm as I head back to the trio of useless dipshits. It only takes a nudge from the toe of my boot to roll Toothless off Moley, so all three are laid out on the sidewalk, side by side.

One bloody hand rises up toward me in a wordless plea, and I plunge the stake into Moley's chest. The muscle pops around the splintered edges of wood, and the body grays before I even take the stake back out. If only time would pass that fast.

Straightening, I scratch my nose on the sleeve of my jacket.

"Damn allergies," I say, even though I haven't had allergies in nearly 170 years. I almost miss them. I guess that's something I have to look forward to.

Toothless gurgles on the ground, and I twirl the stake in my hand.

"Any last words?" I ask, and the hand not clasped over his throat scrabbles for the end of my jacket. "Yeah, guess not."

The stake that spelled the end for his buddy happily matches one life status to another, and when his hand stops staining my jacket and falls away, I look at him.

Dead. Eyes open. Dark red blood contrasting with his gray skin.

I fix his hair, smoothing it down where my killing him caused it to stick up.

"Good as new," I tell his corpse, smiling.

Patting his chest, I straighten. Four down. At least a hundred to go. Then it's naptime. Time moves faster when you sleep.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and when I check, it's Bonnie.

"Civic Clean-Up Committee, at your service..."

"Whatever stupid thing you're doing?" she says. "Take a break and meet me back at the house."

"Aww," I drawl. "But I was having fun. And you may be the only friend I have left, but despite the evidence my phone log would shout from the hilltops, my world does not revolve around you."

"Yeah? Because the way I see it, as your only friend, you should listen when I tell you: meet me back at the house."

I scoff, heading down the street where my car is parked around the corner. "What's in it for me?"

"A present. And you'll either love it or hate it, but either way, you're taking it."

My eyebrow arches, and I take out my keys. "You officially have my attention, Bon Bon."

"Really, Damon?" Bonnie says as I walk in the front door. "Killing people? That's what you've been doing?"

I shrug, letting the front door fall shut behind me. "I only killed four of 'em. And someone's gotta clean up this town."

She crosses her arms, rampant with disapproval. Shocker.

"So where's my present?" I drawl, smiling.

She nods her head toward the dining room, and I rub my hands together in mock excitement as I pass her.

She lightly shoves at my shoulder. "Waste of space."

"Love you, too."

I stop short as I round the corner. There's nothing on the large wooden table but her cheap oversized purse. I groan, swiveling to level a look at her.

"JC Penny purses aren't my style. I prefer the classic elegance of Louis Vuitton."

"Look inside the bag, genius."

I grin. "If something in there bites me, I'll bite you back."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Heading back over to the table, my brow furrows at finding her purse zipped closed. "You been hanging with Lockwolf?" I ask. "You smell like dog."

Bonnie oddly keeps her trap shut as I pull open the zipper, and a head pops out. I lean back, staring at it while it stares right back at me. My eyes catalogue black fur, except for a streak of white traveling between its eyes and down around its mouth. The ears are half the size of its face, sticking straight up like it self-identifies as a rabbit, and the skull is small enough that I could easily crush it in my palm. Without warning, it licks its lips.

"Not that I have a problem with sticking to tradition," I say, "but I prefer my Chinese food a little more on the cooked end of the spectrum, and preferably beef or chicken."

The animal tilts its head at me.

"It's not dinner," Bonnie says, dipping her hands into the bag and lifting out the dog. She snuggles him into her chest, probably getting black hair all over her. Well, at least where it's not white—the latter color seems confined to its stomach, halfway up each leg, and a large band circling around the base of its neck and shoulders.

I arch my eyebrow. "Have you considered that being jealous of Blondie's mommy status is no reason to subject yourself to owning one of...those things?"

"One of those things?" she says. "It's called a dog, Damon, or if you want to be a picky about it, a Boston Terrier. Some people even get really crazy and call it a puppy."

"Call it a unicorn if it makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside, just do it out of my house."

She shakes her head. "Not on the list of options." She drops a kiss to the head, and then pushes the animal against my jacket and lets go. My reflexes snap around it before I remember it's a small hunk of meat with no brain or personality, and Bonnie smiles as it squirms against me.

Dammit, those little nails just scratched my jacket. And it fucking smells.

"Don't eat it," she says, "walk it, remember to feed it, and give it water. You'll have to buy a food bowl and a leash, and little doggie bags for poop, too. But since you're loaded and you like shopping almost more than Caroline, I don't want to hear any complaints."

I smile, even as I lean away from the creature against my chest, trying to lick my face. "It won't be alive long enough that I'll have to worry about doing any of that."

Bonnie narrows her eyes. "Live your life, that's what she said to do."

"And you translate that as taking care of a dog?"

"Yes, I do," she says, gathering up her purse and slinging it onto her shoulder. "You need something to live for other than bourbon."

Bonnie heads toward the front door, leaving behind the rat steadily wriggling in my arm.

"And what's wrong with killing people in the interim?" I call after her.

"Nothing," she says. "But now you have a friend to take with you when you do it. And give him a name."

The door shuts behind her, and I look down at the little beast stinking up my clothes. It has given up trying to taste my stubble, and instead licks steadily at a drop of blood smeared on my jacket from earlier. I push at its face to make it stop, and its slobbery tongue starts lapping at the space between my fingers.

"For fuck's sake," I groan, and then head outside to my car.

Bonnie's going to pay for this. Especially since instead of spending the rest of this beautiful day killing the leeches sucking the last bit of life out of my girl's hometown—before I happily crawl into a coffin next to her to wait out the years—I now get to haul my ass to the pet store twenty miles away. Probably all while this little meat bag chews my upholstery and pisses on the floorboard.

I open the driver's door of my Camaro and slide in, setting the thing down on the passenger seat.

"Move and you're dead," I tell it, and it tilts his head at me. I close my door and start the engine, and my eyes dare to the right. Elena always wore a seatbelt, even after she was rocking fangs with her Chucks, and my eyebrow arches.

Do you have to seatbelt dogs?

Rolling my eyes at myself, I pull out of the driveway. If it flies through the windshield and dies, it's fine by me. Just means I can get back to my pre-nap killing spree a little sooner.

The dog pants at me as I speed out of town, and then it puts its paw on the passenger door, stretching up to look out the rolled-down window. Its lips flap in the wind, and I look back to the road, my foot easing off the accelerator.

Some fucking friend Bonnie is.

A/N: Yep, we're gonna have some fun, and see if we can give Damon something to live for. Hope you all enjoyed, thank you for reading, and I will see you soon!

-Goldnox