Author's Note: Okay, so maybe this one's a new idea. Not something that's been gathering dust. What can I say? I feel inspired. This is an AU (let's be real, that's all I dabble in). Imagine Bonnie's paternal family took her in after Gram's death in s1, so she lived far away from all the drama that ensued in Mystic Falls. This takes place when she's about 22 or so, and a certain Parker son might have just escaped a Prison World...

(if it helps, picture Bonnie in the beginning of s7 + Kai post-merge scruff)

HERE
1/3

The sign says "Tilly's" but Tilly is long gone. Walked out about a year ago and left the shop to Bonnie. There were whispers it was a long time coming. The newest edition, a cheeky college graduate at the time, had become a big draw. Customers preferred Bonnie's no-nonsense approach to Tilly's theatrics.

Besides, Bonnie is never wrong. Never.

Tilly's offers lots. Tarot card, crystal ball, and palm readings. They sell crystals and oils, votive candles and incense. Some literature dabbles in deities while others span the spiritual. And they get all manner of customers. Locals, snow bunnies in the south for the winter, skittish teenagers, those in the throes of a mid-life crisis, skeptics, the curious and the curiouser. They stand housed in a retrofitted single family home, which locals claim to be haunted and Tilly never debunked the rumor. It isn't, though. Bonnie would know.

But whether they were new or returning but not yet acquainted with Bonnie, customers always ask: "Are you Tilly?"

She manages, though. Never fights to make a sale. Never forces a reading on anyone who doesn't want one. That's one of her rules. She has three.

She's finishing up with a regular when she hears the bells on the front door jangle. Bidding Frankie adieu, though she knows she'll see the man in a month like clockwork, she picks up the hem of her caramel skirt, slips around the curtain partitioning the back bedrooms which serve as "offices", and is greeted with the back of a male. Tall, slender, and young, she can tell. He's dressed like a college coed - striped t-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and Converses. He's admiring an autographed poster on the wall of a woman in a headwrap so intently that he doesn't notice her entrance.

"That was an gag gift for Tilly's thirtieth birthday," she speaks up. He whirls around to face her, revealing stormy blue eyes and a fresh face. Skeptic. That's how she pegs him. She can always tell.

She steps forward, her bare feet toeing the hardwood floors. The airy fabric of her skirt swishes as she moves and doesn't rest when she stops at his side. "Lots of people thought she was the real deal. Some still do, despite everything."

"Who's Miss Cleo?"

Bonnie frowns at him, at his sincerity. Is he serious?

Frankie ambles from the back, coughing into his fist. Bonnie's smile is sweet as she waves the heavyset man out the door. The new customer jumps at the other man's presence, or rather the sound coming from him, but Bonnie is ill at ease. She has to be. It's a part of her act.

The guy turns back to her. "What's his damage?"

"That is none of your business. Not every path is meant to intersect." Bonnie steps away, rounds the counter with the register, and peeks into the kitchen, their break room. Empty. "Greta?"

"She stepped outside. Head on collision right in front of the shop. I don't think anyone's hurt too badly, but, boy, was it nasty."

She rushes to the front door and out to the wrap-around porch. A green truck had indeed run straight into a silver compact car. Her co-worker Greta flips her silky, black hair over her shoulder as she flirts with a paramedic. Packed muscles and golden hair, he's totally falling for it, having completely disregarded the comatose figure on the stretcher.

"Shit..." Bonnie mutters under her breath. Tilly's is situated on the curve of a country road. Those leaving the driveway have a good view of coming and going traffic, but the same can't be said for those trying to visit. She's fought with the owner of the overgrown plot of land across the street but he refuses to cooperate, despite the safety risks. An accident like this was inevitable.

The guy steps beside her, leans against a pillar.

"Since traffic is a nightmare at the moment, how about a reading? Doesn't look like I'm going anywhere soon."

He's right. The road is a major artery in and out of the city and cars are at a standstill on both sides. Greta holds down the fort when she does her readings, but she's clearly preoccupied.

"What kind of reading did you have in mind?"

"Whatever kind you give."

When she looks up at him, he wears a tight grin with mischief in his eyes. Okay, massive skeptic and awful flirt. She's dealt with worse.

Bonnie goes back inside with the guy trailing and she locks the door. Business first. "We have a 'half now, the rest after' policy."

"What if I don't like my fortune?"

"You do realize I can't change your future? I only tell it. The deposit is for my time, in case something happens rendering us incapable of completing the session."

"Such as?"

"Medical reasons, hell, high water… Take your pick."

He squints at her. "Is this one of those places that offers a happy ending? Because I gotta say, I'm not here for that."

"Good, because we don't offer that."

He considers, or pretends to. She can already tell he's made up his mind. Digging in his pocket, he roots for crumpled bills and change. She ignores the lint he deposits onto the counter and puts the down payment in the register.

"Follow me..."

Beyond the curtain, the mood changes. Red hues and dark furniture. The air has a sweet scent to it. Bergamot, maybe. It's also warmer, a full ten degrees, so on the way to her office Bonnie sheds her leather jacket. She can feel him, watching her back and shoulders ripple, trailing his eyes down her slim shoulders. This, too, is a part of her act.

Her office was once the master bedroom. It has the most space yet all it contains is two chairs. No tables, or crystal balls, or anything. Nothing remotely mystical. Just two folding chairs and a plush carpet with Asian influences stretching to the corners of the room.

This guy follows the same script every new customer recites. He hangs back at the doorway to ask, "What is this?"

Bonnie lets her jacket hang over the back of her chair and sits. "This is where the magic happens," she says plainly with a hint of sarcasm. "Close the door."

He does and she thinks that's good. This is the part where the skittish become more so, the skeptics with no follow through back out. He sits in the chair facing her, their knees inches from touching. His eyes flitter to the black-out curtains over the windows, the dark walls which could be purple or could be maroon, and to the sole red bulb dangling above their heads.

"I bet this scares all the kiddies at Halloween."

"And the middle-aged business men in the middle of May, too." She clears her throat. "I have three rules."

"I've never been good with rules."

There are always the scrappy ones who have to have a rebuttal for everything. She ignores him. "Three things are going to happen. I will touch you three places. All above the belt. I will ask you one question. And then I will kiss you. That's my method. That's how this works."

He sucks in a sharp intake of air. "Just one thing. You can't touch me."

"If you're a germophobe, everything is done very sanitarily. I've got gloves, if you like."

"I'm fine with germs. I just can't have you touch me."

"Why's that?"

He hums, doesn't meet her eyes. "I have my reasons."

She leans back in her chair. This is why they have their half/half policy. "If I can't touch you, I can't do my reading."

"Come on, Bonnie. I have faith in you." He grins, and she'd be remiss if she didn't notice his usage of her name, which she never gave him.

"What's your name, stranger?" He chews on this before telling her. Kai. "Just Kai?"

"Just Kai. Like Cher."

"Tell me, Just Kai, what if I did palm readings? I'd still have to touch you. Tarot, we'd be touching the same deck of cards."

"I told you, it's not about germs. But can we go back to the part where you said you kiss your customers?"

"Clients. And yes, I do. It's part of my-"

"Your method, right. I got that. You mind explaining that method to me? Particularly the kissing part."

"I explain as I do the reading. Since I can't do the reading, you're shit outta luck."

"Well, shit."

They stare at each other for a while. The bulb sways, casting shadows and bringing them to light. She watches him dissect her, take in her shoulder length, chocolate waves, her garnet camisole and probably how she wears nothing underneath it, the way she has her palms pressed together and tucked between her thighs. She does the same. Evaluates his clean cropped hair, the stubble littering his jawline, how relaxed he is, slouching against his own wooden chair. How big he is, his presence.

She's a small woman, curvy for 5'2" but still petite. He's steady over six feet and muscular, however unassuming, but he's filled with boyish energy. She was assaulted by his aura before she first spoke. She can tell it's taking a great deal of control for him to sit still, stay quiet. She knows it's outside his norm.

Her toes rub back and forth against the carpet, waiting. She's technically been paid for her time. She could sit here and stare at him for the next twenty minutes but there could be actual customers she could actually be helping.

Just when she's about to voice this, he slaps his thighs. The noise echoes throughout the vacant room. "Same time next week, then?"

He leaves her with her jaw slack and an odd chill in the air. By the time she's shaken off her stupor and returned to the front of the store, he's already in his car and revving the engine. By the looks of his bumper as he pulls out onto the now clear highway, he's got a car he couldn't possibly afford to drive unless his parents bought it for him.

Greta's already launching into gab about the cute paramedic Tom, whose number she snagged, and Bonnie shakes her head.

"Spoiled, college brat," she mutters before joining Greta in the kitchen for well-deserved cups of coffee.