#tl;dr damon gets frustrated and kicks rocks

[irasceris]

Signals do not get any more mixed than this, he's sure. Further confirmed when he's sent a half stumble backward, forcibly reacquainted with supporting his own weight on the floorboards. He blinks, slow and stupid, trying and failing to figure out how the path from Point A to Point 7 had been a direct one, but Alaric's already halfway across the room when he has the bearings again to just ask. Or, wait. He did that already, and lost out on a real answer and then some. This is Damon's fault, because it usually is, and maybe the push for a magical crash course speed run was a step too far. Many steps too far, the way Ric's shaking an addict, creating as much distance between them like Damon had been the one moving like a man possessed. He opens his mouth and shuts it again twice, wonders when the hell this got so complicated and what could have possibly gone wrong first.

The witch thing might be the tipping point, but it's not the truth. Damon knows that the second it ghosts over his lips. Technically several seconds after, since his mind tends to blank on signs of trouble anytime he's got a warm body pressed over his, but that's beside the point. What he doesn't know is which of his latest attempts at being comforting were entirely the wrong move, or why he's so mind bogglingly bad at this. No need for an extensive play by play of everything going on in Ric's head, even if every flash in his eyes is as tortured and unreadable as the last. Unlike some other very important people in their lives, Damon doesn't carry the inclination to hold him down and force that kind of soul bearing to the surface. He'd sort of like to now, since apparently Ric doesn't trust him enough to get it off his chest even prompted. That's the part that's not sitting well. That's the part that stings.

For the good of the team, he tries to reckon what might actually be justified. It's been a very long time since he was human. Doesn't remember what it's like to very suddenly have immeasurable power coursing under his skin, or how he managed to level it out. Inextricably horny? Maybe. He doesn't appreciate getting jerked around, even if the extraction was entirely necessary, because again, they're. They're working on something. Growth or whatever stupid reason. Ric's the one that planted the idea for Damon to get situated without being so careless about who he's touching on, and here he is unable to contain himself. Should be vindicating - the instant rejection makes it anything but. Paired with his inability to be honest, Damon's seeing a little red. And sure, there's a chance he's overthinking it, but clearly he's been under-thinking everything else, so this seems like the right time to play it safe. Whatever game this is, he's losing. Bad. So. He'll oblige before hurt develops into a really pissy mood like it tends to, and he decides he ought to screw things up on purpose. That he's really good at, but there's two heartbeats pounding horribly out of sync in his ears, and he has no interest in setting the human one off and accidentally killing his best (read, only) friend because he needs to have the last word.

"Sure thing, Ric. Take your time." Curt, flat, and to the point, because he's been trying his damnedest here to be good about, frankly, everything, from the witch stuff to the werewolf stuff to the semblance of human decency stuff, and it's still somehow biting him in the ass. At a certain point this has to be a talent. He doesn't wait for Ric to respond, breezes back down the main way and out the door. Slams it shut for good measure, rattling the frame hard enough to echo a message that he has zero intention of coming back inside. Maybe most of that's the witches' doing. A reminder he's not welcome here, there, or anywhere. Whatever, man. Not his kind of party anyway.

He only gets as far as Ric's car when he remembers he can't vamp speed out of here, which is just more bullshit he's not in the mood to figure out. Breaking something might help, and for a brief moment the windshield is an appealing option. Driving off and leaving Ric to walk would also feel good. For a moment. The combination of both sounds like a recipe for bugs in his mouth, though, so he abandons that pretty immediately. Mostly because he doesn't actually want to do any of those things, just can't temper what part of this is psycho wolf brain and what part is regular grade, psycho Damon brain. Neither are trustworthy. And you know what, neither is Ric. Dawns on him then that his impulse control has found some check, which is a very dim bright side. Does it still count if he doesn’t have an audience? Back to a tree falling in the forest. Might be easier to just burn it down.

He takes a minute, maybe five, trying to sort out what Ric - not present Ric, because that guy's not handling anything well - would do. What he might need to unscrew this particular setback. Maybe he had a point in there. The air outside is clean of any morbid witchy tension, and that helps calm his nerves enough to think of action beyond destruction. There's a couple things he can try. Booze might be the problem but booze is also the solution, where Alaric is generally concerned, so he sighs, fishes the emergency bottle out of the trunk and figures that's a long enough break. He can be cool again. Probably. The front door is heavier this time (for crying out loud, can they get over themselves?) but Damon doesn't bother to step over the threshold. "Hey, asshole," he calls inside, scanning what he can make out under the magic light show, "If you're not jerking off or dead yet, I got something for you. Consider it a grand prize for being a worse liar than Jeremy." And maybe that's sort of an apology, too. Depends on Ric's attitude.

just when he's really wishing damon would say something already, fill the too-tense silence between them with something light and witty and easy to come back from, he finally does. except it's nothing like that. it's nowhere near what he should be giving him right now. nothing anywhere close to enough to distract from the hand brushing down his side, effortlessly summoning a trail of goosebumps in its wake. no, it's so much worse; it's a streak of compassion that ignites something brighter in ric that shouldn't still be burning. never should've started, even. ric can't look at him. he can't even fucking look at him, because the second he does, with damon this close to him, he's going to lose it. every last microscopic shred of his self control, his dignity. gone. "you really don't want me to talk about it," comes his eventual reply, and it should be firm, mechanical, final, but it's actually more like he just sucked on a very violent lemon and he's ready to spit it out at damon's face. "trust me." an unfriendly smile he doesn't mean, aimed at no one in particular. it's getting old, feeling this bitter. he's thirty-three and might as well be going on seventeen for all the ridiculous high school jealousy he's swimming in, no life vest, somebody call the lifeguard already.

and damon. damon, to his endless credit, knows something's terribly wrong here. isn't even pressing the witch issue right now, when he really should be, when ric needs him to so badly that it's almost a tremor in his hands. is a tremor in his hands, fuck. the realization prompts his next mistake: he looks at damon. and damon, god help him, studies him back. ric's gaze traces blue eyes gone wide with something like worry, full lips parted in too familiar a way. maintains just enough presence of mind to turn his own lean-in into something less out of control, ends up pressing his forehead down against damon's in something that feels like it's either more innocent or more obscene than what the alternative could've been. drags in an inhale like an asthmatic who's been running low on oxygen all night. curses damon's freakish ability to pick the worst times to showcase every single lovable part of himself that's normally kept under more careful lock and key. "just coping with this," he releases on the exhale, hot breath on damon's mouth and a dare he won't deliver sitting right on the tip of his tongue. makes them both more comfortable by sliding in a lie: "with the witch thing."

he's too worked up. he pushes away from damon, takes several steps away, down to the other end of the room, searching for a paranormal cold spot to act as a stand-in for a spontaneous cold shower. contemplates everything wrong with himself in the cobwebs running along a filthy baseboard. waits for his pulse to settle down, or for the heart attack to find him, or for damon to point out that he can hear it all, actually, with his wolf senses. isobel, he also thinks absurdly and out of nowhere, would have a field day with where he's ended up. "jesus, man, i'm losing it. sorry. it's the drinks, or all the old witch energy." flattens a knuckle against the middle of his forehead, a pisspoor effort to fend off the miniature headache building there. "why don't you go? i'll just stick around, meditate, see what i can dig up myself. they're probably not showing because they're a bunch of crazy cat ladies, and you're killing the atmosphere."