@kat-cornwell replied to your post: Someone tell me that reblogging my entire dalaric…
YOU KNOW WHAT I’VE BEEN READING TODAY? DALARIC. PSYCHIC CONNECTION.
Oh no. Is it good? I haven’t read any dalaric fic in so long
It’s some time during Josie and Lizzie’s third month on the planet that Alaric wakes up in hospital because he’s forgotten to eat or drink a glass of water for three days while the girls screamed incessantly for reasons he couldn’t figure out. He wakes feeling good. Rested. And when he realizes it’s because he’s not staring at the cracked ceiling above his bed, or the cornice near the couch, or even the kitchen counter, but at the ceiling of a hospital room, he tries to fling himself physically from the bed.
“Slow down,” comes a familiar voice. “I think they prefer you to have those needles in your arm, not flapping around. Speaking of flapping around. Nice nightgown. More to the point, nice ass.”
Alaric is too stunned to argue, and sits on the edge of the hospital bed. Josie is cradled in Damon’s arms. sucking a bottle down determinedly.
“What are you doing here?”
Damon looks slightly resentful at Alaric’s phrasing. People are supposed to either shoot at him, or be so grateful for his presence that they physically swoon. But he only shrugs, in the end. “Heard you might need some help from someone who doesn’t have either classes or a life. And also isn’t evil.” He considers for a moment. “Or not that evil. Caroline threatened Stefan with a stake if he didn’t get word to me. She and Bonnie found you. Thought you were dead.”
Alaric climbs back under the covers because if his girls are safe… and there’s Lizzie in a crib at Damon’s side, and Alaric is too tired to ask to hold her. It’s not an overall good sign. But safe. And he can crawl back under the blanket for a while. And then there are nurses, and a doctor, and Alaric says if he’s not allowed a pair of pajamas or something that doesn’t leave his ass flapping in the breeze he’s taking the girls and walking home.
In an ancient Duke t-shirt and matching sweats that someone brought in a duffel bag, Alaric eats a proper meal for the first time in a while, and watches while Damon coos over his girls, one after the other. He only rarely looks up, and Alaric has to remember that there was a time when Damon wanted nothing more than this.
“How much do you know about babies?” he asks.
“About as much as you did a year ago,” Damon answers, quite reasonably. Lizzie is fast asleep with her face tucked against his neck, but he’s doing it right, supporting her head. It suits him. The energy that always seems coiled in Damon like an angry snake is gone. Damon kisses Lizzie’s head, and Alaric wonders if he likes the baby smell. It keeps Alaric going, most days, that smell, when he’s got nothing left to go on.
“And you’re staying a while?”
Damon holds Alaric’s eyes for a long minute. “Eat,” he says, and stands up, to put Lizzie back in the cot, on her back, like someone’s talked him through the basics. “How does someone like you forget to eat? The only time you don’t have food in your hand is when you’re actively killing something.”
He shuffles the sheets around Josie’s still body, and perches on the edge of Alaric’s bed to pick at his plate, the way he used to do. Alaric doesn’t bother to argue. Arguing with Damon is like arguing with a cat.
“They’ll let you leave in the morning. Want to play cards? Monopoly? No, you suck at Monopoly. Scrabble. They’re taking the girls in a minute. Make sure you get ten hours.”
Alaric nods because he’s still exhausted and if they wake him crying he might lose his mind.
Scrabble it is, then, until Alaric falls asleep with two Js and a Z on the rack. He’s already won anyway.
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