It really was pathetic. Not some heroic fight, not a dramatic battle between monsters older than the world itself, just a regular pencil shoved straight through the throat by Elijah. And honestly? Damon had brought it on himself. Picking fights with Originals never ended well, but of course his ego had once again been louder than his common sense.

Now Damon sat sprawled across the couch in the dark living room of the boarding house with a bandage wrapped around his neck even though the wound had probably healed hours ago. The bandage was more for dramatic effect than necessity, but that suited him perfectly. A glass of whiskey rested loosely in one hand while the other draped heavily over the back of the couch as he tried to recover from an unbelievably exhausting day. Beside him sat Alaric, equally tired of the chaos surrounding all of them, quietly drinking in the kind of silence shared by people who had already seen far too much.

The mansion was unusually quiet. Lights dimmed low, rain softly tapping against the windows, shadows stretching through the hallways and living room in a way that made the whole house feel heavier than usual. The air smelled faintly of whiskey, old wood, and dampness from the storm outside.

You moved quietly through the hallway almost completely soundless, barely drawing attention to yourself. Only after a moment did Damon lift his eyes from the glass and notice movement near the doorway. Even exhausted, bruised, and slightly drunk, he still looked like someone completely in control of everything around him. His gaze lingered on you for a few seconds longer than it probably should have before he leaned his head back again, as if your presence was the only calm thing left in that entire miserable day.