I love you
The first thing she noticed was the sunlight pouring through the open curtains to the bay window. Throwing her arm over her eyes she groaned out loud. Mondays were always the hardest.
There was no time keeping in their little world, every day was the same. She would wake up to a room drenched in sunlight, groan and roll over, get up, shower, get dressed then head downstairs where he would have pancakes cooking and horrible 90's music blaring.
They would eat breakfast together (she would make the coffee) and do the dishes in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Next they would settle into whatever it was that made them happy here. She would read over her grimoires and he would go outside on the south lawn and bask in the sun and shade alternatively.
Around noon they would reconvene and she would make sandwiches, soup and salad. They would eat again in silence and over the dishes they would make remarks on the weather or the state of the grocery supplies or on whose turn it was for dinner. They never strayed from these few topics, they never met the other with a look in the eye.
Something's were better left buried.
After lunch they would each take to their private projects. She would do painting or some other art form, and he would go down to the local gym and exercise until his legs gave out, toning his body to an ungodly perfection.
When he came home, which he always did, dinner was well on its way. He would pass her, calling out as he hit the stairs, to let her know he was in the house, and go upstairs where he would shower, get dressed and come down.
When he returned a half hour later, he would set the table or take the chicken/roast out of the oven, give the salad a final toss and bring it to the table. On some nights they would pair one of his favorite wines with a dish he prepared and forgo the lights, opting to eat by candle light that she provided.
Those nights were better, they would hang her art out to show and he would nod at it, making appreciative comments and asking appropriate questions about how she came up with the concept. Sometimes, if the mood was right, he would give advice and share a tip from a famous artist that he had met. Those were nights she subconsciously cherished.
Dinner was usually met with a comfortable, sometimes friendly feel to it and made the nights easier for the both of them. He would wash the dishes while she cleaned off the counters, put food away and hummed to herself. He never joined in on her songs, but she could tell he was listening by the way he washed more quietly; careful to avoid sloshing too loud for fear of losing her voice.
When dinner was all settled and everything put away, he would start a fire and offer her a drink. She always refused, preferring to sip at her hot cocoa then to knock back his scotch. They would sit by the fire until they finished their drinks and the last of the coals died down, then she would pass her half emptied cocoa mug off into his outstretched hand, turn around and wave goodnight as she headed up the stairs.
She never heard him whispering softly after her, never saw him watch her with his eyes glued to her frame as she completed all twenty seven stairs, and walked down the hall. She never saw him come to the bottom of the stairs and turn his head to the left, listening as she made her way all the way down the hall and went into the room that was labeled by a painted bird over the second room on the left.
It had become their custom, to leave pretenses in place during the day, to keep up the charade that fell apart every night when he crept into the second room on the left. His room, the room he shared with his wife.
The ceremony had been small, the reception simple, they had bound themselves by heaven and earth, in whatever realm they found themselves and for time everlasting. It was a cosmic event to be sure, the eclipse giving the whole thing a very extraterrestrial feel.
That had been a year ago, and they had long since stopped talking about the past, or even the future. There was no one else in their little world, no interruptions to their well-meaning peace. They had fought long and hard for their peace, their routine; and they knew it so well that she didn't even look up when he came over to his side of their bed.
He had showered earlier and waited downstairs for the customary twenty minute shower she always took and the extra fifteen she needed to get ready for bed. When he had finally made his way upstairs, he was met by the familiar darkness that made the last few minutes of his consciousness actually worth slaving through the day for.
Creeping into the bathroom, he didn't need to see to find his toothbrush and other items of his nightly toilette. When he had finished cleaning up for the night, he took the towel and wiped down the area, cleaning up all the water droplets he left behind and making the bathroom sparkle. Or at least it would sparkle in the sunlight tomorrow morning when his wife woke up.
Leaving the bathroom he edged into the bedroom to find a familiar sight, his wife's prone form as she lay pretending to be asleep.
He knew from months of practice that she never really was a sleep and, climbing into bed with her he scooched over to her side and gently laid a hand on her shoulder. Some nights, she refused to be comforted, preferring the solace of her own mind over his strong shoulders.
Tonight wasn't one of those nights.
As soon as he touched her, Bonnie rolled over to place her head on his chest. He held her shoulders as she cried, mourning afresh the things she had lost, the friends she had left behind, the life she left unfinished.
As her sobs slowed Damon pulled back to look in her eyes, she nodded her head 'yes' she was finished crying for the night. He held her gaze until she placed her head back on his chest again, listening to the tremors in his undead heart.
Every night those tremors got stronger, became more pronounced, and she held back her own selfish hopes that it was because of her. Nevertheless, when he brought his strong hands up to hold her in place, and rested one on her head, she believed his nightly confession.
Damon watched his wife carefully, repositioning them again so that his right arm was under his head and his left hand rested on hers. Propping himself up on their bed like this, he could see her from and angle that glorified everything he loved about her face if she looked up at him.
Patiently, he waited as her breathing returned to even and slowed before he started stroking her hair. From the way their bodies were touching, he could feel it when she adjusted herself so that she could look up at him.
Resting her chin on her hand she gave him a clear view of those gorgeous green eyes. They were framed by swollen red veins and puffy brown skin, but this was the view he loved the most; he rarely got to look at her through the day, when they were living in their own separate miseries.
Her voice was soft, and gentle, despite not being used very often.
He wasn't sure who had started it first, but this was the crowning memory of every day since they'd landed on this empty planet. It was the closing of every night since their wedding, and if he never got tired of one thing, it was their nightly confessional. Sometimes he gave it when she looked up at him like this, softly demanding that she be reminded of what they were committing to. Other times, she evoked it out of him on those rare occasions when she said it first. Still other times it was shouted, as he stared into her eyes, greedily demanding his prize from her mouth, it would be the only coherent words she uttered on those nights.
Later they would look back on these times and think of this place as their own private heaven. They would revisit some of their memories and wonder why they didn't do certain things sooner and why other things were ever done. Pining for these days when everything was quiet, they would wonder if they could ever return to this place of solace and regret the days they spent hating each other, squandering what precious little time they had left.
Still, on this side of those regrets, they live as best they know how, taking each moment one step at a time.
These thoughts were but a flash through his mind as he stared down at the woman who had taken his broken, bruised heart and carefully helped him put the pieces back together. This woman who needed him to rescue her from a different kind of danger, the danger of being forgotten and alone, who everyday reminded him that he would always be in her heart. Bonnie Bennett-Salvator who looked up at him with those green eyes that mirrored his own desires, hurts, and fears of being forgotten by those who loved them, who reminded him that she would never forget him, whispered her own confession with her eyes that needed him so, and he uttered his aloud matching her emotion for emotion.
"I love you".