A Land of Make Believe

Klaus smiled over Max’s shoulder. “There he is.”

Damon stepped into the back room, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. He knew exactly how little effort it would take for Klaus to follow through on the threat already implied by his grip. Damon might have been fast, but Klaus was faster and he only needed to move his hand a few inches. “Let her go.”

“In due time.” Klaus’s attention shifted briefly toward Max before returning to him. “She has visions.” He paused, watching Damon’s face with open amusement. “Your little friend can see the future.”

For one brief second, Damon forgot about the hand around her throat. The strange episodes. The way she sometimes seemed to disappear behind her own eyes. The carefully rehearsed explanations that had never quite fit. His gaze flicked toward Max before he could stop it.

Klaus laughed. “Oh, you didn’t know.” His smile widened, genuinely entertained now. “How delightful. You’ve been so busy hiding your nature from her that you never noticed she was doing precisely the same thing.” His thumb brushed lightly over the pulse beneath his fingers. “Quite a collection of secrets between the two of you, isn’t there, darling?”

Damon’s expression hardened. Questions crowded his mind, but none of them mattered while Klaus was still holding her. “So, are you going to tell me why she’s here, or are you saving that for the grand, life-ruining reveal?”

“The cure.”

Only then did Damon notice the small glass bottle waiting on the nearby table. The scent reached him immediately. Vervain. His attention lingered on it for half a second too long before he looked back at Klaus. “Not much of a bourbon selection.”

Klaus’s fingers shifted against Max’s throat. “Drink it,” he said calmly, “or I’ll tear her throat out.”

The last trace of amusement disappeared from Damon’s face. Klaus wasn’t bluffing. Damon could feel it in the stillness of the room, in the certainty beneath the threat. One refusal and he would be watching blood pour through Klaus’s fingers before he could reach them.

So Damon crossed to the table. His hand closed around the bottle, but he didn’t lift it yet. “She hasn’t seen your cure?” It was an attempt to buy more time disguised as a question...one that didn’t last long enough to produce anything resembling a plan.

“I think watching you suffer may encourage her to try harder.” Klaus’s smile sharpened. “Drink it. Finish it.”

Damon held his gaze for another moment before raising the bottle. The vervain burned the instant it touched his mouth. Fire ripped across his tongue and tore down his throat, violent enough to make his entire body seize. He choked, staggering against the edge of the table as some of the liquid escaped over his chin. Wherever it touched, his skin reddened and blistered. Damon caught himself with one hand, fingers tightening against the wood while the poison spread through his chest.

For several seconds, he could do little more than breathe through the agony. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes returned to Klaus. “And now what?” His voice was barely more than a rasp. “She magically tells you where to find the cure?”

“If she values your life, she’ll find a way.”

Damon slowly pushed himself upright, one hand braced against the table. His posture was unsteady, but his gaze remained sharp. “You need her alive,” he said. “Which means you don’t get to pretend you’re holding all the cards.”

Klaus’s hand shifted higher against Max’s throat. “Careful,” Klaus warned. “Confidence is charming until it becomes stupidity.”

Damon froze. His eyes dropped to Klaus’s hand before lifting to his face again. The pain burning through him receded beneath something colder. “You hurt her,” he said quietly, “and cure or no cure, I will find a way to kill you.”

Damon knew this psychopath? There was some sort of history there, at least, and nothing good, by the sounds of things. She couldn’t even bring herself to truly be surprised, too busy trying not to fully panic. The fear she felt was only being amplified by the dread that was settling more and more heavily in her gut the closer Damon got.

He was in danger, and Max didn’t know how to stop it.

She didn’t fully still when Klaus divulged her visions to him—couldn’t even if she’d wanted to, the need to keep breathing, to keep trying to free herself, trumping everything else—but her heart started beating even faster, guilt practically oozing off of her. Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes as she stared at Damon.

She’d wanted to tell him. So many times, in so many ways.

This wasn’t one of them.

“I—” Whatever she’d planned on saying was cut off with a whimper.

Klaus tutted, tightening his hold on her throat for just a moment. “Hush, love, you’ll get your turn soon enough.”

She watched helplessly as Damon’s fingers curled around the bottle, the alarm bells in her mind screaming warnings. Klaus told him to drink—Max didn’t know what was in that bottle, but she was certain that drinking it was a terrible idea.

“Don’t!” she somehow managed to choke out. It had nothing to do with bravery or self-sacrifice—her self-preservation was strong as ever.

Max didn’t want to die.

She didn’t want Damon to die, either.

“Damon!” She struggled harder, despite not having a clue what she could even do if she somehow magically got free. But Damon was hurt. Whatever was in that bottle was hurting him. Choking him, burning him, and she needed to do something.

Klaus chuckled. A cat toying with a trapped mouse, entertained by its increasingly desperate escape attempts.

Damon was clearly in pain, but he pushed himself back up. She didn’t know if it was bravado or something else, but things were only going to get worse from here—she could feel it, and her feelings were never wrong. She needed to stop this.

She didn’t know how to stop this.

“If she values your life, she’ll find a way.”

She choked on a sob, squeezing her eyes shut. How? How? Max didn’t know how to control the visions. No matter how hard she’d tried over the years, she couldn’t. And now Damon’s life was hanging in the balance, and she was going to get him killed, all because she was too stupid to figure it out.

Klaus’s hand shifting was barely noticed, panic clouding Max’s mind, each breath growing quicker. There was a ringing in her ears, but a few words still managed to make it through.

“Perhaps he requires another drink.”

Her eyes flew open. “No!” Damon looked absolutely murderous. It was a side of him she’d never seen before, but it didn’t matter, right now. All she could focus on was whatever was in that bottle. Damon’s red, blistered skin. The way he still held himself carefully, still unsteady on his feet, despite having straightened.

“No, no, please.” Her voice was strained, though the grip on her throat loosened enough to let her talk. “Please. I’ll…I’ll do it. I’ll find it for you. I’ll find your…cure. I swear I will. Just…don’t hurt him. Please, don’t hurt him.”

Klaus hummed thoughtfully, his free hand toying with a lock of her hair. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that? I distinctly recall a lack of control being mentioned.”

Her mouth opened, only to close again. She could lie. Make something up and hope for the best. But she was a shit liar and she knew it. Klaus was a wildcard—she didn’t know what he might do if he caught her in a lie. It wasn’t worth the risk.

“I…I don’t know.” Something that clearly pained her to admit. “But I’ll figure it out. I’ll figure something out, and I’ll find it. Please just let him go.”

“…No, I don’t think I will.” His tone was light, amused. “We need to keep you properly motivated, after all. So why don’t we all play a little game?” He paused a beat, grinning.

“For every five minutes you fail to find me that cure, Damon here will take another drink. And if he refuses, or tries anything…unsavory…”

DANGERDANGERDANGER! She almost clutched at her head, the warning was so loud. Max sucked in a sharp breath, holding it when two sharp points grazed the skin of her neck, accompanied by hot breath.

His smirk disappeared. When Max admitted she had wanted him to kiss her something tightened sharply in his chest. Not triumph. Not the smug satisfaction she probably expected from him. For once, there was no immediate joke waiting on his tongue. No clever answer designed to keep her from seeing exactly how much her confession affected him. His gaze remained fixed on hers, and the hand at her waist loosened slightly, not pulling away, but making certain she didn’t feel trapped there with him.

“Max.” Her name came out quieter than he intended. His fingers returned to her cheek, gently guiding her attention back to him when her gaze threatened to drop again. He waited until she was looking at him before he continued. “It wasn’t nothing.”

There was no teasing in the words. No evasive smile. “I kissed you because I wanted to.” His thumb brushed softly across the warmth in her cheek. “Because I’ve wanted to for longer than I’m prepared to admit without permanently damaging my reputation.” The faintest trace of humor touched his voice, but it vanished almost immediately. This wasn’t the moment to hide behind it. Not when she had offered him something real and was standing there waiting to find out whether he intended to break it.

Damon’s eyes searched hers. “You were laughing, and you looked happy, and for one second I stopped thinking about all the reasons I shouldn’t do it.” There were plenty of them and somehow, despite every instinct telling him to keep her at a safe distance, she had still become someone he couldn’t dismiss. His jaw tightened faintly. “The joke was me being an ass because that’s easier than answering the question.” His gaze dropped briefly before returning to hers. “It wasn’t me telling you that you’re entertainment.”

His hand slid from her cheek to the side of her neck, touch careful despite the certainty in his voice. “You’re not.” The admission seemed to cost him something. “I’m not going to use you because I’m bored. I’m not going to kiss you just to see whether you’ll let me.” His fingers tightened slightly at her waist. “I meant it.” The words settled between them, stripped of every layer of sarcasm he usually wore.

Damon took a slow breath, his expression softening as he looked at her. “And since apparently we’re confessing humiliating things tonight…” The corner of his mouth lifted, small and almost nervous by his standards. “I like you too. A lot.”

He allowed the admission to remain there without trying to soften it into something meaningless. “More than I should.” That part came quieter. His forehead lowered until it rested gently against hers, though he made no move to kiss her again. Not yet. This time, he left the choice between them instead of taking it from her.

Part of her didn’t want to give it. If she didn’t look, she didn’t have to see whatever might be in his expression. She could hide from the potential rejection and heartbreak.

But Max was an adult, and this wasn’t some stupid game of peek-a-boo. So, she met his eyes. When he spoke again, his words made her heart skip a beat.

It wasn’t nothing.

For once, Damon was being completely serious. He wasn’t making light of the situation, or making sarcastic comments, or cracking jokes. He was being honest and vulnerable. Max couldn’t look away from him even if she wanted to.

The invisible band around her chest disappeared and she could finally breathe again.

“I didn’t—” She bit her lip, feeling guilty for even implying he might treat her that way. “…I’m sorry.” The words were quiet, but honest. “I wasn’t trying to…I don’t really think you’d do that. Use me like that. I just…” She shrugged despite knowing it wasn’t really something to shrug at. “Bad experiences, you know?”

Her lips pulled into a small smile, heart swelling, stomach filling with ridiculous little butterflies. Like a schoolgirl crush all over again.

He liked her. A lot. And was actually admitting it.

Holy shit.

Her eyes closed for a moment when he rested his forehead against her own. She opened them again when he spoke, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over them. Her smile grew. “Okay.”

Her mouth opened, only to shut again. Making light of the situation and teasing about how much it would’ve sucked to try and get over him would ruin the moment. Max didn’t want to ruin it—she wanted to bask in it.

Damon had heard enough lies to recognize one before the speaker finished forming it. Most people gave themselves away with their eyes, their pulse, or the subtle change in their breathing. Max managed all three, then attempted to conceal it by straightening objects that had likely been sitting undisturbed for several decades.

He could have called her on it. Ordinarily, he would have. Damon enjoyed pulling at loose threads, especially when someone tried so hard to convince him there wasn’t anything there to unravel. But whatever Max was protecting had put real fear behind her reaction. Not fear of him, exactly. Fear of being noticed.

That distinction was enough to keep him where he was. “Right,” he said lightly. “Completely spontaneous terror. Happens all the time.” There was skepticism beneath the words, but no accusation. He allowed her the lie without pretending he believed it, which was perhaps the closest Damon ever came to respecting someone’s privacy. Her comparison earned a quiet laugh. “A jungle cat?” His brows lifted, visibly pleased with the description. “Graceful, dangerous, devastatingly attractive. I’ll allow it.”

Damon unfolded his arms, though his movements remained noticeably slower than before. Not exaggerated enough to draw attention to the consideration, but deliberate all the same. The shift in subject was painfully obvious, but Damon let her have that too.

His attention followed hers toward the back of the shop when she mentioned the decanter. Crystal and scotch glasses were safer territory. Predictable. They didn’t flinch, lie badly, or look at him as though he had moved through several missing seconds.

“Now you’re speaking my language.” He pushed away from the wall and took a few steps toward her, stopping beside the table rather than crowding her. His gaze drifted over the antiques she had been rearranging before settling on Max again.

“You found potentially expensive drinking accessories hidden in the back and waited until now to mention them?” Damon placed a hand against his chest, feigning offense. “I thought we were building trust.” There was enough humor in his expression to soften the observation, but the choice of words was not entirely accidental.

His eyes lingered on her for one quiet second. Whatever she had seen or thought she had seen, had unsettled her. Damon was certain of that much. Mystic Falls had taught him that strange reactions rarely came without strange explanations.

Still, he inclined his head toward the back of the shop. “Lead the way, Maxie.” His smile sharpened into something familiar and easy. “I’ll inspect the merchandise and generously allow you to give me a gift.”

He saw too much, and this was one part of herself she couldn’t let him see.

She knew she was a bad liar. No matter how hard she tried, she was never able to make herself convincing enough. Now was no different. He didn’t believe her—unsurprising. Disappointing and frustrating, yes, but still unsurprising.

He didn’t push, though. Aside from the comment that had her jaw tightening, he let it drop. She took a breath.

“’Devastatingly attractive’?” Brows lifting, she finally looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be attracted to jungle cats. Do you think about panthers a lot, Damon? Do I need to stage an intervention?”

Lips twitched with a small, tentative smile, Max turning to face him a bit more fully. Those alarm bells in her mind, the feeling in her stomach, were fading, leaving behind the usual badwrongdangerous feeling that always accompanied him. Like hearing a muffled song through a wall, but not being able to name it. Like he was a threat, but not to her. Not right now.

“You’re lucky I’m telling you at all,” she teased back. The familiar banter made her feel more like she was standing on solid ground. Steadier. “My boss wanted me to put it out on the floor for someone to buy. I procrastinated for you. So, I think the words you’re looking for are thank you, Max.”

Her nose wrinkled at the nickname. She bit her tongue against the urge to tell him she wasn’t a fan of it. How it was a little too close to the way Colton would call her Maxie Pad when he was particularly annoyed with her. The less she reacted to it, she reasoned, the less likely Damon was to keep using it.

He crossed the space between them faster than the moment called for, then seemed to realize it, deliberately slowing his final step. “Without warning?” he continued, forcing a crooked smile. “That’s practically criminal. What if you caught me looking less than devastating?”

He leaned beside her as the image began to form. The kitchen appeared first. The counters, stove, wine bottle, and cabinets sharpened into perfect focus. Every detail was clear. Except him. Damon’s figure was there, but blurred unnaturally, his features distorted beneath a faint haze. It looked as though he had moved while the picture was taken, despite having been standing almost completely still.

His smile faded. Not entirely. Just enough.

Damon stared at the photograph a moment too long, jaw tightening as the image continued to develop. His eyes flicked briefly toward the camera, then back to the hazy outline of himself. “Well,” he said, but the word came out flatter than intended. He cleared his throat and reached for the photograph. “Let me see that.” His fingers closed around the edge before she could examine it too closely. He held it nearer to himself, angling it away under the pretense of inspecting the damage. “The camera’s broken.” The response came quickly. Too quickly.

Damon turned the photograph slightly, studying the perfectly crisp background surrounding his blurred shape. “Obviously,” he added, amusement returning with visible effort. “You spend five minutes putting an ancient camera back together and suddenly you think you’re qualified to operate it.” His eyes lifted to hers, searching her expression for any hint of suspicion.

When he found only curiosity, some of the tension left his shoulders. “Probably something wrong with the shutter,” Damon continued, now settling into the explanation. “Or the film. Or your complete inability to hold the camera steady around me.” He produced a smirk, though it lacked some of its usual ease. “The last one seems most likely.”

His thumb rubbed absently along the photograph’s white border. He didn’t put it back into her hands. Instead, he set it facedown on the counter beside him, casually enough that the gesture might have gone unnoticed.

Damon turned toward the stove again, but his attention wasn’t on the food anymore. He reached for the spoon, then stopped when he realized he had already placed it directly in front of him. A small mistake. Meaningless. Still, it irritated him.

“Anyway,” he said, lifting it and stirring the sauce more firmly than necessary, “this is exactly why I don’t let people take candid pictures of me. Bad lighting. Defective equipment. Photographers who are too distracted to focus.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. There was humor in his expression again, but his eyes remained alert, watching her carefully.

Maybe a smidge of tension in his shoulders, his smile just a bit too wide, the quickness with which he moved from the stove to her. Nothing distinctly unnatural about it, nothing to make her afraid, like that time in the shop, but something that set off warning bells in her mind all the same.

The picture was spat out, slowly developing. It was snatched away from her before she really got a good look at it. Max had enough time to see the strangeness of it, though.

Damon was blurry.

Something that might make sense if the rest of his surroundings were, as well, but everything else was crystal clear. Sharp as could be.

It might even make sense if he’d been moving quickly, but he hadn’t been. At most, he would have been stirring. Maybe turning his head to look at her.

It didn’t make sense.

She frowned, glancing between Damon and the camera, trying to figure out what might’ve caused an effect like that. His explanations were…plausible, but they didn’t feel right.

Maybe he was like her, a little voice whispered in the back of her mind. The small spark of hope it brought with it was not appreciated.

The last explanation he threw at her momentarily caught her off-guard. Saw her sputtering, a light blush colouring her cheeks. “Wha—shut up. I hate to break it to you, Casanova, but you’re not that charming.”

He was, and he absolutely knew it.

Asshole.

He seemed to be serious about not wanting his picture taken, though, no matter how he tried to distract her from it. Which was fine. Max didn’t like having her picture taken, all that much, either. Her reactions were usually a bit more normal than his, though.

Brow furrowing, she watched him for a few more seconds, before carefully putting the camera away in her bag. “Nah.” A peace offering and silent apology in one word. “I’m gonna need less distractions to fix whatever’s wrong with that. Probably better I work on it some other time.” She shrugged.

“Besides,” she picked her wine glass back up and took a sip. “I need to supervise your cooking. I don’t want food poisoning, and I want to be able to make fun of you if you burn something.” Bold words from someone that mentioned hospital and fire department visits just moments ago, but that was sort of the point.

Her apology registered, though. So did the fact that she hadn’t pushed. That was the problem with Max. She noticed things. Worse, she knew when to stop noticing them out loud. Damon reached for the dial and lowered the volume. Not gradually, either. The sudden quiet left a faint ringing behind, filling the car with all the tension the music had temporarily buried.

“Better?” he asked, his voice flat. He glanced toward her briefly before looking back at the road. The apology in her expression took some of the edge out of his irritation, though he wasn’t ready to admit that. “You’re lucky I like this song,” he added. “Otherwise, you’d be walking.” The threat lacked any real weight. They both knew it.

His fingers loosened around the steering wheel by degrees. Damon shifted in his seat, exhaling slowly through his nose. “And you don’t have to apologize.” His tone was quieter now, reluctant. “You asked a question. I responded with the emotional maturity of a teenager and the volume control of an idiot.” The corner of his mouth twitched, though it didn’t quite become a smile.

“Parents aren't exactly one of my favorite conversational topics.” Damon’s gaze remained forward. “Mostly because conversations about tend to turn into people trying to figure out which damaged part of me they can blame on them.” He paused, tapping his thumb once against the wheel.

“For the record, there are plenty to choose from.” The joke slipped in more easily this time, allowing some of the stiffness to leave his shoulders. He glanced at her again, expression less guarded than before.

“It’s fine.” She did her best to keep her tone light. Easy. Not wanting to put any pressure on him to explain himself. “I get it.” Her eyes flit to the way his thumb was tapping. He wouldn’t want her to pity him, or coddle him, or anything like that. But she also didn’t want him to think she was just saying that. She wanted him to know she meant it.

Despite the way her heart fluttered with anxiety, the way her stomach churned whenever she thought of her parents, she opened her mouth and let the words fall out anyways. “I was living in California before here. Left on my eighteenth birthday. Went no-contact with my whole family.”

Max shrugged, like moving to the opposite side of the country hadn’t been a big deal. Like it hadn’t been hard as hell and absolutely terrifying. It’d taken a while, but she’d done it. Gone pretty much as far from her family as she could without actually crossing an ocean.

“I appreciate your possible consideration for my hearing. For the record, though,” she said quietly, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.” And just like that, the subject was dropped.

…That might have been a little too honest, though. She followed it up with a joke to keep the moment from getting too serious. “Well, okay, that’s a lie. There is your ego.” Her tone made it clear she was only teasing. “Seriously, I don’t know how you fit through doorways with that big head of yours.”

“What was what for?” he repeated her question, far too innocently. His eyes dropped briefly to her lips before returning to hers. He could hear the rapid beat of her heart, feel the fingers still curled into his shirt, and the combination made it difficult to pretend the kiss had been entirely impulsive. Not that Damon had ever needed much encouragement to pretend. “The dip?” he continued. “Showmanship. You’re welcome.” His expression softened by a fraction. He tilted his head, studying her as though the answer should have been obvious.

“You were laughing.” The words came quieter than the teasing that had preceded them. Damon’s thumb moved once along her cheekbone before his hand began to lower, though he made no effort to put any real distance between them. “And you finally stopped thinking long enough to enjoy yourself.” His smirk returned, smaller this time. “Seemed like a moment worth ruining.”

He could have stepped away then. Made another joke, retrieved her wine, and allowed them both to dismiss the kiss as one more reckless thing Damon had done without considering the consequences. Instead, his gaze held hers.

Seemed like a moment worth ruining. Another joke (she hoped), but it still had a small pang of hurt making itself known in her chest. Was that really all it was to him? A way to entertain himself? God, she hoped not. But she was too afraid to let herself believe otherwise in case it was. It would only hurt more. Max wouldn’t, couldn’t, do that again—let herself be used for someone else’s pleasure and entertainment.

Damon wasn’t Chase. Wasn’t remotely like him, she knew that, but the fear still lingered.

He flipped the question around on her without actually giving a real answer. Her cheeks flushed darker as she looked away. She didn’t pull away from him, not yet, but as her heart beat faster still, there was a tension in her that hadn’t been there just seconds ago. For a few moments, she stayed quiet. Debating with herself how she wanted to respond.

“I wanted to,” she finally said, voice soft. “I…have for a while.” The words would probably just fuel his ego, but now they were out there—there would be no taking them back. “So I need you to tell me. If this…if that was really nothing, I need you to tell me. Because…I like you. A lot.” Jesus, was she still in high school? It felt immature to say, but she didn’t know how else to say it. I have feelings for you just didn’t feel right.