( in no instance is it considered a good time to flit in and out of consciousness, eyes bleary and mouth dry, fighting the very obvious pull of drugs. or at least, what his mind associates the haze with. he’s been dosed enough times over the years to place the disorientation and he’s certainly no stranger to the view of armored guards ( today it’s guards, yesterday it was wolves, tomorrow it’s ______ ). although, what he finds to be the most distressing is that he doesn’t remember being tranquilized with anything and for all intents and purposes, he should have somewhat of a tolerance to vervain as a precaution to something like this.

when he raises his face back up from nodding back off for ten seconds, he realizes he isn’t the only person in the vehicle. stefan, he thinks unbidden, quickly taking in every single face around him ( as much as he can anyway, around the winter gear ) because for a fleeting moment, the fear that lives deep within him isn’t centered around himself.

his brother isn’t on board, neither is elena.

every nerve in his body is singing for action by the time a guard gets close enough to unbuckle him and he can hear every thump, thump of his heart like a megaphone blaring in his ears. except damon can’t move. can’t surge forward with the speed he expects, even as he feels the veins becoming more prominent beneath his eyes and it takes every ounce of strength to suppress it. it takes everything and it just doesn’t make any sense.

and then he’s out in the cold, brisk air, trudging through the snow, propelled forward by the command to get inside. again, his thoughts are on staying in the vehicle, digging his heels in, ripping each of their throats out but he clambers into the cold regardless — body betraying mind.

it’s with a sick, sinking feeling that damon pushes on, waiting for his loophole. compulsion always has a loophole; he’d told katherine as much. as much as he’d like to stay still fuming, he does as he'd told. the rage outlasts the command because of course it does, yet there's nothing he can do about it. once he’s through the threshold, he turns sluggishly ( having more or less completed the order ) and slams his palms against the now closed entrance, sneering. if there’d just been a crack, just a mere few inches, he could have— )

What the hell are you looking at?

( maybe you noticed the way his face shifted back on the vehicle or maybe you’ve convinced yourself that’s some kind of side effect, better yet: a hallucination. maybe you’re just annoyed at the pointless display of aggression. either way, damon’s hands slide off the doors and he pushes away from it, remaining edgy and suspicious of the people he’s locked in with. )

( ugh. you know, there’s a reason he’s not attending college in his current “lifetime” back in mystic falls. his upper lip curls at the dorm room that he’s stepped into, sizing it up and very openly showing his displeasure regarding the whole ordeal. what a lovely shithole. truly. it’s quite plausible that the first room he walks into has three people in it already and that he makes eye contact with each one of them, before loudly announcing: )

Nope.

( and strolling right on back out. actually, he probably repeats that process several times over. feel free to chase him and call him on it. he’s used to a certain standard of living and while yes, he’s been accustomed to less, and he’s endured much, much worse . . . it’s still a shack that looks like it will blow over with the first strong wind of the year in damon’s eyes.

the longer the process goes on, he realizes that it’s slim pickings out here. inevitably, before he makes enemies of the displaced by hastily judging every single one of them, he picks a room and collapses on the first empty bed he sees. ( it might even be that he’s escorted—dragged—there and told to make good with the situation by someone more experienced. and yknow weirdly, he has no choice but to listen and think it’s a good idea for some bizarre reason. )

arms crossed behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles, he waits for his moment. maybe someone’s already in the room with him, quietly minding their business or they’ve just stumbled in. they’re still getting his pleasant suggestion. )

So. How do we feel about arson? ( he’s handling this well if he says so himself. )

( sooner rather than later, he winds up in the kitchen because what the heck else is he going to do? cozy up on a beanbag with some poor slob like they’re his heartthrob at bible camp? like hell he’s doing that. he’s opening up cabinets with an inquisitive eye, scanning their contents, and probably raiding the fridge if there happens to be one ( and it’s stocked ), trying to concoct something remotely edible.

his rummaging isn’t exactly considerate.

he’s purposefully louder than necessary and if he finds ingredients that he deems to have merit, he sets each one of them down with a thud or a clink. what? like other people are supposed to be allowed to relax in this communal area while he’s miserable? come on, that’s ridiculous. it’s a transparent ploy to get anyone close enough to him to strike up a conversation, whether that’s negative or positive is anyone’s guess.

( he’s slept already, so nice try, but you won’t be able to boss him around and tell him to find some chill. )

damon’s restless. he hates small spaces and he despises people and uncertainty even more, and he’s hungry.

so yeah, perhaps it’s possible he doesn’t need to crank on the can opener that hard ( really, a manual can opener in the future??? ) and that it’s not necessary for him to do one little notch at a time, slowly, in a grating sound. if anyone looks up at him from a book or from their film, or their snack, he has a cheery grin for them. )

Oh. Sorry. Am I bothering you?

( come at me with something else if you're not feeling these scenarios. hit me up for plotting at talldarkangay if you want to hash out some details. )