( he can do three cheers for damon’s ruined shirt. it’s going straight to the dumpsters in the sketchier parts of town; he can’t explain away blood stains and an absent stab wound at the tailor’s or the dry cleaners. yes, fashion, that’s what damon’s stewing over with his neck in a vice and blood trickling down his midsection. there are more pressing grievances, like what the heck he’s going to do about this. blood isn’t as easy to come by in new amsterdam and what he’s gotten has been sparingly because he’s not nearly as chatty or as endearing as caroline.

his vision blurs as a consequence of a restricted diet. the kneecap in klaus’ stomach doesn’t go over as planned and fans the flames of anger into something that burns hotter instead. he’s an idiot for thinking it’s still worth it. affecting him in some way is better than nothing, and if he goes out, he’s at least going out the same way he came in: as a nuisance to the world.

he isn’t fighting as relentlessly when klaus rams the wood in impossibly deeper—picking those splinters out is going to be a pain in his ass—and his grip slackens, lips parted with a cry. the only reason he gets free is because klaus deems it, depositing damon on staggering feet. he rights himself with an unstained hand, reaching for a stone column while the other presses into his midsection.

some people have a nifty, chiding voice in their heads that reminds them: know your limits. he isn't one of them. )

Newsflash: we've all been tested, present company included. ( does he sound exhausted? ) They got you. How did they nab you?

All these stories about being some kind of vampire messiah and here you are, just like the rest of us. I guess they didn't get the memo.