1976 — Manhattan, New York

   The Ground was packed with drunken guest ready to take their spot on the stage. It was karaoke night, something Frederick thought would be good for The Ground since a drunken audience would like to sweat off the alcohol by dancing and singing on stage. Damon thought it was a stupid idea, but he also thought it would be hilarious to see strangers make fool of themselves in front of a lot of other strangers. So, he sat by the bar with a glass of bourbon in front of him and watched the many strangers take their spot on the stage. There was a half-drunken man on stage, a beer bottle in hand while the microphone was on the other. He was singing "American Pie" by Don McLean. Half of the people were singing along, glasses or bottles raised up the air as if they were trying to toast the man singing. 

   "What about you, Cool Cat?" Freya asked behind him. He turned and looked at her, seeing how she leaned against the counter with her arms pressed together. She was staring at him, a grin on her lips, almost as if she were memorising him from head to torso, because that was the most she could see.

   Damon smirked and laid the now empty glass in front of her. "Another bourbon."

   Freya chuckled and grabbed his glass, rolling her eyes. With an amused smile, she poured the alcohol to his glass. "Anything else?"

   "I'd like for the hot bartender to come home with me," he said, smirking, the glass of alcohol to his lips. He wiggled his brows. 

   "Oh, you wish," she said, smiling at him. "By the way, it's your turn to get the groceries."

   He put the glass down and nodded. "Fine, give me a list."

   Freya pulled out a pen and paper from under the bar, and in neat and big handwriting wrote the list. It included an array of foods, mostly to fill the empty cabinets and fridge. They had been lazy for the past couple of weeks, which meant that the list was long and filled with many things, which also meant that Damon would have to make several trips from the car to the apartment. 

   When she finished writing the list, she handed it to him with an amused smile. With a sigh, he reached for it and read it over. It was a long list, two lines with small squares at the beginning so he could check it out when he got the item. He tsk'd and shook his head. "Freya, we're leaving for your parents in a few days. I'm going to get the ones that we really need." He grabbed the pen and scribbled out the majority of what she wrote.

   "Really?" she groaned. "Why are you taking out strawberries?"

   "Because they will either rot or you will eat them all," he explained, smiling to himself. "Do you know how hard it is to scrub rotten fruit from the fridge?"

   She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't know because it was me that did it."

   "Still," he smiled, "you said it was hard."

   "Fine," she smiled. "If I can't have the strawberries, you can't have the pickles."

   "They're in a jar," he said, making a face. "They are completely different to strawberries, Freya." He tapped the cap of the pen against the paper, watching Freya with a slight annoyed look. He then nodded and glanced down at the paper. "Fine, how about we make a compromise?"

   "Like the one where you asked me to marry you?"

   "Okay, that is an amazing compromise that we both like," he smiled. "This will be another. We can both get what we want. I'll get you frozen strawberries, that way they won't really rot."

   Freya stared at him for a couple of seconds, lips slightly pursed. She pulled away from the counter and nodded, the rag in her her right hand. "Fine. I like this compromise."

   "Me too," Damon smiled. He sat up and leaned over the counter, laying a gentle kiss on her lips. "I'll get the groceries."

   "Don't get any more candy," she said, giving him a smile as she laid her hand on his cheek. "Your stash is not so secret." She laid a peck on his lips and walked away, going to another costumer. 

   Damon made a face, tapped the folded paper against his hand then pushed it into his pocket as he walked out of The Ground. His car was right in front, not even ten paces away. He told them to move, and when they didn't he pushed them out of the way. The grocery store was a high end shop tucked in the corner of West 37th Street, across the Baryshnikov Arts Centre and a car rental agency. What Damon hated the most out of that shop was that a boxed pizza cost him ten dollars, which a boxed pizza shouldn't cost that much. The problem was that Freya said that it was organic, and organic meant healthy. To him, organic meant expensive. 

   The majority of the things Damon put in the cart had something in common, they weren't on Freya's list. One of them being a box of raspberry rugelach cookies, which he munched on as he walked around the store. Of course, they didn't compare to the ones Ioanna Beauchene would make. As he munched on one, of the workers of the store kept eyeing him. He rolled his eyes, pushed the rest of the cookie to his mouth, and told her with a full mouth that he would pay for the box.

   As he walked around the store, he felt someone following him. He would stop every once in a while, pretend to be looking at a product, and steal glances at the man that was close behind. It was a man, dressed to the nines. Lawyer type of guy, Damon noted. He remembered what Will told him a few weeks ago, about the man that went asking for him. The man, from Will's description, was tall, handsome, lots of money, looked like a lawyer. The man that was a few feet behind him seemed to be that guy, until he walked past the vampire with a shopping cart and a big chunky phone to his ear. From the conversation the vampire heard, the man was arguing with his wife about what type of meat should he get.

   Damon scoffed and shook his head, thinking of himself as stupid. He couldn't possibly thing that every lawyer-looking guy was the man that wanted to know about him, even though all lawyers were con-men. The vampire ran a hand through his hair, shook his head, and headed to pay for his things.

   As he drove back to the apartment, back home, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of David Bowie. There was a smile on his lips as he sang along, remembering the times where he and Freya would sing along to the song. He would sing low, but she would belch out the lyrics with a grin on her lips and a laugh ready to escape her throat. It was those small moments where they would laugh until their bellies would hurt, sing until their throats ached, and love the simplest things about each other.

   Somehow, Damon Salvatore had managed to grab hold of four paper bags full of food and carried them up to his apartment. Somehow, he didn't drop anything. He laid the bags on the floor and opened the door, but immediately stopped when a strong scent hit him. He knew the smell well, too well. It was sweet, it was rusty, it was the most delicious thing to a vampire. As soon as he stepped inside the apartment, he vamped out. He tightened his fists by his side and glanced around the room, worried. 

   "Freya?" he called out. There was a shuffling of feet, which made him stop himself from attacking. "Freya, you here?"

   A man came out of nowhere, launching at him. Damon moved out of the way with speed, ready to pounce at the man. When he turned around, the man was no longer there. The vampire went to the hallway and tried to listen to anything that was out of the ordinary. He heard no running, but he did hear the old couple in 32B arguing in Polish. Other than that, there was nothing out of the ordinary. The vampire sighed and walked back into the apartment, but it was still as strong as before. He turned on the lights and stopped moving, his heart thumping against his chest at the thought of death. When he noticed the ten bags on the counter, his heartbeat slowed.

   The entire apartment was covered in blood. There was blood splattered on the carpet, on the counters, on every little thing he could imagine. Slowly, Damon passed a finger through the blood on the counter and pushed it to his lips, savouring the simple liquid that sustained him. He vamped out, veins bulging from beneath his eyes and fangs protruding from his gums. Ever since he moved in with Freya, he had kept a minimum of ten blood bags in the apartment. He couldn't leave every time he was hungry, because he knew that would be suspicious. So, he kept the bags in the back of the fridge, behind an old bag of peas that Freya detested. Once, Freya found them, but he immediately compelled her to forget, compelled her to look over it whenever her eyes laid on it.

   "Shit," Damon muttered, running a hand through his hair as he looked around. He wondered what could he say to Freya if she came back, an excuse for why the house was tinged in red. There was no excuse, nothing he could make up for why the apartment was covered in blood. He hated himself for being a vampire, for needing blood to survive. He hated himself for falling for Freya Beauchene, for causing that to happen in the apartment they had happily shared

   Twelve minutes later, the police, the paramedics, and the firefighters were all over his apartment. The police laid little numbers on the splatters of blood, on anything that looked suspicious. They asked questions to the vampire and he answered them with lies, with a worried and scared tone that would make them believe every little thing he spat. Damon would move his hands to his waist, run a hand through his chin, all while glancing around. When the police turned back to their searching and photographing, the vampire erased the facade of fright and glared at the apartment. He wondered, and wondered, and continued to wonder who the hell would spill blood all over the apartment.

   At first, he thought it could be one of his vampire buddies that wanted to play a joke, but it had gone too far. He then remembered that none of his vampire buddies knew where he lived since he never told them. It was then when he realised that it wasn't a joke, it was an act that wanted to oust him as a vampire to the girl he loved the most. But the act had gone too far, to the point where the police had to be called. 

   "Damon?" a female asked. "Damon?!" She sounded desperate, scared.

   "Ma'am, you can't pass."

   "This is my apartment!" Freya snapped, pushing by the police officer that stood in front of the door. She stopped when she made it inside, dropped her purse, and covered her mouth. "Oh my god... Damon?! Damon!"

   "I'm okay." He walked over to her and laid his hands on her cheeks, making her look into his eyes. "I'm okay." He pecked her lips and pulled her in for a tight hug, her head to his chest so she wouldn't see the blood. 

   "What..." She pulled away from him and ran a hand through her hair. "What the hell happened?"

   "I don't know," he truthfully told her, glancing around. "I came from the grocery store to this."

   "Mr. Salvatore?" One of the police officers questioned, walking over to him. "I'm sorry, but we have to ask this: do you have any people who want to do harm to you or your wife?"

   Damon could give him a long list, by alphabetical order, at the top of his head, eight pages long. Instead of giving the man a list of names by alphabetical order, he shrugged his shoulders and feigned fright. "I-I don't know, man," he said, shrugging his shoulders again.

   The officer turned to Freya. "Do you have anyone in mind, ma'am?"

   "No," she said as she shook her head and glanced around. "I-I don't know." She looked back at the officer. "Do you know how long this will take?"

   "With this much blood, maybe a few weeks," the officer said, giving the couple a tight smile. He turned to Damon. "Are you sure you don't have any enemies?"

   "I already told you, man—no," Damon said, rolling his eyes. "Why do you keep asking?"

   "I take it you didn't see what is written in bedroom," the officer said, nodding slowly. He shook his head, indicating the couple to follow him. 

   The bedroom, just like rest of the house, was covered in blood. It seemed that it took the worse part of whoever's intent. The bed was covered in blood, the carpet, the walls, the dresser, even the window. The dresser, though, seemed to have the most blood, especially on Damon's side. There were fie words written on the mirror: I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE. The vampire wanted to laugh, make jokes about how petty it was that they would leave those words for a human police officer to find. The reason why he couldn't laugh was because of the woman standing next to him with her mouth covered, because of Freya. She was terrified, arms shaking and tears welling in the corner of her eyes. It was the only reason why he couldn't laugh, why he couldn't be amused.

   Freya called Frederick while the officers continued to speak to Damon. Since he was the one that found the apartment in that condition and called them, it was routine for them to ask questions to him. He minded each question, got annoyed at everything they told him. It was only when they were allowed to pack a few things that were untouched by the blood that he found a small bit of comfort. The vampire kept his eyes on Freya, wondering if she was okay. She wasn't, but who would be if they came home to blood splattered at every corner?

   Freya was visibly shaken, annoyed, scared. She moved in a hurry, her arms shaking with each movement that she made. Damon grabbed the shirt from her hands and gave her a small, reassuring smile.

   "Go to the car," he told her. 

   "I have to pack," she said, shaking her head. 

   "Freya, go to the car," he repeated. "I'll finish packing, okay? Just wait in the car."

   She stared at him for a couple of seconds, then nodded and walked away. Damon eyed the empty doorway, sighed, and packed every bit of clothes that were left untouched. He had little, the blood having been spilled mostly on his than on Freya's. It didn't bother him as much since he and Frederick were the same size, miraculously. 

   The ride to the townhouse between 47th Street and Ninth Street was quiet, even when David Bowie began to play on the radio. Freya kept her legs to her chest, eyes wide as she stared far ahead. Damon glanced from the road to her every once in a while, noticing that she didn't move at all. She was shaken, afraid. He blamed himself for that.

   Frederick greeted them at the door with a worried expression, especially towards his twin sister. He eyed her as she walked in, arms wrapped around herself, and eyes darting back and forth as if something would jump out at her. She didn't say anything to her brother, instead she went upstairs to the bedroom that used to belong to her when she lived there. Frederick sighed and turned to the vampire.

   "What happened?"

   Damon shrugged his shoulders. "She's in shock," he told him. "When she arrived, everything was covered in blood."

   "Everything?" Frederick said in disbelief. 

   "Everything," Damon confirmed, nodding. "There were just a few things that were saved. I think we might have to move, man."

   "You can stay here for as long as you need," Frederick said, giving him a small smile. "After all, we're going to be brothers."

   In the bedroom, Freya was laying on the bed with the blankets up to her neck. Damon laid down next to her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him. He laid a gentle kiss on her neck, then on her chin, and finally on her cheek. She turned to him, eyes red and puffy from crying. 

   Damon gave her a smile and brushed away a stray tear on her cheek. "It's going to be okay, Freya," he softly said. "You hear me? I won't let anything happen to you—I promise."