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[Vampire Diaries] A Normal Life (Chapter 19)
Title: A Normal Life
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Universe: A Normal Life
Relationships: platonic Damon+Stefan, Damon/Bonnie, Stefan/Elena, and Jenna/Alaric
Summary: In one week, Damon would defend his thesis, and in one week, he'd go down as the man who told everyone vampires can't feel a thing.
Notes: An earlier draft of the version posted up on FF.net! I'm not too sure what the big differences are, but I figure if it's on my journal, it might as well be here for posterity's sake.
In one week, he would defend his thesis, and in one week, he would go down as the man who believed vampires were heartless. Damon wasn't sure how much further he could descend into the abyss without it staring back at him.
Bonnie had to show up and prove him wrong. She had to kiss him like her un-life depended on it, and of course, she had to force him to re-evaluate everything and everyone he had ever known. Mom and Dad had hated vampires for a good reason - and now, he was questioning that vitriol? That subdued silence that always happened every time Stefan had dressed up as Edward Cullen for Halloween, on Elena's orders?
(Okay, it was partially subdued silence, but also so they wouldn't laugh at him as loud. The glitter stuck to him for weeks!)
Ever since that night, Damon and Bonnie had awkwardly avoided each other, dancing around social circles so their eyes wouldn't meet. In a town of six thousand-something, people talked. Rumors were spreading, and none of them particularly flattering.
"I know you don't get along with Caroline, so you avoiding a teenage girl is nothing new," Stefan was saying, as he and Damon headed into the Grille, "But what on Earth did you tell Bonnie?"
"I told you, she hated my thesis." Damon shrugged, walking a little faster and stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"For a whole week?" Stefan pressed his lips together. "Was it related to you-know-what?"
Honestly, this was far deeper than conflicts about magic and blood-sucking. She'd spit on his life's work, insisting that his blood and sweat wasn't anywhere near enough - and for what? To change something that couldn't be altered this late in the game? He was earning that master's one way or another, Bennett's opinion be damned.
"Not this time," Damon settled on saying as they walked inside.
Stefan's sigh was a judgmental one. "If you say so. I'll catch up with you later?"
Damon tossed him the car keys, watching as his kid brother joined some classmates (including Elena) on the other side of the restaurant. The bar wasn't exactly his usual spot, but it felt right. So right that he called for an order of their finest bourbon.
The bartender slid over a glass and moved to pour the bourbon. Without thinking, Damon snatched the bottle from the guy and took a swig. He couldn't remember the last time he'd nursed his wounds with alcohol, let alone store-bought booze.
Why spend money on bourbon when he could synthesize a batch of hard cider? The Mansours had perfected their apple cider recipe to an art: it soothed even the worst of physical injuries. Bourbon, on the other hand, echoed back memories of Lockwood Cider. He could hear his father’s stern – and concerned – voice in the back of his brain.
“You’re better than this, Damon,” his father would have insisted, with disappointment in his eyes. Then again, his father should’ve allowed him to travel – to run away from this place. “You don’t need bourbon as a crutch—”
“Sure I do,” Damon grumbled to empty air as he downed what remained of the bottle. As far as the world was concerned, he had turned in his thesis, and he was going to graduate with honors. He hadn't written a scientifically incorrect paper. He hadn't avoided Bennett, or anything orange-scented, for a whole week and a day. The Augustine Society would love his thesis, but at what cost? Perpetuating a stereotype that shouldn’t have existed in the first place?
He ordered another bottle, and another - anything to drown out the laughter of the kids across the room, and the high-pitched (inane) gossip of the PTA behind him. This town was on a whole different wavelength, and for one moment, Damon wanted no part of it.
Matt shot him wary, judgmental looks from the other side of the bar, but Damon couldn’t find the energy to care. Right as Damon started on what was his third or fourth bottle, Matt’s hands were already blocking him from pouring.
“You look like a wreck.”
Damon cast him a sideways glance. "I don't pay you to care, Donovan."
“Oookay then.” Matt snatched the bottle back, setting it underneath the counter. "I think that's enough for the night."
"Since when do you get to decide?"
"Since your brother became your designated driver." Matt leaned forward, staring at him with those dumb, worried, baby blues that made him look too innocent. "Don't make poor Stef clean up after you - and look, let me get you some fries, on the house. That'll get the booze out of your system faster."
"On the house? That’s awfully generous.” He tried to push back against the counter; instead, he wobbled closer towards it. Of all the times for him to turn into a dumb lightweight too.
“You brought my sister back.” Matt shook his head with relief as he poured Damon a tall glass of ice water. “She’s coming home for Christmas with her friend Lexi – and man, that was all because of you and Bonnie. I can't repay you enough."
“Uh-huh.” Damon couldn’t trust this generosity – not when it was separating him from his precious bourbon. He sulked, resting his arms on the counter. “So, tell me, Donovan, how’s your friend liking therapy?”
“Pretty well. How come?”
“You’re actually going? Consistently?”
Matt raised an eyebrow. “My friend has been, yeah. It’s helping.”
“Good on him.” Damon meant it too. When he had recommended therapy – and even provided that list – all those months ago, he hadn’t expected Donovan (er, Donovan’s friend) to follow through. “Maybe I should take my own advice.”
“Probably. Booze doesn’t make the best medicine – or so I’ve been told.”
Damon scowled, staring into the empty bottles of bourbon, smudged with his dirty handprints. Matt pretended to ignore the death glare as he tended to other customers. This scene felt all too familiar, except it didn’t – Damon rarely frequented bars. They couldn’t afford it in Boston; instead, he and his friends pre-gamed in tiny dorm rooms before rushing to the clubs and bars with illegal IDs. This wasn’t his life.
He was borrowing someone else’s nervous tics until he could regain his composure long enough to function. As Damon swished his glass, watching the ice clink against the surface, he couldn’t help laughing at the whole situation. He had eschewed two whole years of work for – for booze? To earn a reputation as Zach and Leila’s wayward son? He could picture the disappointment on their faces now: their dutiful son was really their prodigal son, wasting away on a diet of bourbon and black tea.
Bennett had to ruin the grand illusion. She had to disprove his thesis with one stupid kiss; she just had to pretend that she was a teenager, coyly flirting with Lockwood as they walked inside behind him. Damon gritted his teeth, trying to ignore their banter.
Tyler was unnecessarily loud too, whining about their upcoming History exam. Bonnie was giggling at something he had said, turning to find a table. Their eyes met, for the briefest of seconds, only for Bonnie’s smile to disappear.
She marched up to the bar and slammed her hand down on the counter. Her citrus perfume (body lotion?) was strong yet soothing - a combination that unsettled him more than the bourbon.
“You’re drinking? Now?” Judgment colored her voice as her gaze fell towards his glass of water. “Isn’t it a little early for vodka?”
“It’s water, Bonnie,” Matt called from the other end of the restaurant.
Bonnie breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I just…. I thought…”
“Thought what? That I was becoming an alcoholic?”
“The only thing you’re missing is a black leather jacket,” she said with a snort. As she scrutinized him – rather, scrutinized his gray linen blazer and his black and light blue screen-printed t-shirt, her lips crinkled up in the faint imitation of a smile.
Technically, he owned a few. For the past few Halloweens, he donned one when he pretended to wield a gunblade – and in college, he’d worn them whenever he went bar-crawling. Now, he had a professional image to maintain. That image didn’t exactly coincide with black leather.
He shrugged, trying to affect nonchalance. “I must’ve missed the memo.”
“You miss a lot of memos.” Bonnie's shoulders sank with relief. “I… well, I should get going.”
She slipped back towards Tyler’s table right as Matt returned with a steaming hot plate of French fries. Damon reached for the first fry, blowing on it before he took that first bite and—
“What happened between you two?” Matt placed a hand on his hip as he glanced towards his classmates. “Bonnie’s been acting weird, and you’ve been weirder than usual, so… the logical conclusion…”
“You’re reading too much into it.” Damon reached for another fistful of fries. “I didn’t do a thing.”
His phone buzzed with a text. Strange, he wasn’t expecting one at this hour---
Can you come here? please???
Elena found out she's adopted, and she's mad at me for not telling her sooner
I don't know what to do, Day
I fucked up. I fucked up real bad.
Damon reached into his pockets and pulled out a wadful of cash. Slamming it onto the counter, he rose to his feet and snagged the basket of fries.
Matt raised an eyebrow. "Where're you going with that?"
"Jenna's," Damon said, not bothering to turn back. "Keep the change, or use it to pay off my booze tab, or.... something. I'll see you later."
As far as Damon, Jenna, and Mason were concerned, Elena's adoption was an open secret. No one talked about it, at Uncle Grayson's and Aunt Miranda's request, but everyone knew Miranda had never been pregnant. (Jeremy's birth? Total fluke. Like Uncle Grayson and Aunt Miranda had never imagined having children of their own, until he arrived into the world.)
Plus, blood didn't define family. Elena would always be Uncle Grayson's and Aunt Miranda's, even if they didn't give birth to her. They raised her. They shared everything on the emotional rollercoaster of life, from dumb family traditions to serious plans and commitments for the future.
Damon had always figured, they'd talk about it when Elena was older. Older meaning way past high school graduation, not two whole years before it.
By the time he reached the Gilberts' front porch, the booze was mostly out of his system, and the fries were getting cold, but he was here. Right where Jenna wanted him.
He took a breath before ringing the bell. "Jenna? ... Elena? Anyone home?"
The door swung open as Jenna rushed to greet him. "Thank you, thank you! Ooh, and you brought fries!"
When she wrapped her arms around him tight, Damon almost thought he'd drop them. Almost, because he was still a bit wobbly from the bottles of bourbon.
He let go, handing the fries over to her. "Of course I did. Jenn, what happened?"
"Someone - Elena won't say who - figured out that Elena's parents weren't Grayson and Miranda. I know, you know, Uncle Zach and Aunt Leila know... who could've told her?"
Good question. Damon racked his brain of the short list of people that would even think to mention this to her - Jenna, Damon, Mason, his parents, and maybe Aunt Sheila. If Aunt Sheila knew, then Bonnie would know, and---
That was too cruel, even for Bonnie. Even so, he hastily texted her (having acquired her number from a certain kid brother a long time ago):
nope. explains why she was so sad though :(
i thought you did???
she's really torn up.
if you didn't tell her, is it possible stefan might've? he looks pretty guilty rn
Jenna shot him a confused look, in-between fistfuls of fries. "What's up? You look as torn as I feel right now."
"Stefan told her." Damon tucked his phone back in his pocket, walking with her towards the kitchen. "I should've guessed. If I knew, and Mom and Dad knew, it was only a matter of time before my baby bro would've spilled his guts out."
"What prompted it, you think?"
Any number of things, really - why Pearl kept mistaking Elena for Katherine; why Bonnie was so interested in the Gilberts to begin with; or even why Stefan was engrossed in the wonderful world of alchemy. Damon couldn't begin to guess Stefan's breaking point. Funny, because his brother was an open book. No matter how sullen Stefan acted, or how much he groaned about the world, he genuinely cared. He cared too much, with a heart that could potentially contain the world.
The kid still wore his heart on his sleeve, and it was only a matter of time before someone ripped it to pieces.
"Not sure," Damon admitted. "Could be multiple somethings. I'd have to ask him." There was a small pause, before he asked, "How... how do you think you screwed up, Jen?"
She sighed, staring down at her now-empty basket of fries. "Elena asked why I never told her, and I said they never wanted me to, and she grilled me for everything I knew - and all I had? Was her name. Isobel."
"Which is still more than I had." Damon flopped onto the couch, motioning for Jenna to join him. "What do you think she's gonna do with it?"
"It's not what she's gonna do, it's what she wants me to do. I'm supposed to dig through old medical records - logs, appointment books, anything that could glean a bit of information."
"So they're not going to run off to find her?" Damon winced - in hindsight, tossing the keys to Stefan hadn't been the smartest idea.
Jenna leaned into him, nestling her head against his chest. "I hope not. There's a lot of Isobels out there."
Here they were, falling back into a predictable (and yet comforting) pattern. Jenna stressed, and he consoled her until the danger had safely passed every single time. Were Mason here, someone would've brightened the mood with an ill-timed joke or three, but when it was just them--
"They'd better stick around. Midterms're coming up soon," Alaric's voice called from the kitchen. Coming into the den with three mugs of hot tea, he slid them across the coffee table. "I'm not thrilled about failing two of my best students."
"Me either. Stefan's got his heart set on Harvard." Damon glanced up at Alaric, motioning for him to join them on the couch.
Alaric did - on the exact opposite end. So Damon tugged at his acquaintance's arm, pulling him back towards the cuddle pile until Jenna was nestled in the middle of their Damon-and-Alaric sandwich.
"Aww, cuddle party?" Jenna wrapped her arms around Alaric's, smiling up at the guy like he was her moon and stars, and maybe even a knight in shining armor.
To an extent, Damon could see it: Alaric had that blinding smile, and the blonde hair and warm eyes that would make a woman (and some men) swoon. Problem was, Damon didn't buy the act. Underneath that armor, Alaric was hiding some serious Issues, and they were far more sinister than Damon could've imagined.
"Cuddle party," Damon answered with a grin. "Sorry, Ric - Jenna's a package deal."
Alaric snorted. "I figured that out a long time ago. So, how can we help?"
"You're helping right now," Jenna said, stifling a yawn as she curled up close to her boys.
Damon was this close to pushing them off the couch, even if he had initiated the cuddle party. He was the third wheel, and everyone on this couch knew it. "Elena was born on June 22nd, right? In 1992? I'd look around that week, see if anyone with the name Isobel checked in."
Alaric shot him an impressed look. "You remember her birthday?"
"I remember all of their birthdays, Ric."
Birthdays were sacred, in their own right: they were the one day of a year Damon could cherish the people he cared for without looking like a total sap. Sure, in public, he acted as if he never knew their special day. Just like he didn't know their favorite kinds of coffee, or how they took their tea, or even what music would annoy them to the point of anger.
(With Stefan, it was always the Little Mermaid Broadway soundtrack. Always.)
Jenna's soft snoring escaped her lips as she fell onto Alaric's lap. Resisting the urge to laugh, Damon pried himself off the cuddle pile and back onto his feet.
"Remind her in the morning," Damon said, grabbing a mug and taking a sip. Mm, English Breakfast. "I've got a feeling she'll be sleeping for a while."
Alaric pushed back strands of Jenna's hair. For a second, a wistful look remained on his face as he watched over his girl - and for a second, Damon was jealous of them.
"Her birth mom's name was Isobel, wasn't it? My wife was from around here. I wonder if..." Alaric's voice grew dry.
The thought had briefly entered Damon's mind, considering that Elena's mirror image had murdered Isobel - but it would be a huge coincidence. Then again, did coincidences exist in their world? Or was everyone connected to each other with long, twisted strings that pulled at each other at the worst possible moment?
"Wouldn't she have told you?" Damon handed over one of the mugs to Alaric. "I feel like that's the kind of conversation you have before marriage."
Alaric took a sip. "A guy would hope, right? But I'm starting to realize that my wife had more than a few secrets rattling around in her closet, and none of them good."
Some questions were best left unasked, Damon realized as he looked back at Alaric. He couldn't drudge up the past, if it would only cause further heartbreak and misery - nor could he willingly keep Jenna in the dark much longer.
After a few seconds of deliberation, Damon finished the last of his mug. "Would you... would you mind looking into it? Check with her old childhood friends, see if you can get the ball rolling?"
"Easily." Alaric's smile didn't quite reach his eyes this time. "In the meantime, don't wear yourself out. Your thesis defense's coming up, isn't it?"
"I can multi-task." Damon shrugged, turning towards the kitchen. "Take care of her for me until then, okay? No trying to kill her too?"
"That was one time," Alaric protested in vain, as Damon set his mug in the kitchen sink. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"
"What, and stop using the one good piece of blackmail I have?"
Alaric was a nutcase if he ever believed Damon would forgive and forget so easily. Forgive, sure - but forget? Forgetting was for chumps who could afford to lose a few brain cells.
In one week, he'd defend his (stupid, no longer valid) thesis, and hopefully in one week, this would all blow away during the Christmas holidays. God knows that for once, they could all use some good cheer.
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Universe: A Normal Life
Relationships: platonic Damon+Stefan, Damon/Bonnie, Stefan/Elena, and Jenna/Alaric
Summary: In one week, Damon would defend his thesis, and in one week, he'd go down as the man who told everyone vampires can't feel a thing.
Notes: An earlier draft of the version posted up on FF.net! I'm not too sure what the big differences are, but I figure if it's on my journal, it might as well be here for posterity's sake.
In one week, he would defend his thesis, and in one week, he would go down as the man who believed vampires were heartless. Damon wasn't sure how much further he could descend into the abyss without it staring back at him.
Bonnie had to show up and prove him wrong. She had to kiss him like her un-life depended on it, and of course, she had to force him to re-evaluate everything and everyone he had ever known. Mom and Dad had hated vampires for a good reason - and now, he was questioning that vitriol? That subdued silence that always happened every time Stefan had dressed up as Edward Cullen for Halloween, on Elena's orders?
(Okay, it was partially subdued silence, but also so they wouldn't laugh at him as loud. The glitter stuck to him for weeks!)
Ever since that night, Damon and Bonnie had awkwardly avoided each other, dancing around social circles so their eyes wouldn't meet. In a town of six thousand-something, people talked. Rumors were spreading, and none of them particularly flattering.
"I know you don't get along with Caroline, so you avoiding a teenage girl is nothing new," Stefan was saying, as he and Damon headed into the Grille, "But what on Earth did you tell Bonnie?"
"I told you, she hated my thesis." Damon shrugged, walking a little faster and stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"For a whole week?" Stefan pressed his lips together. "Was it related to you-know-what?"
Honestly, this was far deeper than conflicts about magic and blood-sucking. She'd spit on his life's work, insisting that his blood and sweat wasn't anywhere near enough - and for what? To change something that couldn't be altered this late in the game? He was earning that master's one way or another, Bennett's opinion be damned.
"Not this time," Damon settled on saying as they walked inside.
Stefan's sigh was a judgmental one. "If you say so. I'll catch up with you later?"
Damon tossed him the car keys, watching as his kid brother joined some classmates (including Elena) on the other side of the restaurant. The bar wasn't exactly his usual spot, but it felt right. So right that he called for an order of their finest bourbon.
The bartender slid over a glass and moved to pour the bourbon. Without thinking, Damon snatched the bottle from the guy and took a swig. He couldn't remember the last time he'd nursed his wounds with alcohol, let alone store-bought booze.
Why spend money on bourbon when he could synthesize a batch of hard cider? The Mansours had perfected their apple cider recipe to an art: it soothed even the worst of physical injuries. Bourbon, on the other hand, echoed back memories of Lockwood Cider. He could hear his father’s stern – and concerned – voice in the back of his brain.
“You’re better than this, Damon,” his father would have insisted, with disappointment in his eyes. Then again, his father should’ve allowed him to travel – to run away from this place. “You don’t need bourbon as a crutch—”
“Sure I do,” Damon grumbled to empty air as he downed what remained of the bottle. As far as the world was concerned, he had turned in his thesis, and he was going to graduate with honors. He hadn't written a scientifically incorrect paper. He hadn't avoided Bennett, or anything orange-scented, for a whole week and a day. The Augustine Society would love his thesis, but at what cost? Perpetuating a stereotype that shouldn’t have existed in the first place?
He ordered another bottle, and another - anything to drown out the laughter of the kids across the room, and the high-pitched (inane) gossip of the PTA behind him. This town was on a whole different wavelength, and for one moment, Damon wanted no part of it.
Matt shot him wary, judgmental looks from the other side of the bar, but Damon couldn’t find the energy to care. Right as Damon started on what was his third or fourth bottle, Matt’s hands were already blocking him from pouring.
“You look like a wreck.”
Damon cast him a sideways glance. "I don't pay you to care, Donovan."
“Oookay then.” Matt snatched the bottle back, setting it underneath the counter. "I think that's enough for the night."
"Since when do you get to decide?"
"Since your brother became your designated driver." Matt leaned forward, staring at him with those dumb, worried, baby blues that made him look too innocent. "Don't make poor Stef clean up after you - and look, let me get you some fries, on the house. That'll get the booze out of your system faster."
"On the house? That’s awfully generous.” He tried to push back against the counter; instead, he wobbled closer towards it. Of all the times for him to turn into a dumb lightweight too.
“You brought my sister back.” Matt shook his head with relief as he poured Damon a tall glass of ice water. “She’s coming home for Christmas with her friend Lexi – and man, that was all because of you and Bonnie. I can't repay you enough."
“Uh-huh.” Damon couldn’t trust this generosity – not when it was separating him from his precious bourbon. He sulked, resting his arms on the counter. “So, tell me, Donovan, how’s your friend liking therapy?”
“Pretty well. How come?”
“You’re actually going? Consistently?”
Matt raised an eyebrow. “My friend has been, yeah. It’s helping.”
“Good on him.” Damon meant it too. When he had recommended therapy – and even provided that list – all those months ago, he hadn’t expected Donovan (er, Donovan’s friend) to follow through. “Maybe I should take my own advice.”
“Probably. Booze doesn’t make the best medicine – or so I’ve been told.”
Damon scowled, staring into the empty bottles of bourbon, smudged with his dirty handprints. Matt pretended to ignore the death glare as he tended to other customers. This scene felt all too familiar, except it didn’t – Damon rarely frequented bars. They couldn’t afford it in Boston; instead, he and his friends pre-gamed in tiny dorm rooms before rushing to the clubs and bars with illegal IDs. This wasn’t his life.
He was borrowing someone else’s nervous tics until he could regain his composure long enough to function. As Damon swished his glass, watching the ice clink against the surface, he couldn’t help laughing at the whole situation. He had eschewed two whole years of work for – for booze? To earn a reputation as Zach and Leila’s wayward son? He could picture the disappointment on their faces now: their dutiful son was really their prodigal son, wasting away on a diet of bourbon and black tea.
Bennett had to ruin the grand illusion. She had to disprove his thesis with one stupid kiss; she just had to pretend that she was a teenager, coyly flirting with Lockwood as they walked inside behind him. Damon gritted his teeth, trying to ignore their banter.
Tyler was unnecessarily loud too, whining about their upcoming History exam. Bonnie was giggling at something he had said, turning to find a table. Their eyes met, for the briefest of seconds, only for Bonnie’s smile to disappear.
She marched up to the bar and slammed her hand down on the counter. Her citrus perfume (body lotion?) was strong yet soothing - a combination that unsettled him more than the bourbon.
“You’re drinking? Now?” Judgment colored her voice as her gaze fell towards his glass of water. “Isn’t it a little early for vodka?”
“It’s water, Bonnie,” Matt called from the other end of the restaurant.
Bonnie breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I just…. I thought…”
“Thought what? That I was becoming an alcoholic?”
“The only thing you’re missing is a black leather jacket,” she said with a snort. As she scrutinized him – rather, scrutinized his gray linen blazer and his black and light blue screen-printed t-shirt, her lips crinkled up in the faint imitation of a smile.
Technically, he owned a few. For the past few Halloweens, he donned one when he pretended to wield a gunblade – and in college, he’d worn them whenever he went bar-crawling. Now, he had a professional image to maintain. That image didn’t exactly coincide with black leather.
He shrugged, trying to affect nonchalance. “I must’ve missed the memo.”
“You miss a lot of memos.” Bonnie's shoulders sank with relief. “I… well, I should get going.”
She slipped back towards Tyler’s table right as Matt returned with a steaming hot plate of French fries. Damon reached for the first fry, blowing on it before he took that first bite and—
“What happened between you two?” Matt placed a hand on his hip as he glanced towards his classmates. “Bonnie’s been acting weird, and you’ve been weirder than usual, so… the logical conclusion…”
“You’re reading too much into it.” Damon reached for another fistful of fries. “I didn’t do a thing.”
His phone buzzed with a text. Strange, he wasn’t expecting one at this hour---
Can you come here? please???
Elena found out she's adopted, and she's mad at me for not telling her sooner
I don't know what to do, Day
I fucked up. I fucked up real bad.
Damon reached into his pockets and pulled out a wadful of cash. Slamming it onto the counter, he rose to his feet and snagged the basket of fries.
Matt raised an eyebrow. "Where're you going with that?"
"Jenna's," Damon said, not bothering to turn back. "Keep the change, or use it to pay off my booze tab, or.... something. I'll see you later."
As far as Damon, Jenna, and Mason were concerned, Elena's adoption was an open secret. No one talked about it, at Uncle Grayson's and Aunt Miranda's request, but everyone knew Miranda had never been pregnant. (Jeremy's birth? Total fluke. Like Uncle Grayson and Aunt Miranda had never imagined having children of their own, until he arrived into the world.)
Plus, blood didn't define family. Elena would always be Uncle Grayson's and Aunt Miranda's, even if they didn't give birth to her. They raised her. They shared everything on the emotional rollercoaster of life, from dumb family traditions to serious plans and commitments for the future.
Damon had always figured, they'd talk about it when Elena was older. Older meaning way past high school graduation, not two whole years before it.
By the time he reached the Gilberts' front porch, the booze was mostly out of his system, and the fries were getting cold, but he was here. Right where Jenna wanted him.
He took a breath before ringing the bell. "Jenna? ... Elena? Anyone home?"
The door swung open as Jenna rushed to greet him. "Thank you, thank you! Ooh, and you brought fries!"
When she wrapped her arms around him tight, Damon almost thought he'd drop them. Almost, because he was still a bit wobbly from the bottles of bourbon.
He let go, handing the fries over to her. "Of course I did. Jenn, what happened?"
"Someone - Elena won't say who - figured out that Elena's parents weren't Grayson and Miranda. I know, you know, Uncle Zach and Aunt Leila know... who could've told her?"
Good question. Damon racked his brain of the short list of people that would even think to mention this to her - Jenna, Damon, Mason, his parents, and maybe Aunt Sheila. If Aunt Sheila knew, then Bonnie would know, and---
That was too cruel, even for Bonnie. Even so, he hastily texted her (having acquired her number from a certain kid brother a long time ago):
Hey, Bennett.
Did you spill the beans about Elena being adopted?
nope. explains why she was so sad though :(
i thought you did???
don't even try to pin the blame on me. i was going to take this to my grave.
she's really torn up.
if you didn't tell her, is it possible stefan might've? he looks pretty guilty rn
Jenna shot him a confused look, in-between fistfuls of fries. "What's up? You look as torn as I feel right now."
"Stefan told her." Damon tucked his phone back in his pocket, walking with her towards the kitchen. "I should've guessed. If I knew, and Mom and Dad knew, it was only a matter of time before my baby bro would've spilled his guts out."
"What prompted it, you think?"
Any number of things, really - why Pearl kept mistaking Elena for Katherine; why Bonnie was so interested in the Gilberts to begin with; or even why Stefan was engrossed in the wonderful world of alchemy. Damon couldn't begin to guess Stefan's breaking point. Funny, because his brother was an open book. No matter how sullen Stefan acted, or how much he groaned about the world, he genuinely cared. He cared too much, with a heart that could potentially contain the world.
The kid still wore his heart on his sleeve, and it was only a matter of time before someone ripped it to pieces.
"Not sure," Damon admitted. "Could be multiple somethings. I'd have to ask him." There was a small pause, before he asked, "How... how do you think you screwed up, Jen?"
She sighed, staring down at her now-empty basket of fries. "Elena asked why I never told her, and I said they never wanted me to, and she grilled me for everything I knew - and all I had? Was her name. Isobel."
"Which is still more than I had." Damon flopped onto the couch, motioning for Jenna to join him. "What do you think she's gonna do with it?"
"It's not what she's gonna do, it's what she wants me to do. I'm supposed to dig through old medical records - logs, appointment books, anything that could glean a bit of information."
"So they're not going to run off to find her?" Damon winced - in hindsight, tossing the keys to Stefan hadn't been the smartest idea.
Jenna leaned into him, nestling her head against his chest. "I hope not. There's a lot of Isobels out there."
Here they were, falling back into a predictable (and yet comforting) pattern. Jenna stressed, and he consoled her until the danger had safely passed every single time. Were Mason here, someone would've brightened the mood with an ill-timed joke or three, but when it was just them--
"They'd better stick around. Midterms're coming up soon," Alaric's voice called from the kitchen. Coming into the den with three mugs of hot tea, he slid them across the coffee table. "I'm not thrilled about failing two of my best students."
"Me either. Stefan's got his heart set on Harvard." Damon glanced up at Alaric, motioning for him to join them on the couch.
Alaric did - on the exact opposite end. So Damon tugged at his acquaintance's arm, pulling him back towards the cuddle pile until Jenna was nestled in the middle of their Damon-and-Alaric sandwich.
"Aww, cuddle party?" Jenna wrapped her arms around Alaric's, smiling up at the guy like he was her moon and stars, and maybe even a knight in shining armor.
To an extent, Damon could see it: Alaric had that blinding smile, and the blonde hair and warm eyes that would make a woman (and some men) swoon. Problem was, Damon didn't buy the act. Underneath that armor, Alaric was hiding some serious Issues, and they were far more sinister than Damon could've imagined.
"Cuddle party," Damon answered with a grin. "Sorry, Ric - Jenna's a package deal."
Alaric snorted. "I figured that out a long time ago. So, how can we help?"
"You're helping right now," Jenna said, stifling a yawn as she curled up close to her boys.
Damon was this close to pushing them off the couch, even if he had initiated the cuddle party. He was the third wheel, and everyone on this couch knew it. "Elena was born on June 22nd, right? In 1992? I'd look around that week, see if anyone with the name Isobel checked in."
Alaric shot him an impressed look. "You remember her birthday?"
"I remember all of their birthdays, Ric."
Birthdays were sacred, in their own right: they were the one day of a year Damon could cherish the people he cared for without looking like a total sap. Sure, in public, he acted as if he never knew their special day. Just like he didn't know their favorite kinds of coffee, or how they took their tea, or even what music would annoy them to the point of anger.
(With Stefan, it was always the Little Mermaid Broadway soundtrack. Always.)
Jenna's soft snoring escaped her lips as she fell onto Alaric's lap. Resisting the urge to laugh, Damon pried himself off the cuddle pile and back onto his feet.
"Remind her in the morning," Damon said, grabbing a mug and taking a sip. Mm, English Breakfast. "I've got a feeling she'll be sleeping for a while."
Alaric pushed back strands of Jenna's hair. For a second, a wistful look remained on his face as he watched over his girl - and for a second, Damon was jealous of them.
"Her birth mom's name was Isobel, wasn't it? My wife was from around here. I wonder if..." Alaric's voice grew dry.
The thought had briefly entered Damon's mind, considering that Elena's mirror image had murdered Isobel - but it would be a huge coincidence. Then again, did coincidences exist in their world? Or was everyone connected to each other with long, twisted strings that pulled at each other at the worst possible moment?
"Wouldn't she have told you?" Damon handed over one of the mugs to Alaric. "I feel like that's the kind of conversation you have before marriage."
Alaric took a sip. "A guy would hope, right? But I'm starting to realize that my wife had more than a few secrets rattling around in her closet, and none of them good."
Some questions were best left unasked, Damon realized as he looked back at Alaric. He couldn't drudge up the past, if it would only cause further heartbreak and misery - nor could he willingly keep Jenna in the dark much longer.
After a few seconds of deliberation, Damon finished the last of his mug. "Would you... would you mind looking into it? Check with her old childhood friends, see if you can get the ball rolling?"
"Easily." Alaric's smile didn't quite reach his eyes this time. "In the meantime, don't wear yourself out. Your thesis defense's coming up, isn't it?"
"I can multi-task." Damon shrugged, turning towards the kitchen. "Take care of her for me until then, okay? No trying to kill her too?"
"That was one time," Alaric protested in vain, as Damon set his mug in the kitchen sink. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"
"What, and stop using the one good piece of blackmail I have?"
Alaric was a nutcase if he ever believed Damon would forgive and forget so easily. Forgive, sure - but forget? Forgetting was for chumps who could afford to lose a few brain cells.
In one week, he'd defend his (stupid, no longer valid) thesis, and hopefully in one week, this would all blow away during the Christmas holidays. God knows that for once, they could all use some good cheer.