A/N: Ugh. This has been sitting in my computer for months, finally decided to give it some air. Takes place right after the infamous porch scene following the little road-trip to Duke in Bad Moon Rising. Yeah, it's a little late. :)

When she opened the door, the house was not filled with the quiet she had been expecting. Laughter erupted from the kitchen. Jenna and…Ric? Elena flinched as her aunt let out an ear-splitting giggle. Elena wanted to smile herself when Alaric joined in, but as the door closed shut behind her, she knew that she wouldn't. Or maybe it just wouldn't seem right. So she remained quiet, unfazed.

She had a gross feeling that seemed to flood her entire body and she knew it probably had something to do with what he had said to her on the porch moments ago. She tried to ignore the sick sensation, tried to shake it off. Put a happy face on.

It didn't work.

Careful not to disturb the baffling love-fest that dwelled in the kitchen, Elena walked up the staircase in a trance. Her bag hit the floorboards with a loud thud when she stepped into her room. As she pushed the door close, she wondered for a moment if she had heard Jeremy say something about "getting back so late" from his doorway or if instead that had been in her head. She didn't bother to double check. He would live.

Live. Alive. Jeremy is alive. Elena repeated this to herself over and over again as her body pressed down against the quilt of her bed. Damon didn't kill him.

But he meant to. Dammit, that had to count for something. This had been her daily mantra for a few weeks now. Every time he shot her that look, or purposely stood close to her, their shoulders almost touching…she remembered why she was angry. Why she was pissed.

At first, he had ignored the whole God damn thing even happened. He had even had the nerve the very next day to make a flirty comment about her wardrobe. Instead of her typical eye roll or scoff, Elena made sure there was distance between them. Both physically and otherwise. She engulfed her thoughts with Stefan, with Jeremy, hell, even school. When she looked at Damon, she wanted him to hurt. If looks could kill. This is what their relationship had evolved into. She would tolerate him, she promised herself. That was it. She wouldn't help him anymore, hell, wouldn't even acknowledge him.

So why had she stopped Bonnie from sending him up in flames?

Elena had not expected him to apologize on the porch, to give in so easily, so willingly, to her façade. She had, in fact, counted against it. A selfish part of her had yearned for him to be cocky, to make some snide remark about how she was over-reacting. It would have made things a hell of a lot easier. Instead he looked at her with those eyes. He apologized. He even meant it.

Elena thought she might cry. It seemed appropriate. Why can't I hate him?

That was her biggest flaw: that she gave a shit. If she could have just been more like Bonnie, more like any other sane person, then Damon Salvatore would be a pile of ashes right now. He would deserve it too, the bastard. There had been plenty of opportunities after all. Maybe Elena had been messing around with fate by continuously saving the psycho, and Jeremy's almost-death was the universe's way of telling her to knock that shit off. Maybe.

Curling her arm around a discarded stuffed-bear, Elena felt herself break. She didn't hate him, but God how she wanted to. She pressed a hand over her eyes, as if trying to hold back the traitorous tears. Somewhere inside of her twisted mind she heard the voice of reason seep through the cracks and crevices of her thoughts and she held onto that single idea as if her life depended on it.

Everyone will be better off if Damon believes I hate him. Even me. Even him.

This. This is how it will be. Elena pushed herself up from the bed, sticking her thumb beneath her tired eyes to wipe away the moisture that was so unwelcome, the only evidence of her weakness.

She walked toward the forgotten bag that lay crooked on the floor, and picked it up, proceeding to pull a heavily worn text from it as if the pages within were as crucial as the breathes of an infant. She cradled the binding in her hands, opening it gently and flipping through the pages that were dark and heavy with age.

Katerina Petrova. He had said her name so lucidly, so perfectly, as if he had practiced it over and over for years. A century. More.

He told Elena she was like Katherine. If there was ever a moment when she wanted the world to cave in beneath her and swallow her entire being, it had been then, for a mere second…before she could realize what had just happened. She had tried for so long to never let Damon's words affect her but somehow, in the end, they always ended up doing just that.

She could barely admit it to herself that his words had stung. Hard. Yet, he had been wrong.

Elena lied to him, yes, used him even. She claimed that he had lost her forever, which as far as he would be concerned, he did. She wouldn't dare risk those who she loved just because for some reason she had this irrational desire to find the humanity in Damon. But there was this part of her that hoped he would be okay, a part of her that wanted him to find peace. She just couldn't have anything to do with it.

"I'm not Katharine," Elena breathed, holding onto those words as she stood there. The tears had well dried on her warm skin now, and she felt herself somehow enter back into reality. She remembered Stefan. Caroline. The wolf.

And then it was if she woke up from a dream and her priorities sunk in. She set the book down on her chipped vanity and reached into her pocket for her phone. Stefan first. Her eyes lifted to the wall, toward the direction of her brother's room—it was quiet in there. Jeremy next. She dialed. Stefan answered on the second ring.

She didn't hate Damon Salvatore. She was angry, hurt, and scared, but to her despair she didn't hate him.

It was too bad that Elena realized it hurt her to see Damon's face so dejected, so pained. It was too bad that he might never realize just how much.

As Stefan recapped his night, as he told her about Caroline, Matt and Tyler, Elena listened dutifully. She gave the appropriate responses and reactions.

"Damon's home," Stefan said casually. Elena heard the echoing of footsteps in the background. She could hear his voice.

"I should go," Elena murmured.

Stefan grew quiet, and Elena wondered for a moment if he had hung up. "Did everything go okay today?"

"It went fine Stefan. I told you that. I should probably go. I didn't check on Jeremy. I don't like when I can't hear him."

Stefan breathed in. "It went fine?" He didn't sound convinced. "Are you sure?"

" Thank you for watching out for Caroline. I love you Stefan" she whispered into the phone, glad to finally say something that was true.

"Are you sure?" She could hear his smile.

Elena laughed, trying to make her voice soft. "I don't think I've ever been surer. Now, go take care of your brother. I'll take care of mine."

Stefan finally agreed. He returned her sentiments and waited for her to hang up. She clicked a button and the dial-tone filled her ear in a way that reminded her she was alone.

From below, she could still hear Jenna and Alaric talking and laughing. Jeremy turned on his stereo next-door, music poured in through the wall.

It was then; in that moment that Elena found her reflection staring at her from her vanity. Tired, red eyes seemed to study her. For a split-second she had thought that Katarina herself had manifested in her bedroom.

More in common than just looks.

As Jeremy's music continued to flow through her own room, as angry lyrical screams pounded against the walls, as her aunt and history-teacher giggled like teenagers beneath her, Elena realized that maybe Damon was right. Maybe she was a little like Katharine. She did have her blood inside of her, her genes. She was manipulative. A liar.

But worse than that, worse than sharing some characteristics with her doppelganger, she wasn't ready to admit that she was beginning to care for the elder Salvatore brother in a way she was sure Katherine never had. That in itself was nothing new, she hated admiting it even if it was silently, in her helpless thoughts. Affection for him had been growing inside of her for quite some time, spreading slowly as she reluctantly nurtured it. It was just that, well, she wanted to kill him. Yet, she'd rather not see him die. Even this wasn't the worst of it.

No. That honor went to the impeding, horrifying realization that consumed Elena, try as she might to stifle it's whispers, that her feelings for Damon were dangerously close to those she coveted for the good brother.

And as long as that was the truth, how could she really protect anyone from him?