Disclaimer: I don't own the Vampire Diaries - however like many a kindred spirit before me, if the Vampire Diaries found me, came to my home, and offered itself to me with its great big, electrifying blue eyes- I wouldn't say no.

Timeline: Picks up just after 'As I Lay Dying' leaves off – Assume possible spoilers for anything before that. Um, also assume some questionable language.

A/N: So, this story takes place in the same 'verse as my first one, in which Elena has forgiven Damon – and recognized her own faults in the process. You don't have to read it, but you can if you want. Also: I started writing this story in a fairly serious tone – but, I just couldn't quite keep it up. Also: This is only my second fanfic and I am working out the plot as I go along – I won't mind suggestions, if you happen to have any. Also: I don't want to beg – but, I'm as fresh and nervous as a debutante at a coming-out party – so, you should consider reviewing - especially to let me know if you like me...it, the story, I mean. Also: Nope, that's it – Thanks!

Burning Down Atlanta

Chapter One: The Calm Before the Storm.

Setting: That night in Damon's Room:

Elena's mind raced to take in everything that had just happened. Had that all just happened? She stared mutely down at the empty glass apothecary jar in her hands, watching the residual…blood? Well, of course the cure was blood ...trickle lazily, almost arrogantly down the sides as it began to pool at the bottom.

Katherine had really just been here.

Her eyes dark but round with surprise, sought Damon as he struggled into an upright position on what had only moments ago been his deathbed. He was still too pale and still drenched in sweat and sickness – but, he was no longer waxen and cadaverous. It had been strange to see him looking so…dead. Which might have seemed ironic to Elena had she either the time or the ability to appreciate irony at the moment. Damon's confused eyes, in turn, sought hers; his eyebrows already raised and working overtime to help his brain process everything that he had just heard.

Damon broke the through the heavy silence first. "Stefan," he scowled, brows knit, unhappy but also unsurprised – as he gingerly placed one leg and then another over the side of the bed; preparing to stand, but uncharacteristically a little uncertain of his ability to do so.

"What did she mean, Damon?" Elena's voice was steely, measured and low with only a trace of subdued urgency and suppressed darkness, as she watched Damon's progress as he alternately pushed and pulled himself forward and onto the edge of the bed.

He chose not to look at her as he answered – instead inspecting the patch of skin on his left arm that had caused him so much trouble lately – a nervous habit that he had picked up over the last several days in anticipation of his impending death, his real death, his final death – it was a habit that he would just as soon lose starting now. "I don't know, Elena."

"Damon." Elena repeated his name, in that uncanny way of hers in which you couldn't be sure whether it was a question, an exclamation, an admonishment or simply a statement. Damon was accustomed to assuming that she meant it in all ways possible when she took that tone with him. What was clear, however, was that she wanted and expected a better answer, as she tossed the empty bottle thoughtlessly on the bed and advanced on him, "What…?"

With an intensity born out of fear and concern for his brother, and out of a general frustration with the universe – that his "rebirth" (re-rebirth?); that his second (no, third – definitely his third) chance at life (semantics) was already off to a smashing start, he pulled his sleeve back into place roughly, stood up and turned to face Elena in one fluid movement, although with a bit less of his accustomed grace; abruptly placing his hands on her shoulders to comfort her, steady himself and lend gravity to his next words, "I don't know, Elena."

The excruciating pain and the spasms were gone – but, Damon was still weak and his legs began to falter under him, as he placed more than just the comforting weight that he had intended on Elena. Elena, for her part, quickly extricated herself from his increasingly impractical hold on her and came up to his side, placing one arm firmly around his waist, and as he sucked in a quick breath - she lowered him gently back onto the bed. His nervous intake of breath was not lost on Elena, who's eyes darkened perceptibly as a slight blush crept into her cheeks, recalling their...pity?...kiss. She pulled away from him, slightly conscious.

"You're still weak," she observed quietly and with a renewed sense of concern for the Salvatore brother right in front of her.

"Yes. I had just noticed that too," he answered ruefully with a hint of frustration and sarcasm bleeding through. So much for a kinder, gentler Damon Salvatore, he thought. "I should go after Katherine. Find out everything she knows."

"You think she was holding back?"

"She's Katherine." Enough said.

"Maybe she was lying?" Elena made a grab for her cell phone on the nightstand next to Damon's bed. "I'll send him a text…maybe he's fine." Her fingers raced across the tiny keys with the agility of youth.

"It's possible that she was lying – but," he indicated the bottle on the bed near him, "there's no way that Klaus gave this up for nothing – I have to go after her."

"Damon – you can't even stand yet." She set the phone back down and eyed it warily as she spoke, willing it to buzz quickly with a reassuring response from Stefan.

"El-e-na," Damon cooed, placing his emphasis on the second 'e' as was his wont, "'Vampire'. I'll be fine. As it is, if I don't go now – well, let's just say that Katherine could be mailing herself to Abu Dhabi by now. "

"What?" Elena shook her head slightly – she wouldn't let him distract her. "Still," Elena paused after offering her eloquent rebuttal. "You almost died."

"Yes, Elena, I am aware of that." Where was she going with this?

"No. Damon. I thought you were going to die…You almost died in my arms…." Elena held his gaze as long as she could to press home this point – whatever her point was – before breaking off as tears threatened. It had been a really rough few days.

Damon was quiet for a moment, appreciating again the enormity of the metaphorical wooden bullet that he had just dodged; that Stefan may very well have taken for him. What was he thinking? Always being the hero. Always being the…Fucking idiot. Damon also appreciated that Elena's concern for him was more than fleeting. He was still weak, true – but, he certainly wasn't dying any time soon. He wanted to believe that she had actually forgiven him; he wanted to say thank you for staying with me, he wanted to say that he couldn't imagine a better way to go. Instead he said, "But I didn't."

"No, you didn't," Elena agreed, "I just don't think that I can handle any more death." The threatening tears began to flow more freely now.

Damon winced slightly at this development as his worry lines returned to his face, "Elena…Stefan's not…I mean, you don't think that…"

"No! No, I…I don't think that. Damon, during the…that night…Stefan, he…he came to the clearing – he tried to save Jenna. He offered himself to Klaus – to take her place."

Damon closed his eyes as Elena fought back her tears, remembering the first time that he had heard that news and the wall that he had punched. He balled his right hand into a fist reflexively at the thought. And Jenna. Ric might not blame him for Jenna, or even for Isobel for that matter – but then, Damon was pretty sure that one day Ric's liver would. And, Elena still might. Damon had tried - before he even knew that Jenna was to be sacrificed - Damon had offered himself to Klaus; had volunteered to be the sacrificial lamb - though Elena would not know that, and there was no point in telling her now. "Yes, I might have heard something about that," Damon admitted tiredly.

"Klaus said 'no' Damon – but, he didn't kill him." Elena wiped away her tears with the towel that she probably should have used to wipe the sheen of sick off of Damon's brow. Luckily, it was still pretty clean.

"Yes, I know. I found Stefan there after you had…well…you were pretty 'out of it'…with a sawed-off stake in his back. So?"

"So…Stefan said that Klaus said that Klaus had plans for Stefan."

Huh? Damon's thumb and the pointer finger on his right hand were suddenly twitching to pinch the bridge of his nose, and he obliged them. He knew that his fever had broken – so, it had to be her that was making no sense. He considered his next words carefully: "Can you make sense, please?"

"He wants to use him for…something."

Damon opened his shattering blue eyes wide, head tilted slightly to one side, his face and some of his upper body contorted in confusion, "What. The. Hell. does an ancient, un-killable, all-powerful, fully-operational were-pire mutt of an Original want with Stefan? Stefan for godsakes'? It isn't as though he can brood fear into the hearts of men!"

Elena was silent for beat. "We have to find him."

"I know."

Another beat. "How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"I'll go downstairs and get you some blood."

"I'll come. I need to get out of this bed." Damon started to push himself up again from his seated position.

"Damon…"

Yes, Elena….In this iteration of 'say-my-name' Damon heard: scolding, warning, concern, pleading and vaguely implied threat. It's only two fucking syllables – how does she DO that? "I'm fine. Elena." Damon stood again on shaky legs. "Also: I'm not letting you out of my sight until we know what's going on."

"I'm not the one in danger anymore."

"Yeah. I'll believe that…um, never," Damon snorted; his head instinctively moving forward in Elena's direction as if to invade her personal space, as his eyebrows climbed higher than should be possible indicating the full extent of his skepticism.

"Fine," She wouldn't argue with him over this – no more useless fighting; no more destructive power trips, no more mind games – none of it. It was dangerous – for everyone. He needed reassurance. He was scared for his brother... And maybe, maybe he was right to be. "Come on." Elena grabbed Damon's left arm with hers and lifted it across her shoulder's to help bear some of his weight.

"I don't need the help. Also: we might need to call the witch."

"Humor me. – Bonnie? Why?"

"Well, not that I'm not grateful to be alive or anything, but…how the hell did Katherine get in here?"

Setting: That same night over at the Gilbert Home:

Something had roused Jeremy from his sleep. He didn't know what – but, he could almost sense something in the air – a strange charge or energy he could feel humming all around him, moving quickly like an electric current, making the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It reminded him a bit of the atmosphere in the Dead Witch Manor (or DWM) – but, that was different, heavier than this somehow, more concentrated – thicker, earthier. This felt different, but the same, somehow. It was pretty creepy, actually. It was way too charged for Jeremy to go back to sleep –he decided that he should go check on Alaric, as long as he was up.

Jeremy could swear that he saw shadows move as he made his way down the stairs. Not cool.

On the first floor, Jeremy could feel eyes all over him, but every time he turned around – there was nothing. And Alaric was blissfully asleep, (or possibly passed out) on the couch – either way, there's no way it's him.

"Anna?" Jeremy exclaimed, startled. Even as he could see Anna in front of him (not looking extremely happy, either), Jeremy could sense another pair of eyes boring into his from behind, he twisted around to look: "Vicki?"

"Mhhmmhm…Jeremy? What time is it?" Alaric threw one arm out from under the blankets of his make-shift bed and tried, eyes still closed; trial-and-error style to find his discarded watch on the Gilbert coffee table. After a wrong turn at his car keys and an empty bottle of scotch that he had jacked from Damon's stash at some point – his own booze having been surreptitiously snatched out from under him along with his home, his girlfriend and for a period of time – his body – he finally found his watch, brought it right up to his face before opening his eyes, only to realize that it was too dark to actually make out the time. Without looking, again, he dropped it unceremoniously on the floor with a peeved, yet philosophical grunt.

"Ah...Alaric, hey," Jeremy turned towards the direction of Alaric's voice, "Uh, sorry man – I didn't mean to wake you up." Right about now, looking warily around his living room, Jeremy wished he was still asleep himself. Hell, maybe he was still asleep. That would be a trip. No, really. This was like, some kind of bad dream, right? That dream that plagues every adolescent boy (who's had a near…uh, actual death experience) at some point – where his dead, vampire ex-girlfriends rise from the dead-dead and are only just kind of dead…again. That totally had to be a thing.

"It's okay, Jer…I wasn't sleeping too well anyway – nothing like the constant humming of overhead halogen lighting like in your standard Virginia public high school to lull you to sleep at night, papers (ungraded, still) sticking to your head…"

"Ohh – so, that's where you've been sleeping these past few days," Jeremy grinned into the darkness in spite of himself. He loved this guy. He wasn't exactly sure why he did, but he did. And, he had totally come through for him tonight. "Dude, you do realize that Stefan and Damon live in a boarding house, right? Like with lots and lots of rooms? My sister was staying there for a while. And aren't like, you and Damon drinking-buddies or something?"

"Ahh, right," Alaric practically sighed into his hand as his rubbed what was left of the sleep from his tired eyes. "That probably would have made more sense," he exhaled as his sigh transitioned into a weary chuckle, and back to a sigh again as he remembered that right about now his 'bestest' drinking buddy was probably a pile of ash, or dust, or a grayish, vein-y, defanged rotting corpse. But, maybe Elena would have called or come home by now if that was the case? Truth be told, Alaric was really gonna miss that emotionally damaged, crazy-eyed sonofabitch and his bourbon.

Suddenly, coming to himself, Ric sat upright – this was a Gilbert kid and this was the Gilbert House – something had to be wrong. Not one to mince words, Alaric immediately looked in Jeremy's general direction, and squinted trying to distinguish his features in more detail, "Is everything alright, Jeremy?"

Jeremy, who had very suddenly looked away from Alaric, turned to face him again and answered in a controlled, but vaguely tremulous voice as he took a step towards the older man. He looked a little spooked and there was something funny about the way he walked – like he was trying to avoid walking into things that weren't there, carefully but nervously side-stepping empty spaces. "Uh... I'm not sure."

Alaric, awake now, threw his legs over the side of the couch. "What's wrong Jeremy?"

Closer now, Jeremy sat in a heap on the side of the couch just vacated by Alaric's legs, one elbow resting on the armrest, the hand of his other instinctively brushing over his face, before coming to rest on his right knee. "Ric…have you ever seen The Sixth Sense?"

Alaric's eyebrows climbed with worry, surprise and intrigue. "Do we need to call Bonnie?"