Chapter 16: Pieces of a Past Life

DAMON

Elena storms in ahead of me and slams the door to her childhood home in my face.

"Real mature, Gilbert," I call out, annoyed, and let myself in.

Jeremy is passing through the foyer, soda in hand, and he stops to raise an eyebrow at me.

"What's that all about?"

"Life lesson, Baby Gilbert. If you're going to use ladies underwear as a bookmark, make sure it belongs to your current lady."

"You use panties for a bookmark?" Jeremy says, looking impressed.

"Not panties. Piece of a garter belt."

Jeremy whistles through his teeth. "No wonder she's slamming doors in your face."

"It's ridiculous," I scoff. "If I really liked that chick, I would have kept the whole girl instead of just the garter."

Jeremy's gaze flicks to something over my shoulder and I automatically check for intruders. Nothing.

"Ric says you should tell her where you got it because it's fucking hilarious and then she won't be as pissed."

I shoot Jeremy a disapproving look. "It wouldn't kill you to clue the rest of us in when he's here."

"He just showed up," Jeremy tells me, then turns back to my dead drinking buddy. "Dude, I've been trying to get ahold of you for two days to see if you wanted to come over for this barbecue and the first time Damon has woman trouble you show up? What the hell?"

I hate it when Jeremy goes off like this. It invariably makes me want to punch him in his Sixth-Sensing little face, even if it is the only way I can talk to Ric anymore.

Jeremy pauses, then frowns. "He does not. Elena can only stay mad at him for like 12 seconds at a stretch these days." He laughs at whatever Ric says in return. "So what's up, your ghost friends are better than us now?"

I ignore them and try to decide if I should go after Elena now or give her time to cool off.

Jeremy's face falls. "You saw her?"

I grab him by the collar and haul him outside, calling into the house. "We're going to the store. Back soon."

"What was that for?" Jeremy asks, shoving me away.

I nod at the Camaro and he glares at me, but gets in.

"That was because your personal haunting has a direct line to the dead relatives of everybody coming over to play in the tournament. So whatever he just told you that twisted your panties is something best censored for the general public."

"Right," Jeremy says distractedly, glancing into the backseat. I pull into the street while he listens.

"Hello, Google Translate?" I say impatiently. "Clicking, clicking…"

Jeremy cocks his head as if waiting for Ric's approval. He must get it because he turns back to me. "He saw Jenna. And he says he's been spending time with Isobel."

"Izzy's a bitch," I remind my old friend before I fully think through what Jeremy just said. "Wait, Jenna ended up in the same place as Isobel? Her wild younger years must have been crazier than I thought."

"So vamps don't have humanity switches on the Other Side?" Jeremy asks Ric, then pauses. "Whoa. Yeah, but we don't have to talk about this if you don't want to, man."

A couple bottles in and a few hours from dawn, it's not uncommon to get a little leaky. It wouldn't be the first time I'd seen Ric not at his best, but it might be a first for Jeremy. I cuff the kid in the shoulder though, because everybody knows it's not kosher to call that shit out.

"He says Jenna's not on the Other Side," Jeremy says in a subdued voice. "Not like him and Isobel."

Ah, shit. I pull up in front of the 7-Eleven and stomp the parking brake, tossing Jeremy my wallet.

"Go buy some chips or something for the barbecue. And get some of Elena's lemonade."

Jeremy throws it back. "I can pay for some damn chips."

"Then do it," I snap. He glares at me, slamming the door on his way out. What is it with Gilberts and the fucking doors today?

Once he's gone, I realize I don't know for sure if Ric stayed in the car, went with Jeremy, or zapped back to his celestial bachelor pad.

I should have guessed that Ric would get a shot at the shinier version of the afterlife, in the end. Maybe God isn't the dick people make him out to be. Not if he looked past all that shit Esther engineered to see the truth: the real Alaric was the guy dying in my family's crypt with tears streaking into his five o'clock shadow because he wanted to protect us from him.

I should have fucking killed him before he transitioned. I should have drunk a toast to my buddy, snapped his neck and walked away.

I clear my throat and squint out the window.

"Ric, if you've got a little Door #1, Door #2 dilemma going, you do what you need to do, man," I tell him, feeling like an asshole.

I know why he's hanging around. I should have told him months ago that we didn't need him, but I kind of miss the grouchy old bastard and talking to him through an emo teenager is better than nothing.

"Look, I know you weren't the biggest fan of Elena and me, but you can fuck right off and angel text that on up to Judgy Jenna, too, cause I'm not going anywhere." I send a sharp look into the backseat, which doesn't feel quite so empty as it looks. Just like his barstool sometimes doesn't feel as empty as it looks.

I have never and will never admit it, even to Elena, but the reason I started saving him a seat wasn't out of respect. It was because the night before the council memorial, I felt him sitting next to me and I was too drunk to register that he wasn't until somebody tried to sit right on top of him.

I flattened the poor sap. It wasn't until the guy was bleeding onto the greasy floorboards of the Grill that my eyes and brain finally sorted out the fact that Ric didn't need that seat anymore.

"I'll take care of Elena and Jeremy," I tell my old drinking buddy. "So don't feel like you have to spend eternity in purgatory with your ex-wife so you can watch out for them. I've got this."

I chuckle bitterly. "Besides, at least then I wouldn't be stuck talking to myself in the 7-Eleven parking lot like I've got my own fucking Tinkerbell."

We wait in our customary silence for Jeremy to come back. For a second I wish I would have been better when Ric was alive. So he could trust me now, and wouldn't still be backseat driving my babysitting job when he should be moving on. But no, fuck that. I did what I did.

Jeremy flinches as he opens the door, plastic shopping bag in hand. "Jesus, what'd you say?" he asks me, distracted by whatever Ric is saying. "Easy there. Do I have to? Damn, okay, alright already." He gets in, and then glares into the backseat.

"He says don't ever fucking call him Tinkerbell again. What the hell were you guys doing out here while I was…jeez, Ric, kidding. Heaven made you really uptight, dude." Jeremy looks at me. "He says you're a dickhead and he's glad he died so he doesn't have to put up with you."

The teenager rolls his eyes and reluctantly relays, "And he says there's nobody alive or dead who is better for Elena than you are."

I give Jeremy a cocky smirk and start the car without meeting his eyes. "Obviously."

Jeremy pauses. "Damon, you're not having one of your things, are you? Because Elena's just mad. She's not dumping you. Just throw away that other girl's underwear or whatever."

"You know, if I needed advice on women, and I don't," I tell him, putting the car in gear, "I wouldn't get it from the likes of you. Patrick Swayze back there has a girlfriend in Heaven and one in Purgatory and don't even get me started on you. And stop fucking swearing when your sister's around. You're getting me in trouble."

"Whatever, dude." Jeremy glances into the backseat and then slouches into his seat.

I pull out into the street, accidentally hitting the gas too hard when I see him look back at Ric. Guess my old drinking buddy isn't ready to blow this popsicle stand just yet.

# # #

ELENA

I'm cutting up vegetables for the kababs and the rhythmic click of the blade has just started to calm my jagged nerves when I hear the boys pull into the driveway. I tell myself I won't look up because I don't want to see Damon and all his wretched beauty that women have been throwing themselves at for 170 years.

When I'm gone, some supernatural calamity or another finally claiming me, they'll go on doing it for another 170 years, flirting and touching and offering. And someday, out of loneliness or pain or maybe just boredom, he'll give in.

The knife slips free of my fingers and I brace myself against the counter, my head dropping between my arms. It has to be my vampire emotions, running far outside the lines again. But I can't stand the thought of strange hands on him, his body given over to someone that doesn't know who he is, that just loves the beauty of him without understanding it. Who doesn't know how very easy it is to hurt him.

How he will never let you be careful with him, but you have to be anyway.

I look out the window and catch a flash of black tousled hair as he turns to say something to Jeremy. My eyes flick to my little brother, who is so much bigger than I think he should be, his gangly pre-teen frame filled out to thick muscle now. He grins and I realize with a painful throb that he's nearly as handsome as Damon. I think of the string of silly girlfriends he's had lately and I want to slap all of them. He's not some kid, damn it, for them to make out with behind the school and forget by next Monday.

I pick up the knife and start determinedly chopping before they can come inside and see that I'm coming unwound. Again.

I don't know how many years it takes to get a handle on intensified vampire emotions, but I don't think I'm going to be able to put up with myself that long.

Damon comes in and leans against the door to the kitchen. He doesn't touch me. He won't, until I forgive him.

God, that man just breaks my heart sometimes.

"Got your fancy lemonade," he offers, and my throat squeezes closed.

He thinks I'm jealous about the garter belt scrap in his book, and I am. But it's so much more than that.

His books are private. That's why he never read anywhere but in his room until we got together and I wanted to hang out in the living room instead. I can barely stand the knowledge of all the women in his past, much less the fact that they're hidden inside his books.

It hurts to think of their hands, touching him without ever touching him. It makes me want to spill blood and break bones and laugh and laugh and laugh at my strength and their weakness.

That's not the person I want to be.

I hold the knife and make very precise squares of bell pepper. I know I need to talk things out with Damon but I need to get a handle on myself first, somehow.

"So we're still in a fight," Damon says knowingly. "You might as well give up, Gilbert. You know you can't resist me."

Anger flushes heat through my skin. "You think you can just buy me lemonade every time you sleep with someone else?" I snap.

"First, Jeremy bought it. Second, considering the tree that grew the lemons hadn't been planted yet when I was with her…I don't know, maybe?" he says dryly. "Come on, you know you're going to forgive me an hour after you try to sleep in your old room tonight. Why don't we just fast forward?"

I turn and look at him.

Disappointment flickers in the crystal blue of his eyes before he holds his hands up defensively. "Or not. Whatever."

"You kept it that long?" I ask him, my voice uneven with more emotions than I could explain to him even if I could calm down long enough to try.

I turn back to my vegetables, blinking furiously. The silence between us is heavy with his past. Too many years to slice through with one talk.

I listen to his breathing, which is a little too fast for the fact that he's standing so still. The label on my favorite brand of lemonade crinkles as he turns it in his hands, and then there's a thunk of heavy glass against flesh as he tosses the bottle in the air and catches it before setting it with a tiny scrape on the kitchen island.

There's a whisper of boot soles as he starts to leave.

I can feel the silent resignation settling into his eyes, the guilt that he won't admit to me or to himself that will still thirst after he pours one or two or three bottles of bourbon into it.

My jealousy doesn't hurt as much as this.

"Damon, wait."

I flee across the kitchen to him, knocking him back a step as his arms close around me reflexively. He drops his head and inhales as if he missed the scent of me in the few hours since I realized the scrap of lace in his book had a tiny clasp on the end of it that made it infinitely more damning.

Damon drops a kiss on my temple. "Hey there."

"Hi," I tell him, the sound muffled because I have my face buried in his shoulder, under the edge of his leather jacket. How the hell am I supposed to be angry with him when he's like this?

I pull back and cup his face in my hands, his perfect jawline fitting just right in my imperfect palms.

"You don't lose the right to touch me every time I'm mad at you for five minutes, okay? You know that, right?"

"Groping acceptable during fights," he deadpans. "Noted. Why didn't you say so? We could have been having a lot less fights."

I purse my lips, exasperated. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

I lay a kiss over his heart, wishing I could take back that part of him that's always waiting for me to un-choose him. That still believes I could.

He folds my hand into his and tugs me toward the back door. "Come here."

Outside the air is crisp with the changing seasons but it doesn't sting my flesh the way it used to. Damon sits in one of the big wicker chairs and tugs me into his lap.

"You warm enough out here?"

I nod against his neck but he shrugs out of his jacket anyway, wrapping it around me instead. I don't protest, because I know he won't take it back no matter what I say.

Wrapped in warm, safe leather with the collar of his shirt tickling my nose, my anger is gone like it never existed.

Forget learning to control my emotions. I should just let Damon cuddle them away.

All that's left is the empty ache of fear under my ribs that I don't know how to quiet. I stroke his chest, wondering if his skin recognizes my touch, if it can feel the love bleeding out of me. I hope so.

"So, I told you I worked as a mob enforcer," he tells me.

My eyebrows shoot up. Is he actually going to tell me why he kept the garter belt?

"I can feel you looking surprised," he teases. "Ghost Ric slapped me down. Said I had to. You don't want to piss off the dead, trust me."

"Nope," I agree hastily, before he can change his mind. I don't know why Damon is so reticent about his past. Old human guys do nothing but tell stories, but the vampires in my life never seem to be in the mood.

"The mob has great perks. It was like having a douchebag identification service." I can hear the smile in his voice. "I sampled a few that were supposed to be on my side of the fence, but they didn't catch me until I went after the big boss that last time. It was a hell of a convenient job, except that everybody in organized crime is way too impressed with themselves all the time."

"So you fit right in?" I ask dryly.

He digs his fingers into my sides and I squeal and slap his hands. "No tickling," I warn him sternly. "We are supposed to be making up and I will definitely be mad at you again if you tickle."

He narrows his eyes in an unconvincing show of irritation. "Do you want to hear the story or not?"

I nod, tucking my head in under his chin. His arms tighten around me underneath his jacket.

"Anyway, they pissed me off, but I didn't want to eat them all and lose a job where they basically paid me to be a vampire. So I, ah–" he pauses. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I was sleeping with this one girl, the trophy wife of Number Three Douchebag. It was practically a public service, since I'm sure to him she was just a prettier substitute for his hand."

He pauses again, but despite his dissembling I'm getting a pretty clear picture of what his revenge against the arrogant mobsters looked like. I wonder exactly how many garter belt bookmarks he has.

"Are you sure you want to hear this story? It's not exactly pre-Pictionary-party wholesome," he tells me uneasily.

I'm not at all sure I want to hear the story, but I am certain that otherwise, I'll be imagining all the worst possibilities.

"Um, it wasn't a crucifix bookmark," I remind him. "So I kind of figured it would be R-rated. Yes, I want to hear the real story."

"Okaaaay," Damon says, sounding unconvinced. "But I warned you. Anyway, I was messing around with this girl and a guy walks in. Not her husband but his bodyguard, who was the size of a fucking Volkswagen. And I wasn't paying much attention, so he was right up at the bed before I realized he was there. He grabbed me, and she was all freaking out and screaming and as he dragged me off of her, her garter got caught in my teeth because the adrenaline popped my fangs out."

He clears his throat. "So that was awkward. And then he chucked me out the window."

I wince. "I suppose it wasn't a ground-floor apartment."

"No, but it was their beach house. If I'd have gone out the window in their Vegas penthouse, it would have been a bitch. So only second-story, thankfully for the fucking bodyguard," he says darkly.

"Well, what did you expect him to do when he caught you with his boss' wife?" I point out.

"Oh that wasn't it. He was pissed because he was screwing her too."

I shake my head, feeling a little dizzy.

"Anyway, that's not the point. So I hit the ground outside and that didn't do anything for my mood, so I jumped back in the window and explained some common fucking courtesy to the guy in a language he could understand. It took a while, and it wasn't until I was done and I calmed down that I realized I still had the piece of garter belt snagged on my fang. And he was bleeding on the carpet and the girl was crying and screaming at me that her husband was going to catch us and we were all going to die and I really needed to compel her but I was too busy picking lace out of my teeth to get around to it." Damon shrugs. "I thought it was funny. So I kept the garter. I didn't realize it had a cock-block curse on it that hadn't worn off yet."

I don't know what to say. That's what he used to do? Kill people for money and sleep with people's wives when he didn't like how they talked to him? Hang out with people who owned penthouses and beach houses and had bodyguards?

What must he think of our life now, in boring little Mystic Falls? Having barbecues and playing ongoing Pictionary tournaments with our ragtag family of vampires, hybrids, vampire hunters, humans and witches?

He shifts uncomfortably beneath me. "Elena, you can burn the damn thing, you know I don't care."

I hold him tighter and I feel his chin brushing against my hair as he tries to sneak a peek at my face.

The front door opens and a babble of competing voices enters the house. They must have carpooled. I listen to the familiar voices, letting the sound soothe the edges of the echoing emptiness that is my chest.

"Where's Damon?" Caroline asks. "I brought the chicken, because he promised me he was going to do side-dishes this time, and I bet you he didn't make the ambrosia salad."

"He and Elena are making up," Jeremy tells her.

"Ewww," Kyle whines. "Just send them home already. They'll just be disgusting all afternoon and by this evening I'll be packing my boxes to move back to New York."

"I thought you said you had a date? So you can't bitch about the singles scene anymore," Caroline protests. "And what happened with Damon and Elena? Should I go check on them?" She sighs. "I swear, everybody in this town would be in an asylum in a week if it weren't for me."

"They're fine," Jeremy says. "Leave 'em alone or Damon will get all bitchy."

"I did have a date," Kyle sighs in answer. "Guy two towns down the highway. We go out to dinner and he introduces me to the waiter, who he doesn't know, as his cousin. And didn't even get why I was mad. I am actually going to grow old and die before I get laid again."

"You're immortal," Stefan points out.

"I know," the vampire hunter groans. "Don't remind me."

"So that's why there are always NYU brochures lying around the boarding house," Caroline says. "You're trying to talk Elena into going to school there, aren't you?"

"You should both go," Jeremy says. "It was stupid enough that Elena thought she couldn't go to college until I was old enough to leave town. The fact that you and Stefan stayed here too is past stupid and bordering on insane."

"You're welcome, brat," Caroline says, rattling through drawers. "Where are your serving platters?"

"I don't need four parents," Jeremy complains. "What exactly is it you think you're doing by putting your lives on hold for me?"

"We can go to college whenever," Stefan says easily. "Kyle's the only one who minds, and he was the one who decided to stay."

"My friends in New York aren't as entertaining as you all," the bartender complains. "I'm in no hurry to move back. Or I wouldn't be, if I wasn't the only damn gay man in Virginia."

"Elena," Damon says, nudging me until I turn my attention away from the conversation inside the kitchen. "Come on, have a good rant. On the house."

"Would you tell me something? Honestly?"

"Yes," he says without hesitation.

"Really honestly, not just if you think it's what I want to hear?" I challenge.

"Kind of my specialty, gorgeous," he says dryly. "Maybe you noticed, I don't know, one of the hundred times you tried to slap me for telling you things you didn't want to admit?"

"Are you happy?" I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. "Here? With our life?"

Damon tenses.

I know he'll lie if he isn't. I know he loves me, and he's Damon so he'll ignore or kill anything that gets in the way of being with me. But Jeremy's right. I've been so selfish, keeping all of us in town so I can be here if my brother needs me. I should have been sure that was what Damon wanted. It's his life, too.

"What's this about, Elena? This isn't about the damn garter, is it? Look, if you don't want to move yet and you're bored you can take classes online, get a job," he offers dubiously. "Or, God help us all, actually learn to knit. I'll teach you to speak Italian if you want. Maybe we could take a trip. Kyle and Caroline and Stefan can watch out for Jeremy, keep him from getting himself killed for a few weeks."

I pull back and touch his lips to interrupt him. "I didn't ask about me. I asked about you."

"Yes," he explains patiently. "But you know how I feel. So if you're asking, it's because you're unhappy."

I cock my head. "Damon, I have everything I ever wanted. I'm surrounded by family and friends and nobody is trying to kill us. Jeremy's going to be able to go to college, and through the grace of God, I'm not even going to outlive him because he happens to be an immortal vampire hunter."

Damon's brilliant eyes are shrewd and cautious on mine. He doesn't believe me.

"I have you," I tell him, tracing his cheek. "Of course I'm happy. But I know after everything you've done, this has all got to be pretty boring for you. I'm half a century from sophisticated, or rich, or wild and crazy." I bite my lip. "I know I said I wanted to stay until Jeremy graduated, but if you don't want to, we can try something else."

A slow smile dawns across his gorgeous face. "I'm sitting here, telling you a story about being an assassin, hoping you won't catch on to the fact that I don't remember that girl's name, and you are worried that I miss my old life? Elena, it's a good thing you're cute, because you're a little bit nuts."

"But–"

He doesn't let me finish before he threads his fingers through my hair and tilts my head back so he can kiss me. By the time he pulls away, I'm pressing tightly against him and his jacket has fallen to the ground.

"Elena, I'm very unhappy," he tells me seriously. "And it's all your fault." He frowns disapprovingly. "It's all these damn clothes you insist on wearing."

I kiss him again. "Shut up."

"No, I mean it," he says. "If you cared about my happiness, you wouldn't wear them."

I stick out my tongue at him and he waggles his eyebrows. "That's a start."

I laugh, shaking my head at him.

"That's better," he says, holding me close against his chest. "I love you. I fucking love our life. Period."

Caroline sticks her head out the patio door. "Damon, are you being an idiot?"

"Honey, leave them alone," Stefan calls from inside the house.

"Five says the lawn chair comes in through the window," Kyle says.

"Ric says his five is on the lawn chair coming through Caroline's window at o'sex thirty tonight," Jeremy adds.

"I'm going to hit you with a lawn chair if you don't stop acting like everything is Damon's fault," I threaten Caroline.

Damon steals one more kiss and boosts me up to my feet. "See? Blonde/brunette catfights twice a week. What more can a man ask for?"

"To never have to make ambrosia salad," Stefan says flatly from the kitchen. "Is there anything more emasculating than a cold casserole involving marshmallows? Seriously, Care, you want to eat this?"

"If your brother wasn't a great big lying jerkface, we would already have side dishes," she says, whirling to head back inside. "And we wouldn't have to make ambrosia salad at the last minute."

I pick up Damon's jacket and dust it off, handing it back to him with a raised eyebrow. "And you don't want to move away?"

He gives my hair a playful tug and smiles.

We head inside, together.