Disclaimer: I don't own them, I just like playing with their little lives.

Chapter 2

On Elena's twenty-first birthday, she cooked French toast for breakfast while Alaric read the paper. He looked up, a fond expression on his face.

"Are you working tonight?" She shook her head, turning the toast over on the grill pan. "Do you want to do something? Seems like we should."

"Yeah. I'll have a big party. Invite all my friend."

"Let me take you to dinner, at least?" Her back was to him, and he didn't realise at first that she was crying. He took the pan off the stove and wrapped his arms around her.

(It's your party. You can cry if you want to.)

"Mom and I had plans for today. And then Jenna and I did. Jesus, even Stef…" But that was the name she never said out loud, if she could help it.

"Nothing's the way we planned, Elena." She relaxed, just a little, into his embrace. "Let me take you to dinner."

"Not the Grill?"

"Not the Grill."

When Alaric got home from work, Elena wasn't there. Neither was her car. Her cell phone was on the table.

There were only three or four places she was likely to go if she wanted to hide. He picked the right one first. Her little red car was parked haphazardly on the driveway of the boarding house. She was curled up on the love seat on the porch. She'd drunk half a bottle of gin, and was fast asleep.

He shifted her so her head was on his knee and waited for her to wake up.

The sun had nearly set when she moved at last. "Ric?" Her voice was huskier than usual, sleep and drink heavy. She nestled against him. "You always come and find me."

"What's going on?" He sifted through her hair. "I thought women didn't start freaking out about their birthdays until they turned at least thirty."

She struggled into a seated position. "Damon wants his house back."

"You saw him?" Alaric's heart thumped madly in his chest.

She shook her head. "Messenger brought me the papers to sign."

Ouch.

That meant that Damon knew where they lived. Hadn't come. Had he planned for the papers to be delivered on Elena's birthday, or had he forgotten completely?

Elena leaned in to Alaric's side. "I have a headache."

"I bet you do," he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and drawing her face to his chest.

"He's never coming back, is he?"

Hope is the most essential, and most useless, of all human failings. Alaric wanted hope. Missed his friend, their strange love affair. (It had been love, of a sort.)

(You can't deny it. We were badass.)

"No. He's not. Are you… are you going to be okay with that?" (Am I?)

She was still for a long time. Then, "take me home."

That was the night they made love for the first time. Cautious, on his part, until he realised she didn't want cautious. She nipped at his lips, his jaw, his nipples, pleading and cajoling until he took her with deep thrusts. He tried to be gentle, but she set a punishing pace.

A strange balm for a broken heart.

She kept her eyes open. Wanted him to know she knew who she was with. Moaned his name, when he grazed the underside of her breast with his teeth, when he rubbed against her clit just so, when he took her glorious hair in his hand, exposing her throat to be kissed and teased and licked.

When he knelt at the alter, devouring her thighs, the cleft of her legs, when he drove into her with his tongue, she anchored him to her, her hands in his hair, groaning, sometimes almost shouting. And when they were both sated at last, she draped herself artlessly across his body like a rag doll.

They lay like that for a long time.

"I'm too old for you."

"You're too old for me." She giggled at this. "I haven't been young since I met the fucking Salvatores. I'm older than Jenna. Sometimes I think I'm older than you." She sighed, started licking at his mouth like a cat. He groaned at the sensation, took her tongue in his mouth.

"I'm your guardian. I'm the closest thing you've got to a parent."

"No. You're the debauched godfather who drinks too much and fucks me on my twenty-first birthday."

"And I'm your teacher."

"Not any more."

They slept, however restlessly, and when Alaric woke up, it was to find her already on him, wrapped around his morning wood like a succubus. They found their rhythm easily in the half-light of a glorious Saturday morning in Mystic Falls, as she groaned "good morning" into his open mouth.

"So far," he agreed.

In the shower, she discovered his scar, perfect replica of Damon's teeth. She ran her thumb across it. He was embarrassed. She was jealous.

She called in sick to the Grill and he took her for a slightly belated twenty-first birthday dinner.

Alaric was self-conscious. "They probably think I'm your dad."

Elena mouthed his ear, kissed the corner of his mouth. "Not any more they don't."

"No. Now they think I'm a pervert." She giggled, and it was like tonic. They drank champagne. They both wanted hard liquor (Elena had too high an alcohol tolerance for a girl of twenty-one, thanks to the last few years, thanks to Damon, thanks to Alaric) but they did have to drive back to Mystic Falls.

The food was great, but the absences hurt. Individual stakes in her heart. Jeremy, who had texted her a birthday greeting and promised there was a gift in the post. Bonnie, who had not. Caroline and Tyler, who had sent a postcard from Louisiana.

(If they were that close, couldn't they come and visit?)

Matt she would see tomorrow, for a drink.

Jenna. Her parents. John. Isobel. Stefan. Dead, all dead.

(Damon.)

But Elena and Alaric had each other, now. They couldn't wait until they got home, made out in the back seat of the truck like teenagers. After a brief and ferocious fuck, Alaric rubbed his eyes while Elena adjusted her clothes.

"I'm going to hell," he said. "I'm going straight to hell."

She kissed the exposed flesh at his hip, the scar there. "We've already been to hell. Things can only get better."

The next day, she signed the papers, stuck them in an envelope and posted them off. Gave back the boarding house. Even told herself she was relieved.

She and Matt got drunk at the Grill, talked about old times. A corner booth.

"Sounds like Bonnie's doing well. I don't understand what she means about going to England for a year, though. Is that a year off school? Or… Elena? What?"

"You talk to Bonnie?"

Matt shrugged. "Every couple of months."

It was a crushing blow.

"You don't?"

Elena finished her drink, called for another. "She never even gave me her new number. I haven't spoken to her in nearly two years."

"Want me to give it to you?" Matt's face was honest, open, like a children's book. Elena shook her head. Matt pretended to understand.

"She has mine, if she wants to speak to me. I don't want to butt in on her life." She shook her head, clearing the cobwebs. "This is weird, huh? Being allowed to drink in here now?"

Matt didn't speak for a long beat.

"Are they… mad at you?"

Elena nodded.

"Why?"

There is no obvious way to answer this question.

"Because before I was the doppelganger everyone's life was normal. It's nothing I did. It's just who I am. Because of who I am, Vicki's dead. Bonnie's Grams is dead. Jenna's dead. John. Isobel, if she counts. Stef -" Deep breath. "Stefan's dead. Caroline's a vampire and Tyler's a hybrid. If I hadn't been born… Or if I'd died with mom and dad in the accident…"

Matt didn't let her finish.

"None of that was your fault."

"I… know that. Sort of. But I was… fault adjacent. I fucked up their lives and -"

"Stop it. You didn't fuck up their lives. Bonnie's a witch. You had nothing to do with that. The Lockwoods are werewolves, sort of."

(Elena took a beat to think about what he was saying. Not that long ago, Matt was in denial about everything. Now he sounded for all the world like Alaric.)

(Alaric. Just the sound of his name made her feel less insane.)

"You never fucked up my life."

"Vicki…?" And at this, she can't look up. Vicki was the first casualty. Of Damon. Of Stefan. (Of drugs and misery, before that.)

"No one could blame you for that." He shakes his head. "Hey, I got you a present."

"You didn't have to -"

"Yeah, I did. You got me one. You're my oldest friend, Elena." He passed a small box across the table. "It was my mom's."

"Oh, god, Matt. You can't -"

"She's been dead a year, Elena, and dead to me a lot longer. I gave her this when I was a kid. I'd rather you had it than it sat in a box in storage."

She opened the box. It was a necklace, a slender silver chain with a pendant, a book that opened with a tiny latch.

She hadn't worn a necklace since she'd returned Rebekah's to her.

"You got your mom a book pendant?" Elena smiled lopsidedly. Kelly Donovan was never exactly bookish.

"What can I say. I used to be an optimist." He opened the tiny charm. "You always said you were going to be a writer."

"Best-laid plans."

"You could still go to school. Or just write, you know?"

"Problem is, these days, I only know one story."

"So write that." Matt said it quietly enough that Elena could ignore it, if she wanted to, and she wanted to ignore it.

She put the necklace on, smoothed it over her shirt. Leaned across the table for a one-armed hug. "I love it, Matt. Thanks."

"Am I interrupting?"

A pretty blonde girl, reminiscent of Caroline, but with a distinctly studious look, stood nervously by the booth. Matt took her hand easily, drew her down for a kiss.

"Jenny, this is Elena. The first girl I ever kissed."

Elena smiled at the absurdity. "Pleased to meet you," she said, holding out her hand.

"And this is Jenny, the last girl I'm ever gonna kiss." He entwined his fingers with hers and they both smiled broadly.

"You are such a sap. Nice to meet you, Elena." Her accent was bright, sweet. Californian.

Elena felt a pang, and hoped Matt was right. They drank together, and the past was forgotten, because at twenty-one it should be all about the present and the future.

Alaric arrived. Unsure of himself.

Matt raised a startled eyebrow. "Hey, Mr Saltz- Ric."

"Hey, Matt." They shook hands. Very manly. He smiled grimly at Jenny. "It's not Mr Saltzric. It's just Ric."

She shook his hand as well. "Jenny."

Alaric sat down cautiously, a safe distance from Elena. Letting her know she was in the driver's seat. She rolled her eyes, gripped his wrist. Kissed him, soft and sweet and almost chaste, bare lip to lip. Said, "Hi."

Matt's eyes turned to saucers. "When did that happen?"

"He was my birthday present to myself."

"Yep," Alaric said. "I'm definitely going to hell."

By unspoken agreement, his bedroom became theirs; he bought a pair of desks, bought Elena a laptop computer to replace the one she'd smashed when Jeremy left, and her bedroom became the study.

"I'm not letting you waste your life, Elena. If you won't go to college, write."

They fought. They called each other the most vicious names they could invent.

She'd say, "No wonder Isobel wanted to become a vampire. Life with you would have bored a saint to suicide."

He'd say, "You think you're a grown woman, but you're still a pathetic little girl. Throwing yourself a pity party at least once a week."

She'd say, "You're lucky I'll even have you. You're old. You're a fucking high school history teacher, and you even suck at that."

He'd say, "You're a fucking waitress, Elena. You're gonna criticise my career decisions? I should have left years ago."

And she'd cry, and he'd apologise, and they'd fall into bed.

They would invoke Damon's memory only when nothing less painful could suffice.

She'd say, "What could you possibly have offered him to make him want to stay?"

He'd say, "He left because of you. Because you forced him to choose between you and his brother."

She'd say, "He didn't give a shit about you. You were a snack he'd reach for when he was too stoned to find something he actually wanted to eat."

He'd say, "He obsessed over Katherine for a hundred and fifty years. He got over you in about a hundred and fifty seconds."

And she'd cry, and he'd apologise, and they'd fall into bed.

There were also things they'd never stoop to saying.

You're the reason I'm still a high school history teacher.

I'm your wife's daughter.

If you'd died, instead of Stefan, Damon would still be here. I could have been his comfort.

We defile Jenna's memory every time we fuck.

Morning sex. She'd crawl all over him, insinuate herself over his body, beg him to take her, and he always did.

"I'm sorry," she'd whisper against his throat. "I bet he was in love with you. I bet he thinks about you more than he ever thinks about me."

"You're killing me, Elena," he'd whisper back.

Days past her twenty-second birthday, they were both working in the study. Both online.

She sent him an instant message.

I love you.

It was the first time she'd ever said it. He twitched, about to turn to her. She leaned further in to the keyboard, reluctant to make eye contact. He smiled.

I love you, too.