I hope you all had lovely Thanksgivings! I'm never eating turkey again...
I think this update will clear up a lot of questions about Damon. I know a lot of you are like "but really, Damon, how are you this dense?" Thing is, he's not. He knows there's something up with Molly. But, he just survived a major accident and then pushed himself through recovery so he could drive again. He's got fears to face. It's not that he's oblivious. It's that he doesn't have the bandwifth to think about it or deal with it right this second.
I'm going to stop rambling and let you read. Right after I say a big THANK YOU for all of your reviews and favorites! Thank you so much.
Disclaimer: I don't own Vampire Diaries.
Damon didn't know what time it was, but it was late. He couldn't sleep, his mind racing faster than his car would be tomorrow.
He had spent a lot of the last three months trying not to think about the last three months. He also made it a practice to not think about the majority of the last four years and so, he buried himself in cars, women, and debauchery. Tonight though, he couldn't keep his mind away from subjects he preferred to keep tucked in the very darkest recesses of his mind.
He hadn't been at a race track since he was life flighted from Talladega. He couldn't remember another time when he had been away from a track this long. It was never more than a week, tops, between visits, although he took an entire December off a couple years ago to bounce from tropical island to tropical island. In hindsight, he remembered very little from that trip. But with his injuries, he had spent two weeks in an Alabama hospital before being cleared to travel home where he was placed in the care of his parents.
His mother had been overbearing, his father distant, and his brother was a mere figment of his imagination, floating in and out of the living room turned ground-level bedroom for his recovery in the span of five minutes, never saying much during his very brief visits. As soon as he had been able to bear weight on his left leg, he moved into a space of his own, away from the claustrophobic Salvatore house.
Life as he knew it crumbled along with his car at Talladega. NASCAR levied a heavy fine, docked his team a significant amount of points, and put him on probation for fighting in the garage and intentional wrecking of another driver, an incident that had happened earlier in the race, before his own accident. Then, while he lay in a hospital bed recovering, the team that hired him away from his father "parted ways" with him as soon as the season ended a few weeks after Talladega. He knew his streak of having his wild nights out plastered across the internet and in tabloids was catching up with him, but he still hadn't expected a swift firing.
He had thought he was finished. Between his issues with NASCAR, his off track reputation, and the fact that he hadn't won a race since the previous season, no one was going to hire him. Once a top driver, he had "squandered his talent" as one reporter so eloquently put it, and no one wanted to take on the risks that came with Damon Salvatore as a driver. Desperate to get back on the track, he accepted his father's offer blindly, regardless of the stipulations that came along with it. He had signed his contract propped up in the hospital bed set up in his parents' living room. He complained loudly and often about Giuseppe Salvatore's many rules and expectations, but deep down, he was grateful for the chance to drive, no matter what he had to do to get the metaphorical keys.
Sitting as high up as he could go in the empty stands, he gazed out over Daytona International Speedway. Motorhomes were lined up along the infield, each housing sleeping drivers, owners, and crews. Fans were camped out nearby in everything from tents to luxury RVs that rivaled those of the drivers, just for two days of practice sessions. Lake Lloyd was still, reflecting the soft lighting from around the track. He could make out the haulers in the garage area, pick his out of the sea of colored trailers with ease. He had always loved race tracks late at night, when they were silent. It was a sharp contrast to the daytime, when engines roared and fans cheered. A quiet race track was, to him, one of the most peaceful places on earth.
He was scared.
He had felt fear before. It came with the territory of driving at high rates of speed for a living. He had been in nasty crashes, saw his friends, his family, slam into walls or get propelled across the track. He had vivid memories of watching his father go airborne, landing on his roof, and sliding across the backstretch at this very track when he was five years old. But that fear was adrenaline induced. He never had the flight response to fear. He fought it, head on. He held onto the wheel and did his best to salvage the car, stay in the race, his own personal safety be damned.
This time was different.
This time, his heart sped up and his breath became shallow and short every time he thought about getting behind the wheel.
Most of him couldn't wait to be strapped in, his hands on the wheel, his foot to the pedal. Racing was a part of him. It was in his very soul. He would never be happy on the sidelines, watching cars go by. Someday, he knew he would have to give it up, retire and focus on owning a team or being a talking head for racing broadcasts, whatever drivers did when the left the sport. But he had years of this ahead of him and he wanted to make them the best of his career. He had come close to being remembered as the driver who "squandered his talent" and died in a fiery crash. He didn't want that. He wanted to be remembered as great. Like his father.
But another part of him was paralyzed at the thought of driving again. He remembered little of the accident, but he had watched the replays. He had heard the stories. He had pushed himself through hours of physical therapy to be able to drive when the new season started. He had suffered through sometimes intolerable levels of pain. He had always known accidents like the one he had at Talladega were possible. He knew death was a potential hazard of the job. He had been a teenager, sitting on the roof of his family's motor home with Stefan, when Dale Earnhardt had crashed and died at Daytona. But his own brush with death had shook him to his very core.
He thought Elena knew. He couldn't explain it, but somehow, when she asked if he was ready to get back on the track, he knew she wasn't asking if he was looking forward to driving again or if he was recovered enough to race like everyone else. She was asking if he was mentally ready. She was the only one he had mentioned "working through the nerves" to. He knew, even though he hadn't laid eyes on her for the better part of four years, that she wouldn't see him as weak if he admitted to being nervous.
His mind wandered to Elena. They hadn't interacted much in the couple of weeks she had been at Salvatore Racing, their time spent together largely scheduled in advance and involving other members of the team. He was almost glad for that. He didn't know how to talk to her now, an odd thing to realize as once, she had been the only person, besides his brother, that he would tell everything to.
They had been cordial enough in the break room that morning. Even with their limited interaction, he knew the attraction was still there, at least on his part. It was a different kind of attraction with Elena, something that was natural and deep. He wasn't drawn to her because she was beautiful or sexy or blonde or whatever criteria he had gone with in the past. He was pulled towards her because she was her. She was Elena.
He had thought he had managed to move on, put her in the past. Occasionally over the years, after he was extremely drunk and before he either found someone to take home or passed out, he would think of her, berate himself for the mistakes he made. Only recently had he started to think of her more often. A song she used to like would come on the radio. He had ordered Pad Thai for the umpteenth time just before Christmas and suddenly remembered she liked hers at a two on the one through five spice meter. A woman had walked by in high heels and instead of taking in the sway of her hips, Damon had recalled how Elena would wear heels at the track on race day, no matter how impractical, just because she liked how they looked. And then, as if by magic, she was there again, in Mystic Falls. He had been sitting in a corner booth at the local coffee shop earlier in the week when she came in and placed a to go order. She still took her coffee the same way.
She was different, though. He had noticed almost right away that she was far more confident, much more comfortable in her own skin. She stood up for herself, didn't back down when she felt she was right or wanted to get her point across. She was a mother now, a role that agreed with her more than any job in a marketing department ever would. He was an outsider looking in now, but he knew she was meant to be a mother. Molly had no idea how lucky she was to have Elena as her mother.
Molly.
He couldn't help but be curious about the little girl. He was initially surprised to learn Elena had a daughter. He had considered the possibility – and considered it probable – that Elena had moved on, was married or at least in a serious relationship. He had never considered the possibility that she would have a child. But, that morning, in the break room, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world, that Molly would belong to Elena. She was a beautiful little girl. She didn't exactly look like Elena, save for her hair color, but she reminded him of Elena all the same.
He had felt a deep protectiveness over Molly when he walked into the break room and saw her teetering precariously on her tiptoes as she reached for a snack. Instinct alone had sent him across the room to her aid. She had been shy at first, but when she warmed up to him, she had proven to be smart, inquisitive, just as he would have expected any child of Elena's to be. When Elena had hugged her after correcting her, the tender moment between mother and daughter had tugged at his heartstrings. He didn't want to admit to himself that it had been accompanied by a thought of "what could have been."
His gut told him there was more to Molly. He knew Elena, or at least, he had known her once. She wasn't the one night stand kind of girl. He had chased after her for months before she would even go to dinner with him. They had dated for three months before she allowed him to make love to her. There was no way Molly was the product of a one night stand. Elena had even told him as much. The child had told him she was two. She had mentioned a third birthday party, but whether that birthday was next week or months from now, he didn't know. He didn't know why it mattered to him, but he did know that she had very blue eyes, was allergic to nuts, and whenever she turned three, she wanted a pony.
Whatever it was about Molly, he had to push her out of his mind, at least for now. Talladega had happened three months ago – three months, one week, and two days, if anyone was counting. In the days after he came to in the hospital, while his head was throbbing and his vision as blurry as his memories of the accident, and later, during the countless hours of physical therapy, when his body was screaming in pain, the crash had seemed like a lifetime ago. Now, back at a race track, hours before he was in the cockpit again, it was like Talladega happened yesterday. He didn't remember the accident, but he swore he could smell the gasoline and smoke, the carbon dioxide from the fire extinguishers. He needed to focus on the task at hand – driving – before he could focus on Elena, Molly, or his family.
He sighed and rubbed his hand roughly over his face. He could feel his heart pounding, his anxiety rising. He couldn't stop the barrage of thoughts and fragmented memories of Talladega now that he had unlocked the vault he tried to keep them in. Whether he wanted to think about her or not, Elena was a part of those Talladega memories, and the ones that featured her hit him now.
He had never told a soul that Elena's face was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes three days after the accident. He knew his family was there. He had heard them talking to him and around him when the meds keeping him unconscious started to wear off. But, somewhere in that state between consciousness and unconsciousness, it had been Elena he thought of. Elena he wanted. In the wee hours of the morning as his eyes had finally opened, he had seen Elena's face above him. It had faded away as he adjusted to being awake until only the browns of her pupils hung above him and he knew she was no more than an illusion.
For several days, he clung to the finest thread of hope that Elena would show up at the hospital. He knew he wasn't living in a movie, but with nothing else to hold on to, he hoped she would hear about his accident and rush to his side. She never came. If she had, Damon had no idea what he would have said. There wasn't exactly a Hallmark card that made up for walking out on a relationship without so much as a backwards glance. That hadn't stopped him from hoping until he finally accepted she wasn't coming.
With a heavy sigh, he roughly rubbed a hand over his face again. He had screwed up so many times in so many different ways over the last four years – five, if he counted the year that led up to his lapse in judgment – that he didn't know where to begin to right his wrongs and get his life back on track. He was a big enough man to admit that was why he kept screwing up. He didn't know how to fix things, so he just kept doing what everyone expected of him – all the wrong things.
He had to eventually figure out his life. But right now, in this moment, he had to focus on driving. He couldn't think about Elena, Molly, or his strained relationship with his family. He had to push through his fears, swallow down his nerves, and drive. Driving was the only thing he could control.
Driving was the only thing he had.
Damon eyed his black, red and gold car as he approached it. It was a beautiful piece of machinery, powerful and graceful at the same time. He felt his heart pounding, could feel the blood rushing through his veins. He pulled in air through his nose and blew it out through his mouth in an effort to stay calm.
It's just a car, he told himself. It's just a car. You have drove one of these at least a thousand times. It's just a car. That's it. Just a car.
"You ready to roll, cowboy?"
Damon turned to find Ric, his spotter and one of the few people he considered a friend, standing behind him.
"Ready as I'll ever be," he replied. Ric nodded and walked up to Damon. He slapped his shoulder.
"You've got this," he told him. "It's just a car." Damon grinned ever so slightly.
"It's just a car," he repeated. Ric nodded again.
"You're going to be fine," he said in a low voice. He knew Damon was nervous, understandably so. "I'm going to get up to my post. You put on a helmet and get ready to drive the hell out of that thing. Maybe blow up that God forsaken prototype of Stefan's while you're at it. I'm sick and tired of hearing about the damn thing." Damon chuckled in earnest then.
"Thanks, Ric," he said with a nod. Ric just winked at him, knowing the thanks was for more than a few encouraging words, and turned back in the direction he had come from.
"Damon! A word?" Damon sighed as a reporter, trailed by a cameraman, hurried towards him. He had to talk to the press. It was a part of the job description. But today, just for today, he really wanted to focus on the relatively simple act of getting behind the wheel. Still, he took one more deep breath, put on a smile, and greeted the report.
"Skip, good to see you again," he said, reaching out his hand to shake the reporter's. Skip Burton was a staple on the NASCAR circuit. While other reports came and went, he was a mainstay, even if he did hop from network to network with each offer of a salary increase. The middle-aged man shook his hand firmly in return.
"Good to see me? How about good to see you? Standing on your own two feet, not a cast or even a bruise in sight. You gave us quite the scare at Talladega, young man." Damon glanced over Skip's shoulder to find the little red light that confirmed they were already recording.
"It's good to be back at the track," he responded in a perfectly media trained manner. "I'm looking forward to these practice sessions."
"You're all healed up?" Skip pushed. "No residual injuries?"
"All healed up," Damon confirmed. "Broken bones have mended, cuts and bruises have faded away. I was cleared by my doctor a few weeks ago. I don't think I've ever gone so long without being at the track."
"What's it like being back at Salvatore Racing?" Skip continued.
"It's great," Damon said automatically. He could lie with the best of them. "It's good to be back with my family after all these years. We've got a great team assembled. My Ragged Mountain Chevy is coming along nicely. These training sessions will help us dial it in for Daytona in a few weeks."
"Speaking of Daytona…" Damon bit the inside of his lip. "You left Mickelson Motor Sports abruptly. How will it be racing alongside the Mickelson brothers as a competitor instead of a teammate?"
"We're always competitors," Damon answered. "Even when we were teammates, we were still competitors. There's only one winner. Other than the fact that we're driving for separate teams now, there's really no difference." There wasn't. The Mickelsons had always been fierce competitors. Headquartered in Daytona, the team also had an operation in Mystic Falls, the heart of auto racing, which mean he still saw plenty of them. They were usually involved in his drunken nights out in and around the small town.
"You're on probation for Talladega," Skip pressed. "Thoughts on that? Do you think the punishment is fair? What about the fine? Some say you got off too easily, given some of your off track antics."
"I made a mistake at Talladega," Damon said. He had rehearsed an answer to this question from the very moment he signed a contract with his father that would allow him to drive again. "It's not something that will happen again."
"But why intentionally wreck Matt Donovan? There were rumors about you and his sister…"
"Is this a report on Daytona practice, or a gossip column?" Giuseppe Salvatore appeared out of nowhere. Damon found he was actually relieved to see him.
"Giuseppe! Great to see you," Skip greeted, offering his hand. "We were just discussing Damon's return to Salvatore Racing." Giuseppe shook the man's hand although Damon could feel the disdain his father had for Skip from where he stood.
"We're pleased to have him back," Giuseppe answered evenly. "But I'm afraid I'm going to have to steal him away. He's got a car to drive."
"Of course," Skip said with a nod. "Perhaps we'll talk later, then? I hear the younger Salvatore brother has been working on a prototype engine that could revolutionize the world of auto racing."
"We will perhaps talk about that later," Giuseppe answered. "Come on, Damon." Damon nodded politely at Skip and his cameraman and headed off with his father. "I would prefer it if you don't talk to the press this weekend," Giuseppe told him in an undertone. "With everything going on surrounding your return to the track, I would like Elena to be on the premises before you speak with the media."
"You know those things quarterbacks wear on their wrists that they can reference for play calling?" Damon replied. Giuseppe looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Think we can get one of those made in fire retardant material? I'd like to be able to wear one. Except instead of having plays, it would have all of your rules listed out. It's getting hard to keep up with all the additions."
"Don't be crass," Giuseppe replied sternly. "Elena has told you she is working on your public image. Talking to the media, especially Skip Burton, without her around to intervene if needed, isn't part of her plan."
"If the arm band doesn't work, maybe I can just wear an earpiece at all times," Damon continued, ignoring his father, even if he knew he was right. "Just record your rules and we can let them replay in my ear over and over again. Maybe they will all sink in while I sleep."
"Enough," Giuseppe warned. "Just – stay away from the press this outing, okay?"
"Whatever you say," Damon stated. Giuseppe sighed. Damon didn't understand that he was trying to help him, protect him. He knew Damon was nervous about driving, even if he would die before would admit it. He didn't need the pressure of media and interviews added to what he was already feeling.
"Are you sure you're ready to drive again?" he asked Damon. "No smart ass responses. Answer me honestly. Are you ready to drive again?" Damon sighed. That was as close to showing any concern as his father was going to get.
"I'm ready to drive again," he said with confidence. "I need to drive again." Giuseppe nodded once. He understood more than Damon thought he did about the need to get back behind the wheel.
"Let's get to it then," he said. Damon blew out a breath.
"Let's get to it," he echoed.
With a deep breath, Damon slipped through the window of his car. He settled into the seat, made precisely to fit his body, and as soon as he leaned back against the headrest, knew something was wrong.
"What the hell?" he muttered, reaching up over his left shoulder. He instantly felt the extra padding in the seat. "Mason!" he called out.
"Yeah, boss?" Mason, his crew chief, appeared in his window.
"What the hell did you do to my seat?" Damon asked. "There is at least three inches of extra padding on the left side."
"It's an attachment," Mason explained. "Your dad recommended it. Extra padding for your shoulder. Stefan said he thought your shoulder was bothering you, so Giuseppe told us to try and make the seat a little more comfortable for you."
"It's not supposed to be comfortable," Damon retorted. He reached over his shoulder again, felt around for where the extra padding attached, and pulled until it came loose. "Here," he said, passing it through the window to Mason.
"You sure you don't want to give it a shot?" Mason asked. "You're going to get jerked around a fair amount. This will keep your shoulder from bouncing around as much."
"I've been in a car a time or two," Damon argued back. "I'm aware of how much I'm going to bounce around. I'm fine. My shoulder is fine. I don't want the extra padding." Mason nodded, knowing it was no use in arguing with Damon, at least on this.
"Alright, then," he agreed. He knocked his hand against the frame of the window twice. "Let's get you strapped in."
"First thing anyone has said this morning that makes any sense," Damon muttered. With the help of his crew, they set to work, tightening harnesses and attaching ventilation tubes. Mason helped him with his HANS device while he worked to pull on his gloves.
"All set," Mason said a few minutes later. "We'll roll out in a few minutes." Damon nodded as best he could now that he was strapped in.
"Test the radio?" he asked. Mason signaled to the pit box.
"How's the Chevy?" came Enzo's voice through his helmet.
"American made," Damon replied back. Enzo chuckled.
"Good deal," he said. "Do me a favor?"
"I'll consider it."
"Blow up that damn prototype. I'm sick of hearing about it." Damon laughed in earnest. While everyone at Salvatore Racing, himself included, knew Stefan had hit on something major, they were all tired of his constant monologue about intakes and fuel injections.
"I already promised Ric I would do my best," he said.
"That's my guy," Enzo replied. There was a pause. "Looks like you're up." Damon didn't reply. He took another deep breath and waited for Mason's voice to tell him to start his engine.
"Fire it up," Mason said through the radio.
If he was nervous before, it was nothing compared to how he felt as the car roared to life with a couple flips of switches. You're fine, he told himself. It's just a car. He heard Elena's voice telling him to have fun. He blew out yet another breath, lowered the visor on his helmet, and eased his foot on the gas. The car started to move forward. He could do this.
It was just a car.
That night, he found himself belly up to one of his favorite Daytona bars. He wore a baseball cap this time, taking precautions to blend in. There were a number of race fans in town and many of them knew this place was a favorite hangout of drivers, even if it was one drivers considered off the beaten path. He sipped his beer, trying to relax after a tense day.
He had made it. He had drove around and around Daytona's track without incident. He had drafted with his teammates, passed other cars, given Stefan a mountain of data for his prototype, and avoided the media. The only thing he hadn't fully managed to do was blow up the prototype, despite his best efforts.
Best of all, he couldn't wait to do it again tomorrow.
And then, he would start worrying all over again as the days to the Daytona 500 ticked down. Practice sessions were one thing. Racing for real was another.
"Well, well, well," came a voice that made Damon groan. "Look who we have here." A tall, buxom woman with dirty blonde stood before him, her green eyes full of no good.
"Vicki," Damon said in a neutral tone. He turned back to his beer, determined to ignore her.
"I certainly didn't think we would see you around here," she continued. "Between all those broken bones and the whole probation thing, who would have thought someone would give you the keys to their car this season? Of course, not all of us are fortunate enough to have a big shot daddy to bail us out."
"There are no keys," Damon mumbled, still working to ignore her.
"You must have really hit your head hard," Vicki said. "It's like you haven't noticed that I'm standing right in front of you." She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. "We both know you don't usually ignore me."
"We both know you shouldn't be talking to me," Damon said. There was more venom in his voice than he would usually use with a woman, but Vicki wasn't just anyone.
"Worried my brother might get wind of it?" Vicki asked. "Because in case you didn't know, Matt is right over there." She tilted her head towards a darkened corner of the bar where Matt Donovan was holding court with a few of his team members and Sprint Cup girls. He caught Damon looking in his direction and smirked, winking at him. Damon sighed and tuned back to his beer.
"You are trying to stir up trouble," Damon said. "I'm just trying to enjoy a beer before I call it a night."
"Like you're going to call it a night after just one beer," Vicki said, her voice sultry. She leaned in suggestively. "Or, we could both call it a night right now." Before Damon could stop her, she had her lips on his. Instinctively, he pushed her away. He had barely managed to remove her lips from his before Matt showed up.
"Get your hands off my sister!" he exclaimed, grabbing Damon off of his seat by the collar of his shirt. Damon fought his first instinct to react, to shove Matt off him like he wanted to. Thinking of his promise to Elena to stay out of trouble along with his father's many stipulations, he put his hands up in surrender.
"I'm not doing anything," he said firmly. "She came on to me. I told her I wasn't interested. Just let me go and go back to whatever it was you were doing."
"Give me a break," Matt spat, tightening his grip on Damon. "You were all over her. You don't give a damn about her. You just want in her pants."
"Let me go, Matt," Damon said, working hard to keep his voice down and his temper under control. "Neither one of us can afford to get into any more trouble." Matt smirked.
"Only one of us is on probation," he reminded Damon. "And only one of us had to go to daddy just to get a ride this season."
"Hey!" the bartender called, his attention drawn to what was going on at the other end of his bar. "You two! Knock it off!"
"Let me go," Damon said again, careful to keep his hands off Matt although the desire to hit him was strong.
"Go on," Matt coaxed. "Hit me. You know you want to."
"I do," Damon confirmed. "But I won't."
"What's the matter?" Matt asked, tightening his grip even more, to a point where it was uncomfortable for Damon. He struggled against his grip. "Lost your nerve in that accident? Or are the rumors about daddy having you on a tight leash true?"
"Break it up!" Stefan appeared out of nowhere and stepped between the two, causing Matt to let go of Damon's collar. Damon reached up and massaged his neckline. "Go back to your friends, Matt," Stefan directed with authority.
"Baby brother saves the day," Matt said with a smirk. He nodded at Damon. "No worries though. We'll settle it on the track." He glanced at his sister. "Come on, Vic," he added. "You know you can do better than a washed up Salvatore." Damon and Stefan watched him walk away. Damon reached into his pocket, dug out his wallet, and threw enough cash down to cover his beer and a tip. Without a word to Stefan, he turned and walked out of the bar.
"Damon!" Stefan called after him. Damon kept walking. "Damon!" Damon heard Stefan's footsteps speeding up. Moments later, he was at Damon's side, keeping pace. "What was that all about?"
"Matt's an asshole," Damon informed him. "And his sister isn't much better."
"You handled it well," Stefan told him. "When I walked in, I expected to see you swing."
"I wanted to," Damon said. He continued walking faster than was necessary, filled with adrenaline. "I really, really wanted to. He's an asshole."
"He is," Stefan agreed. "Always has been, ever since we were racing him in Go-Karts. He's not as good of a driver as you and he knows it. He gets by on fan popularity more than his finishes. He was trying to get a rise out of you and he will continue to try and get a rise out of you until either he does or he gets bored. Just leave it alone, okay?"
"Isn't that what I did?" Damon countered. He did the right thing for a change, and he wanted someone to acknowledge it.
"You did the right thing," Stefan assured him, as though he were reading his mind.
"Dad won't see it that way. I saw the flashes. I know people took photos. Someone probably videoed it. It's probably already all over the internet. It won't matter that I didn't start it. It won't matter that I didn't react. It will matter that I was there and that once again, my name is associated with, what does Dad call it?, 'poor decision making.' Story of my life."
Stefan didn't respond right away as they kept walking, destination unknown, at least to him as it seemed Damon had somewhere in mind. He and his brother hadn't been on the best terms for a long time. They used to be inseparable, best friends and teammates, as well as brothers. When Damon drove for Salvatore Racing in the Nationwide Series, Stefan had been his crew chief. The two knew each other so well they didn't have to communicate in full sentences. Damon trusted him blindly. Together, with Enzo as car chief and Ric as spotter, they won races, championships.
The last four years had been hard for the Salvatore family. They had won a number of races, had a few championships. But outside of racing, as a family, they were in shambles. They did their best, Giuseppe and Ginny, Stefan and Caroline, to function as a family unit. But with Damon disowning them and Elena and Molly on the west coast, Damon completely unaware of Molly's existence, they were barely keeping up the guise. Damon's always empty seat at Tuesday evening's family dinners spoke loudly, mocking them.
Damon's accident brought them back together in a patchwork sort of way. If nothing else, it had gotten Damon back in Mystic Falls and back on the Salvatore Racing roster. Giuseppe believed it was a step forward. Ginny looked at it as a chance to get her son back. Stefan saw it for what it was. Damon needed them. He needed his family. He either didn't know it yet, or maybe hadn't accept it yet, and Stefan knew him well enough to know there was nothing anyone else could do until Damon figured it out for himself.
But what Stefan had seen from Damon in the last few minutes was different. Damon was genuinely upset about the situation with Matt. He was upset about the fact that he would likely be the talk NASCAR again tomorrow, once again for something besides his on track success. Damon's devil may care attitude had waned that evening and Stefan was surprised. Before his accident, Damon would have either slipped off with Vicki the second she made an advance or else took a swing at Matt without much provoking. It was the smallest of baby steps, but Stefan couldn't help but hope it was a step in the right direction.
"You didn't do anything wrong," Stefan finally spoke. "I'll vouch for you. We will handle it. Just – maybe stay out of bars for the rest of the weekend."
"God forbid I have any fun," Damon muttered, still walking.
"Where are we going anyway?" Stefan asked. Damon glanced at him.
"I'm going back to the track," he stated. "Where are you going?"
"I guess I'm going back to the track," Stefan replied. He too had walked to the bar in search of something to eat and a beer.
"Good for you," Damon responded. They continued in silence for a few minutes, Daytona growing ever bigger as they approached. Without warning, Damon let out a groan. "Elena's going to kill me," he stated.
"Elena?" Stefan questioned.
"I told her I wouldn't get into trouble," he said. "The season hasn't even started, and I'm already going to be plastered across the media for something besides my grand return to the track."
"You didn't actually get into trouble," Stefan reminded him. "You didn't do anything. Matt instigated it, you didn't take the bait."
"Still, she's going to have to clean up after me," Damon said with a sigh. He reached into his jacket pocket for his phone. "Do you have her number? I'm going to call her and let her know. I'd rather her hear it from me." Stefan tried to hide his disbelief at the level of responsibility for his actions Damon was suddenly showing.
"It's after eleven," he told Damon. "I'm sure she's in bed by now. If she's not, Molly surely is. You don't want to wake her up for something that isn't an emergency." Damon sighed, realizing Stefan was right.
"I guess not," he agreed. "But do you have her number? I'll call her first thing in the morning. Hopefully before she checks her email." Stefan nodded and retrieved his own phone. He found Elena's number and texted it to Damon.
"How is it, having her back here?" he asked as he pocketed his phone again. Damon shrugged.
"I haven't seen her much," he said honestly. "Her kid is pretty cute. Seems like Elena is a good mom."
"Not really surprising though, is it? That she took to being a mom, I mean? Elena always was the caregiver." Damon just nodded in agreement. There was something else on his mind.
"Molly calls you Uncle Stefan," he mentioned. It was something else to add to his list of things to ponder about Molly once he had the Daytona 500 behind him.
"She does," Stefan said carefully, now on his guard. The pieces were all right there in front of Damon. He just had to put them together. "Technically, she calls me Uncle Stef."
"Why's that?" Damon continued. They reached the entrance of Daytona, showed their IDs, and a guard allowed them to pass. "I'm assuming because of Caroline?" Stefan nodded.
"Just because you stopped speaking to Elena, doesn't mean the rest of us did," he said carefully. Damon gave him a look, but didn't seem surprised by his answer.
"Guess not," he finally said. He had spent the better part of the last four years not speaking to his family. It shouldn't have surprised him that Stefan remained in contact with Elena. They had always had a strictly platonic friendship that had been more like that of brother and sister. He assumed it was a safe bet his parents had remained in contact with her as well. They had loved her like daughter. "Do me a favor?" Damon asked as they reached their respective motor homes.
"We'll see," Stefan replied skeptically. He had long ago learned not to blindly agree to anything where Damon was concerned.
"If Giuseppe asks, stick up for me for a change?" Damon requested. The skepticism was clear in his voice.
"You didn't do anything wrong," Stefan reminded him again. "I'll tell Dad what happened."
"You always do," Damon stated. He tipped a fake hat to Stefan, keyed in the entry code to his motor home, and left Stefan standing in the infield.
So, Damon definitely knows he needs to think more about Molly. But, he's compartmentalized her - and Elena - to get through Daytona's practice session and, a few weeks after practice, the actual Daytona 500. Practice sessions are a lot different from the actual race. Damon can practice all day long, but it won't simulate what it'll actually be like to be back in a racing environment.
There's a lot going on with Damon. He's actually become quite complicated to write. (Which makes it fun!)
NASCAR stuff:
- Until this upcoming season, drivers practiced/tested at Daytona about 3 weeks before the actual Daytona 500. Now that practice is over, they will shift their focus to the actual race.
- Ric is Damon's spotter - he has a perch high above the track and radios information to Damon about what's going on around him.
- Intentional wrecking is a thing. There was some debate recently on what defines it and as it turns out, it appears to be at NASCAR's discretion. They get to decide if that nudge of a driver's bumper was "just racing" or an act of wrecking another driver on purpose. Damon and Matt had a "thing" before his accident at Talladega.
I think that's it. I would LOVE to know what you think!