Happy first day of 2015! Let's make this the best year yet, shall we?

Thank you so much for your reactions to the last chapter! It's so great reading your thoughts and feedback, especially on who you sympathize with and what you predict will happen. I love it!

Remember how we left off with Elena headed back to the infield, not seeing Damon in the stands? Well, here is Damon in the stand - his point of view on things.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Vampire Diaries.

He had a kid.

He had a kid who would be three years old in just over two weeks.

He had an almost three year old kid he didn't know a thing about until approximately fifteen hours ago.

It was too much to even begin to wrap his head around.

Deep down, he thought he knew all along. It was painfully obvious now. Molly was a carbon copy with brunette hair. How had he been around her all this time and not figured it out sooner?

He knew why. He was too wrapped up in himself, too focused on his looming return to the racetrack and trying to convince himself he wasn't terrified, to realize what was right in front of him: a tiny little girl who looked just like him.

Once more sitting high in the stands of Daytona in the middle of the night, he tried to recall every detail he knew about Molly.

She had his eyes, his high cheekbones and sharp jawline. Her hair was long and hung in loose, natural waves, just like Elena's. She almost always wore a bow and he didn't think he had ever seen her in something besides a dress, save for her nightgown that morning. He had the impression she wore dresses by choice, not because her mother forced her into them each morning. She was the very definition of a little girl, sugar and spice and all that was nice.

She was petite, small for her age. Elena was petite as well, but he wondered if Molly's small stature had anything to do with her being born seven weeks early. How long had she been in the NICU? What did she go through while she was in there? Why was she born so early in the first place? Had his parents visited her? Those were all questions he would have to find the answers to.

How old had she been when she took her first steps? What was her first word? Did she sleep through the night? Or did she cry for hours? She went to school. Which school was it? There weren't many in Mystic Falls to choose from. Was it a good one? Was she learning things? Did she have any birth defects? She didn't seem to. She seemed exceptionally bright, curious. But maybe there were things he couldn't see. There couldn't be though. She seemed perfect. Perfect and whole and his.

She was allergic to tree nuts, just like him. She went into anaphylactic shock and had her first reaction when she was just 18 months old, Elena had told him that day in the kitchen at Salvatore Racing. How did Elena make sure she didn't eat nuts when Molly wasn't in her care? She mentioned a medical ID bracelet that day in the break room. Did the new one come in? Was Molly wearing it? She liked ketchup on her eggs and was already showing a fascination with driving race cars. He had too, at her age.

That made him wonder what else she did that was like him. Did she bounce out of bed, bright-eyed and bushy tailed like he did, or at least like he used to? Or was she slower to wake up, cranky for the first few minutes of the day, like Elena? Did she like pumpkin butter on her toast? Did she turn her nose up at pickles? Did she love spicy foods? Had Elena ever thought to give her pumpkin butter on her toast? He was sure Molly had been offered pickles. Elena loved them. But he doubted she had been exposed to much spicy food. Elena wasn't really a fan.

He wondered what her favorite book was, her favorite TV show, her favorite song. He was curious about her first birthday party, her second one. Surely she would be having a third. Would he be invited? Would he go if he was? What sort of gift did one get a three year old? Something without small parts, he reasoned, so she wouldn't choke. At least he thought that sounded like something he had heard once.

He had absolutely no idea how to be a father. He assumed no one really knew how to be a parent until they actually were one. People usually had time to get used to the idea that they were going to be parents. They had nine whole months, more if they planned for it, to read books and Google things and ask people questions. But he was a swinging bachelor one day, a father to a three year old the next.

Except he wasn't exactly a swinging bachelor these days. He still went out, especially when the Mikaelson brothers were in town. But, more often than not, he stayed in, hidden away in the garage bay with his Camaro or sitting alone in his small apartment, watching something he had already seen a 100 times over on Netflix. Ever since his accident, he hadn't really wanted to go out, do things. He spent a lot of time in his head, thinking about anything and everything. There was so much to think about already, and now he had Molly too.

He was furious at Elena. He was livid with his parents, Stefan, and Caroline. The anger ebbed and flowed. Sometimes he was blinded by his rage. He couldn't believe they had kept this from him. He couldn't believe they hadn't told him he had a child. For three whole years, they had kept Molly from him. It was wrong and deceitful in the rawest of ways.

Other times, his anger cooled. He could understand. He remembered the countless times his cell phone screen lit up with Elena's name. She called almost continuously the first couple of days. Then, she stopped cold. A couple weeks later – when she found out she was pregnant, he now knew – she became relentless again. His parents had never stopped calling. Stefan had continued to dial him a few times a day. He finally changed his number.

There were emails too. He deleted them without opening them, just as he deleted the voicemails without listening to them. He remembered messages from the woman who answered the phones at Mikealson Motorsports. They said things like "Call Elena ASAP" and "Please call your parents immediately." He threw those away. He remembered the racetrack confrontations too.

As angry as he was, he also found himself feeling guilty. Guilt had been a constant fixture in his life for a long time, but until his accident, he had managed to trample it down, cover it up. Lying in his hospital bed, his family hovering around him as though nothing had happened between them, showing him their love and support, he felt like someone had layered concrete on his chest. He didn't deserve it. He deserved to be facing the road to recovery alone.

Instead of dealing with his guilt then, he threw himself into rehab and focused solely on getting back on the track. He didn't know how to face his family, how to even begin to right the wrongs he had made over the years. He kept pushing them away because it was easier than facing his past. He had no idea he could feel worse about the choices he had made until he learned about Molly. He wanted to be mad. He was mad. But, Elena had tried to tell him. His family had tried. His foolish pride had kept him from answering the phone.

His pride had kept him from knowing about his daughter.

If he were brutally honest with himself, he wouldn't have told him about Molly in recent years either. He was in no shape to be a father. He was barely managing to take care of himself before the accident. He partied hard, drank hard liquor, and, at his lowest, dabbled in hard drugs. He wasn't proud of his behavior. He slept around, threw away his career in the name of a good time. It was a wonder he hadn't been fired before he was. He suspected that was because Mikeal Mikealson didn't like his father and still resented Giuseppe for beating him out in the final race of the season in 1994 to squeak out enough points to win the Winston Cup Championship. Stealing Damon away from Salvatore Racing had been a form of payback.

His life was a mess. The only thing he had going for him was a trust fund and a decent paycheck, a paycheck that could have been better had he not thrown away the last couple of years. He could afford a child, but did he really need to raise one?

His apartment alone was reason enough to say he had no business with a kid. It was in a good location – there weren't any bad locations in Mystic Falls – but other than that, it wasn't kid friendly. It was small. There was only one bedroom, and he didn't even have a bathtub, just a shower stall. It was a mess, his clothes all over the floor, a trashcan overflowing with takeout containers in the kitchen. The food in his fridge was outdated and whatever was in his pantry was questionable, at best. He forgot to lock the door half the time, and he didn't even own a first aid kit, although he supposed he could get one.

He wasn't a good influence. Stefan was going to make a great father. He was stable, had a real home with a real backyard. They even had a dog, if the tiny little critter that Caroline brought to the relationship could be call a dog. He was successful, went to church on Sunday mornings when they were home, to a makeshift service held in the garage area when they weren't. His marriage was strong and he didn't have skeletons in his closet that could come back to bite him down the road.

Damon couldn't say any of those things about himself. He had no business being in charge of a three year old's wellbeing. It was one thing to toss her cheese puffs and kick a ball around with her in the infield. It was a whole other thing to be her father, to hold her when she cried and correct her when she was wrong. She needed someone to be an example. He was none of those things.

Except he wanted to be.

He wanted to be because he didn't know if he could stand to see anyone else assume that role in Molly's life.

He just didn't know if he could be.

He had avoiding Elena and Molly down to an art form. For the last three days, the fact that Molly was his daughter had played on loop. The only time he managed to push down thoughts of Molly was when there was something racing-related in front of him. He had always been able to shut out everything else and focus when he was behind the wheel. Otherwise, his thoughts were full of Molly, of Elena, of the fact that his family had lied to him, of the fact that he kept swinging from blind anger to overwhelming guilt.

Avoiding his father and Stefan had been easier said than done. Giuseppe was especially difficult as he was an invested team owner, not just his father. Damon had kept himself in check, kept from lashing out at him. That morning had been rough, his mother not easily fought off when she turned up at his motor home demanding he join them for breakfast as it was race day. He had finally given in. Elena had already finished eating and taken Molly to the motor home to get dressed for the day when he joined them.

The green flag would drop in an hour. He had precious few minutes before it was time to race. His car had been rolled into position in the starting grid and soon, he would need to step into his fire suit. He was milling around in the garage area, waiting, trying not to be nervous, when a little voice met his ears.

"Can I drive your car?"

Somehow, Molly had sneaked up on him. She was standing behind him, dressed in a black and red dress, her hair pulled up in a bow, matching red shoes on her feet. She was, he realized, dressed in his racing colors, whether on purpose or not, he didn't know. The fact that she was his daughter hit him hard in that moment.

"You're too little to drive my car," he told her. It was the first time he had spoken to her since figuring out she was his. "Maybe when you're bigger." If she still wanted to drive when she was older, he would help her. He shook his head a bit at the thought. He didn't know what he wanted when it came to Molly. And, looking at her in a dress and bow, so small and innocent, he didn't want to think of her being old enough to drive, either.

"I'm almost three," she said defiantly.

"Yeah," he agreed. "You are." He turned away, busying himself with getting his fire suit out of its garment bag. He didn't mean to ignore Molly, he just didn't know how to talk to her now, knowing she was his own flesh and blood. It shouldn't be any different. Talking to her shouldn't be harder. But, it was.

"Day-mun?" she asked.

"Yeah?" he glanced at her. She looked curious.

"Are you sad?"

He frowned and turned to her. "Sad?" he asked. He shook his head. He was a lot of things, but sad wasn't one of them. "I'm not sad."

"You look sad."

"I'm not," he assured Molly. "I guess I'm just nervous about the race." About racing, he thought to himself, and you. He turned back to his fire suit.

"What's ner-vis?" Molly asked.

"It's… When your belly feels weird," he said, trying to think of how to explain it to an almost three year old. Her eyes lit up.

"Like me on the plane!" He nodded, smiling slightly.

"Like that," he agreed. He turned again, not paying attention to the fact that Molly skipped off. He stepped into his fire suit and pulled it up over his fitted shorts. He left it hanging loose at the waist. He always waited until the last minute to pull it over the rest of his body. He found his hat, emblazoned with his team's sponsor, put it on, then picked up his sunglasses.

"Here," came Molly's voice again. He turned and found her standing before him once more, this time holding out a chocolate chip cookie. He raised an eyebrow.

"What's this for?" he asked, taking the cookie from her.

"Mama let me have a cookie on the plane," she said. "It made my tummy not feel weird." Damon felt his heart soften. Molly looked like him, but she was really Elena's miniature, he realized. The compassion, the kindness shining in her eyes as she looked at him, waiting for him to eat the cookie, that was all Elena. "It not have nuts in it," she added. Damon nodded.

"I know," he said. "Thank you, Molly." He took a bite of the cookie and felt like he had already won the race with the smile the child gave him. He knew he had to ask. "Where's your mom?" Molly looked guilty. He sighed. There was nothing for it. He would have to face Elena. "Come on, kiddo," he said, reaching down to pick her up. "Where did you slip off from?"

"Um, Uncle Stef's car, I think," Molly said. "But the car not there. He say it is on the track already. I asked." Damon sighed. He knew exactly where Molly had been last.

"You can't run off from your mom, kiddo," he told her as he started towards Stefan's team's garage stall. "Especially not when you're at a race track. There are too many people. There are cars being moved, equipment. You could get hurt."

"I wanted a cookie," Molly said with a pout. He knew she meant the catering area full of snacks.

"Still, you can't run off from your mom or your grandparents or whoever is supposed to be watching you," he said. "It's not safe."

"Mama's gonna be mad," Molly pouted.

"Probably," Damon agreed. He rounded a corner and had just a moment to see a frantic Elena gesturing to a NASCAR official before Stefan spied him.

"There she is," he said. "Damon has her." Elena turned and he could see relief flood her body.

"Molly!" she cried. She rushed to Damon and took the child out his arms. She hugged Molly tightly to her. A tear escaped. Damon reached up and scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly nervous.

"She turned up at my hauler," he explained. "She said she was looking for cookies."

"Molly, you cannot, absolutely cannot sneak away from me!" Elena cried out, loosening her grip on Molly just enough to be able to see the child's face. She was frantic, Molly's latest disappearing act leaving her shaken. "Especially not a race track! There are so many people and there are cars and tractor trailers and equipment… And you know better than to eat things when you don't know where they came from! What if you ate something with nuts in it? Molly, you cannot do this to me!" Elena was beside herself, terrified and relieved at the same time.

"I sorry, Mama," Molly mumbled. Her bottom lip trembled. Without warning, she burst into tears and buried her face in Elena's neck. She seemed to have realized that she had scared her mother, that she had done more than just walk off in search of a cookie. Damon stood rooted to the spot, unable to look away. He hated seeing Molly crying, Elena so upset.

"No TV privileges this week," Elena said to Molly, even as she hugged her tightly once more. "And no dessert. No… No… I don't know what else, but you're losing a lot of privileges. You have to learn that you can't do this." Molly cried harder into Elena's neck, her tears muffled. Elena was torn between relief that Molly was okay and the need to discipline her. "I love you too much to let you get away with this." Behind them, Stefan turned away to handle the NASCAR official. His crew, gathered around, started to disperse back to whatever they were supposed to be doing. Damon was left to stay or go.

"Day-mun say I can't walk off too!" Molly cried out suddenly, lifting her head from Elena's neck. "He say I get hurt!" Elena nodded, surprised that Damon had seemingly already lectured Molly. She would have to think about what that could mean later.

"He's right," she said. "You could get hurt or worse. Please, Molly, don't ever do that again. I mean it. Mama can't handle it. If something were to happen to you…" She hugged Molly again. Damon crossed his arms over his chest. He silently cursed the fact that he wanted to pull both Molly and Elena into his arms to comfort them.

"I sorry," Molly muttered again.

"I know you are," Elena assured her. She hugged her still tighter. Her eyes met Damon's then. She held his gaze for a long moment. "Thank you," she told him softly. He nodded once.

"I told you I wouldn't hurt her," he said in a low tone. "I'm not going to let her get hurt either." With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Elena hugging their daughter to her chest, both of their tears still falling.

"25 laps to go," came Ric's voice. "How's it going?"

"Good," Damon replied. His whole body hurt, especially his shoulder. It was stifling hot in the car, well over a hundred degrees, somewhere around 150 degrees at his feet. He wasn't being burned, thanks to his fire suit, but sweat was dripping from every crevice of his body and he desperately wanted something to drink. He couldn't wait to get out of the car and stretch his legs, peel off his suit, and take a shower. He loved every second of it. "It's real good."

"You're good on fuel," added Mason. "Tires should last to the end."

"I'm still a little tight going into the corners," Damon replied. "But nothing we can do about it now."

"Just drive, baby," Mason answered. "Just drive."

"Watch the 24," Ric added. "He's getting aggressive. Keselowski is just up ahead. Him and Gordon get along like oil and water. There's going to be some bumping and swapping paint. Try to stay clear."

"Let them take each other out," Damon replied. "That's two less for me to worry about." Ric chuckled, but didn't reply.

"Just keep it clean," Mason advised. "We're just about there."

Just about there.

He wasn't going to win. He knew that. He hadn't expected to win his first race back. All he wanted was to finish with his car intact. There had been a scare about 75 laps in. Another car got loose and forced him up the track to avoid it. He bumped the wall, but aside from a scratched up paint job, the damage was minimal. His pit team had slapped some duct tape on the front fender under caution and sent him back on the track without losing a lap.

There were only 24 laps left. He was in fourteenth. He could do this.

He was just about there.

Damon rolled his neck and shoulders, trying to work the cramps out of them, all while chugging water, Gatorade, whatever he was handed. His mother had met him almost as soon as he was out of his car, fussing over him and offering him an already opened bottle of something cold. In the chaos of post-race, he briefly forgot his mixed feelings towards her and graciously took the drink, as well as the protein bar she passed him. When she started asking if he was okay, going as far as to attempt to assess his shoulder herself, he remembered. He walked off then, mumbling about post-race interviews.

He was exhausted.

Racing was exhausting.

Hours were spent in tight quarters where temperatures were high and, despite the ventilation system, the fumes were strong. Sweat poured, resulting in a 5, sometimes 10, pound weight loss. It was a job in and of itself to stay hydrated, even with his specialized hydration system that piped in small amounts of water through a tube connected to his helmet with a push of a button. His body ached, tired from fighting the wheel, the force of the car coming out of the curves alone defying the laws of physics. His shoulder and leg were especially sore, pushed to the very limit of what he could endure physically at this point. He wanted nothing more than to get back to Mystic Falls, climb into bed, and sleep for the next 24 hours.

He couldn't have loved it more if he tried.

The nerves had been there when he finished zipping up his fire suit. His stomach had churned during the benediction and he had felt downright nauseous during the National Anthem. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears when the command to start engines was given. Had his hands not already been gripping the steering wheel, they would have been shaking too hard to drive.

But he had done it. He had finished the race. His car crossed the finish line twelfth. Any other time, he would have been disappointed. If he didn't win, he at least wanted a Top 10 finish, Top 5 if he could swing it. But today, his first race since Talladega, a twelfth place finish was as good as a win. He had proven to himself that he could do this. He had 35 more races to go. Now that he had his wings back, so to speak, he could focus on winning at least one of those 35, more if he had his way.

"Damon."

Damon closed his eyes for a moment. He took a deep breath, reminded himself to stay calm, and turned to face his father.

"Dad."

"You ran a good race today," Giuseppe said.

"Thanks," Damon answered tightly. He pulled in a breath to keep his temper under control. He wanted to lash out. He wanted to ask his father what had possessed him to keep the fact that he had a daughter a secret. He wanted to demand answers. He deserved answers. He even wanted to apologize for the last four years. But, he had decided to play his cards close to his chest, at least for now. He had to think this through and to do that, he needed to get out of Daytona and away from his family. And Elena. He needed to hole up in his apartment and avoid them for a while.

"I'm proud of you," Giuseppe told him. There was a gravely element to his voice that made Damon raise an eyebrow. Giuseppe clapped his hand on Damon's shoulder, careful to avoid the one injured at Talladega. "I'm damn proud of you."

"Thanks," Damon said again. As mad at his father as he was, he could tell – could feel – that Giuseppe meant it. His father truly was proud of him. "I'm going to change before we go to the airport." Giuseppe nodded once.

"Okay," he agreed. "I think you've earned the right to get comfortable."

Giuseppe watched Damon walk away. He shook his head in disbelief. His driver, Jeff, had won the Daytona 500. Stefan and his team were still celebrating in Victory Lane. As thrilled as he was with the win, it was Damon's victory that meant the most to him. Four months ago, he had been sure his son was going to die. He had felt it in his bones. He had prayed for a miracle, had offered to take Damon's place, even knowing that wasn't how things worked. He had been there when the doctors offered grim news. He had been there when the news turned more hopeful. And, he had been there when the doctors said his oldest son would make a full recovery.

He hadn't truly believed them until today.

WHEW! We made it through Daytona - Damon made it through Daytona. This was a huge victory for him. Now, he can turn his attention to figuring out all of this with Molly. And Elena. More of that, coming right up!

NASCAR stuff: Racing is intense. Cars are going 200+ mph at some of these tracks and the races last for 3, 4 hours. Those cockpits aren't meant for comfort and its entirely common for a drive to lose up to 10 pounds during a race. Some of them (like Damon) have hydration systems installed, but staying hydrated is difficult. It's hot - over a 100 degrees and upwards of 150 around their feet which are closest to the engine and the asphalt - and cramped and they sweat a lot. It's really not all that attractive. And Damon absolutely loves it.

Please let me know what you think!