This is a story I've been working on that I can work on without new canon from season 7 messing it up for me. I've always loved reading AU "What if?" stories, so this is my shot at that. This is based off of the change that Damon and not Enzo is the one that gets left behind at the Augustines. I'm trying to follow all of the ripples out of how that would ultimately change things while still operating within in canon. Let me know what you think of this beginning.

"It doesn't happen all at once—You Become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of you hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.

But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand. Once you are Real you can't become unreal. It lasts for always."

Margery Williams

Nancy greets me as I come off the school bus instead of my dad. It's okay though. She's my favorite of the ladies who work in my dad's office. She gives good hugs and her pockets are always full of candies. When she takes my hand, there's a foil-wrapped chocolate in it. I smile up at her and she winks at me.

"Your father's still with a patient, but he'll be done in a bit," she tells me as I follow her back behind the receptionist's counter. A small desk waits for me there with my colors and some of my favorite books.

I shed my backpack and my winter layers before sliding into the small chair and opening my box of crayons. I don't really feel like coloring though. The new coloring book I got for Christmas with the fairies and the mermaids is at home. I close the crayons and page through The Velveteen Rabbit, resting my head against the crook of my elbow. I can't read it myself yet, but I know all the words by heart.

" 'What is Real?' the rabbit asked," I whisper to myself while tracing the watercolor illustration of a worn rocking horse with a reverent finger.

A distant but startling sound interrupts my recitations. I lift my head and search the quiet offices. Nancy is gone, the waiting room empty. I stare at the door that leads to the exam rooms and wait. Unpleasant noises sometimes come from that direction, and I hope this is just another victim of an unwelcome shot.

I don't like needles either, but my dad always says they're worth it to keep us healthy.

I trust him.

A scream draws my attention away from the exam rooms and towards one of the few places that keeps my night light in commission. The echoing wail is coming from the basement. I look around for Nancy or my dad, but there's still no sign of them. My stomach twists with the feeling I get when I eat too much ice cream. Something more pressing, an itching in the back of my brain, has me standing at the top of a staircase looking down. My little brother's face calling me a scaredy-cat urges me forward.

The screaming has stopped, but a different noise grows louder as I approach. The clinking of playground swings accompanies a strange smell, like roses—burnt ones.

I stop short of a door I've never opened. I know I'm not allowed. I can hear my dad telling me this is a kid-free zone. I believe everything he says, because my dad is my hero. That's also why I know if there's someone in there that needs my help, I have to try my best.

The swings are louder, and I can hear groaning. The cold metal knob is too big in my small grip but twists with ease in my small fingers. I'm greeted by blue lights and metal. The swings have stopped but the burnt roses and something metallic are leaving a bad taste in my mouth. The room is bigger than I thought. It's kind of like another exam room with a bed and tables, but sort of like a kitchen too. There's a sink and refrigerators, and I think that's an oven. I can understand why this is a kid-free zone. There are things at home in the kitchen I'm not allowed to touch or play near either.

I'll just have to be careful.

I step around some of the tables to see the rest of the room. I still don't know where the cries came from—or why they stopped. When I take another step, my sneaker splashes and clinks against something. There's a metal drain in the floor like in the locker rooms at the swimming pool. A pale pink liquid swirls around it.

I look up and gasp. The man's eyes that meet mine are wide—and blue. As blue or bluer than my friend Caroline's. I've always been jealous of Caroline's blue eyes because I think they make her pretty. Boys aren't supposed to be pretty.

This man isn't pretty, but his eyes are. The rest of him looks horrible. He's lying on a metal cot that's bolted to the white tile floor of what looks like a large shower stall. The floor and wall are bother tiled, and there's a large shower head directly above the cot. His shirt is damp and looks like it used to be white but is now mottled with pink and gray. Maybe his mom washed it with a red sock too. Dark curls fall over his forehead; a few pieces stick in what must be sweat there. His skin is gray everywhere but beneath his eyes which is as dark as a bruise. The only color in his face is the blue of his eyes and raw red lips. He looks sick—and thirsty.

"I'm Elena," I offer. Some people are shy around strangers; I know I am. The man with blue eyes blinks, and his lips part a bit. "Do you want some water?" He starts to smile I think, but winces instead. He looks at me and nods.

I look around with some urgency. There's a counter with a sink, but no glasses. Maybe I should go get my dad. I frown, apologetic, at the man before I spot them on a lower shelf I can reach. I cross him to open the glass-paned cabinet and pull out an empty beaker. I know from my dad that you're not supposed to drink from beakers, but an empty one seems safe enough. I've broken so many rules today that helping the sick man is the only thing that might make it worth it.

I open the cabinet below the sink and step up on the ledge it gives me. I can just reach the handles. I pull the cold side, fill the beaker half full and jump down without spilling any. I'm smiling with triumph at my cleverness as I turn back to the blue-eyed man. His smile is full this time despite whatever pain it causes him.

When I hand him the beaker, I realize why I was hearing swings before. Metal chains attached to cuffs around his wrists disappear behind his cot, bolted into the floor by the wall. His eyes follow mine, but he says nothing, just takes a painful swallow from the beaker and then another. He's holding it by the bottom because it's as far as the chains allow. He finishes and hands it back to me. I replace it with care in the cabinet where I found it to avoid getting into more trouble.

I wonder at the chains, but my belief in my father is absolute. I remember the duct-taped mittens I wore when I had the chicken pox or the plastic cone the neighbors dog had to wear after it got into a fight with a opossum. They were worth it—like the shots I hated.

"Thank you, Elena," his hoarse voice makes me jump, "I'm Damon."

"Does it hurt?" I ask when I look back at him.

He thinks on the question and answers only, "Sometimes."

Damon reaches with a clink up to a wadded material tied around his neck and rips at a spot it's already torn. He tosses it aside with the same triumphant smile I wore earlier.

"That's better!" he declares. I giggle, and he looks back at me with a smirk. His lips and the skin around them look better now. I feel good that I've helped him—proud even, but I know there are some things only my dad can help.

"Are you sick? Is my dad helping you? I can go get him for you." My triumph and his smile make me brave, reassuring me that I'm doing a good thing at least, if not something I'm supposed to. His response to this is jolting. I jump back at the anger that flashes across his face. Like a cartoon character, fire leaks in around his bright eyes. The dark skin below them seems to ripple; there's something strange about the way he clenches his teeth.

For the first time since convincing myself that I've been silly to be scared of the basement, I'm afraid. This seems to dawn on Damon because the strangeness of his features falls away along with his anger. He replaces it with regret, but now that I've seen it, the secret menace behind his eyes won't go away. I realize with embarrassed shame that there are tears running down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Damon offers. He looks as though he means it, "I didn't mean to scare you, Elena."

"It's okay," I manage with more whimper in my voice than I would like.

"So the Doc is your dad, huh?" A grin and a half cover his face now. I nod and smile a little in return. "I bet he helps a lot of sick people—your dad." I nod again and smile wider. I've always been proud of my dad, but there's something tired and sad in the way Damon says it.

"Not you?" I find myself asking.

He smiles again. "I thought I scared all of the words out of you." I blush as Damon shakes his head and sighs. "No, I'm not sick," he breathes, "but I have something special in my blood that helps other sick people. The Doc wants to help them so he pokes and prods me all day."

"With needles?" I grimace in commiseration. This makes Damon laugh a little.

"Yeah," he answers and mutters, "among other things."

I smile sympathetically, "I don't like shots either," I tell him just like my dad would, "but it's worth it," because I believe. I can tell Damon doesn't really agree. "If it's to help other people, it must be worth it," I add but with less conviction

"Sure, kid," he says in a way adults use when they think I'm too young to understand. I furrow my brows in preparation for some standoffish indignation, but Damon isn't looking at me anymore.

He's glancing with nervous eyes at the clock on the far wall before turning back to me. "Look, Elena. You really shouldn't be down here, should you?" His eyes have dimmed, and he seems distracted, but his accusation is an accurate one. It makes me look down at my shoes. "It's been pretty nice—meeting you—but I wouldn't want you to get in trouble. Thanks for the drink, kid. You should get back to your book before your dad notices. I won't say anything." He winks at me, but it's not reassuring. He's trying to get rid of me—fast.

"Wait!" I demand with an indignant pout, "How did you kn—" but I'm interrupted by the loud gurgling of pipes in the wall and Damon's horrified reaction to them. With his face screwed up in terror, he flinches as if someone were about to hit him. He tries to pull his hands up to protect his head but is stopped short by his restraints.

"Damon?" I step towards him, confused and worried. "What's wrong?" I try to ask him. Before he can answer, the sound of water rushing through the pipe sends him jerking with violence against his chains. The water bursts screeching out of the shower head and rains down on him. My face twists in confusion and the rest of me freezes in momentary panic.

How can anyone be so afraid of a sh—

Oh.

No. What—

Daddy!

I search the room for my father, because I don't know what to do. He always knows what to do.

Damon is screaming. The smell of burnt roses rolls off him in waves and crashes into me. But the roses aren't burning—Damon is. His skin sizzles where the water hits it and steam rises off his whole body.

His screams are strangled now. He's holding in his pain and looking at me like he's apologizing for being on fire.

Daddy, please!

But he doesn't come.

Part of me realizes that he did this.

Why?!

He's not coming.

No one's coming.

The fear that had been gripping all my muscles releases me. I shoot forward and do something very stupid, considering that there's every indication that the horrible shower will hurt me just as bad. That's not a thought I have time to have before I'm leaping onto his chest to shield the burning man. My feet are hooked around his waist, my arms are wrapped over his head as best as I can manage, and I try to protect my own face by burying it in his neck. Damon is frozen beneath me, no screaming, no thrashing—just still.

Maybe I hurt him.

But I can't move.

I won't.

There's frantic crying coming from someone, wailing, "it's not worth it," over and over again.

It's me.

I'm still panicked and gasping for air when I realize the water has stopped. I'm warm but not burning, not like Damon. The water smells like the time I spilled my mom's bubble bath, but it doesn't hurt me. It only stings a little wherever I come into contact with Damon's still sizzling skin.

Damon.

I don't think he's breathing.

When the water stopped, he put his hands on my back to try and comfort me. They're on my shoulders now—as still as the rest of him. I try to say something, but I can't, because I'm still crying. His grip on my shoulders begins to tighten. I'm relieved for a moment before it begins to be painful.

"Ow," I whimper.

Before I can do anything else, I'm being tossed backwards off of Damon's chest and onto the wet tile. I'm on my hands and butt in the puddle of pink-tinged water circling the drain. My chest pounds as I breathe shuddering breaths. I look up at Damon and choke on a scream. I slip and scramble to crawl away from him.

"Get out of here, Elena!" he growls, but it's weak and broken. I'm not as scared as I should be.

His eyes are filled with the fire now, all the way to the blue. The cheeks crawl with dark lines as if something lives beneath the skin. His lips are pulled back over bared fangs. Damon's eyes are the first to go back to normal after he winces in pain. He tries to swallow but chokes on it and coughs until he spits red over the side of the cot. His arms give up on their fight against the chains or against holding him up. He sinks in pain into the damp bed with a fresh hiss.

I begin to cry again.

"My dad did this," I keen, not sure if it's a question or just something I already know to be true. Damon looks at me, but says nothing. I shiver in the cold air, a stark contrast to the steam still rolling off of Damon. I stand up and start towards him, but stop when Damon snarls and recoils away from me. "Let me help you," I shudder. The weapon in his mouth is still displayed, but his other alien features are hidden.

"Your dad's not the bad guy, Elena. I am." He grits his teeth and his face starts to ripple again. His fangs cut into his raw-skinned lower lip. Red trails down his chin, and I can see it now—a monster from a movie Jeremy and I weren't supposed to watch.

Still, I take a hesitant step forward. I can't just leave him under the burning shower. Intense anger lights up Damon's face.

"Get out, Elena! Or I Will. Kill. You."

I believe it.

I believe it more than I believe anything my dad's ever told me.

I believe it, because it sends me running from the burning man in the basement back to the comfort of the lying one.

XXX

Waking up is like breaking the surface of a dark lake. I take deep gasping breaths, one hand clutching at my chest and the other dragging across my face. My eyes are open, but they're straining against darkness to find the wicker of Caroline's bedroom set. Instead, I'm remembering that winter day and the look on my father's face when he realized I'd been in the basement at his practice. I'd only seen it for a second before I was wrapping my arms around his neck, sobbing into his shirt.

"It's not worth it! It's not—" I had wailed, begging him to help the burning man. In the moments that followed he had been confused, consoling, upset and finally stern. In that first second though, the moment between the stairs of the basement and his embrace, my father had been terrified.

I'm not sure why I hadn't remembered it or realized it until now. I remember the weeks that followed where I was chastised for breaking the rules and reassured that Damon-the-monster and the shower that burned him were all a part of my active imagination. Over time, it became an anecdote about my penchant for fantastic fiction. None of that exactly explains my dad's apparent fear or why I am dreaming about it only weeks after the death of both my parents.

"Elena?" Sheriff Forbes' robed silhouette is standing in the softly lit doorway of Caroline's room. I sit up on the roll-away bed that's been my home since I left the hospital an orphan. From here I can see Caroline sleeping soundly. "Elena, honey. You okay?"

I know in this instance she doesn't mean the big picture sense, but it seems to be the only question anyone knows how to ask me anymore.

"I'm fine," I smile, though I'm not sure if she can see it, "Bad dream."

She nods and kneels down beside me, placing her hand in reassurance on my covered knee.

"Are they still as bad?" she whispers. "You were moaning about a demon and calling out for your dad. Do you want me to wake your brother before I go into work?"

"No, no. Let him sleep," I protest. If this has been harder on anyone, it's Jeremy.

"Okay, well it's early, but I'm making coffee if you can't get back to sleep and want to join me."

"Thanks, Liz." That's the best thing I've heard all morning even if it's only been morning for a few hours now.

"And Elena—"

"Hmm?"

"I'm here—you know, if you ever need someone to talk to." She means it, too. They all do—besides maybe Caroline who doesn't really know how to stop talking long enough to listen. It's nice being around Care more than anyone sometimes. She fills the silence without feeling awkward for monopolizing the conversation. The last thing I want to do is talk about it.

I smile, a little wider this time to be on the safe side.

"I'm fine, really. Thank you, though."

I'm gonna have to keep practicing that if I want to get it down before school starts. Especially, considering it may be a bigger lie than ever.

If I were fine, I certainly wouldn't be staring at the apparition of my first imaginary friend during waking hours. He wouldn't be leaning against Caroline's bookshelf in a leather jacket, black jeans and motorcycle boots looking bored and a little confused. Except, here he is in the almost light of day—Damon-the-Vampire.

If I were something resembling fine, I would scream. I wouldn't be trying to avoid eye contact with a figment of my imagination while grabbing the duffel that lies at his feet. I steal into Caroline's bathroom without a noise or a breath until the door is shut behind me and the knob pressing into my back.

This is not what fine looks like.