I thought this would never get written. A fear that, as it happened, turned out to be completely unwarranted-it nearly ate me alive as it tore its way outta my soul. If that's not too overdramatic.

Anyway, this is a bit of a missing scene, in which Damon takes Katherine to the tomb (takes place while Stefan finds out that Elena's having security issues), plus a bit of abstract insight into the last Damon/Katherine scene, which is an awkward way to say that, but the only way that really fits.

I hope you enjoy it. :)

Happy (hopefully) reading!

I'm a stitch away from making it,
and a scar away from falling apart.
~Fallout Boy, "The (After) Life of the Party

"I'll take her," Damon offered, tipping his head back and downing the last of his scotch. Stefan turned to him, startled. "Go tend to Elena. I can transport the bitch." Damon rubbed his hands together while Stefan deliberated before nodding once and vanishing.

With the loss of his bravado, Damon's shoulders slumped as he crouched beside Katherine, contemplating what he knew he had to do. Her hair swirled dark against the carpet, dragging up memories of her hair against his pillows, memories that swallowed him. Immobilized, he crouched, the sensation of drowning in a whirlpool making him ill. Her faux blood red lips parted, and Damon's fangs schnicked out. The desire to coat those lips in his blood, to truly make their color the crimson of life liquid was overwhelming. He lifted his arm, sliding back the suit jacket arm but leaving his white shirt in place, and bit down. He gorged a moment, giving way to masochistic tendencies, to the thought that he'd hurt Elena and he deserved it. Then, he removed his teeth from his flesh, listening to the sound of suction and watching the blood run as he held the shirt flat against his arm. Drops rolled to his fingertips before he understood that he must not give Katherine blood, to the end of keeping her unconscious, and for the sake of his sanity. He licked his fingers and felt the wound heal.

Katherine was limp as true death when his cold hands slid under her body. One arm beneath her knees and one arm around her shoulders, he held her. Dark chocolate hair was all he could see. He stood and realized that he'd never known how small she was. How small Elena was. Damon shuddered. Her head lolled to his chest and he flinched. His shoulders were tense, stiff, set as he turned his face away from her. He took a step. That hair brushed his hand, giving him goose bumps, if such a thing were possible for the undead. Her legs were so soft, so sensual, so utterly desirable in his gaze. The artery hidden by her dress sang. But he detested her. And those appetites were destined to be unfulfilled. Her hair brushed his hand again and her eyelids fluttered. He always left Elena's room at night when her eyelids started to flutter.

He kissed Katherine.

Her lips were pliable, completely lifeless, devoid—as always—of feeling. He continued to moved his lips over hers, forming words of condemnation intermingled with words of regret, words meant for another lithe, brown-eyed beauty. She wouldn't feel that. He pulled back.

Lent speed by a sense of impending disaster, Damon ran to the tomb, struggling to keep Katherine in his arms. The craving to throw her from his grasp was strong, and his resistance barely lasted till the tomb where he flungher into its darkness after taking care in opening the door, afraid of the invisible barrier just within. She landed in a graceful, graceless heap, to be bound by the force that had nearly held him in his yearning for her. He appreciated this irony and this poetic justice. Breathing unnecessarily, he stepped to the side of the opening to position himself outside of her realm of sight. "Katherine," he said, singsonging, "Katherine, wake up. Come on, you cold-hearted bitch," he continued, voice hardening," wakey, wakey."

He heard her start to shift, understood the sounds of the dirt as she clutched the moonstone, precious to her even in the predicament she did not yet understand. Her feet slid against the ground, high heels finding no purchase, and her hair swished against the rock. Damon held himself still. She gasped, over and over, the rhythm and the sound wholly familiar and wholly out of context and character. She scrambled to the door and he resolved to let her test its strength, the strength of his self-rebellion tangled with the wounds of her betrayals and the confinement of her lies. Poetic justice. When her fingers scratched and scrabbled at the edges of the door, he made himself known. He found in her appearance the mirrored image of his torn and bloodied shirtsleeve. Katerina's face turned to him.

"Hello, Katherine." The words were weighted on his tongue.

"Where am I?" she asked, drawing his question for her use. Her ember eyes caved in.

"Where you should have been all along." His hatred was tired, his resolve dissolved away, his determination a product of the nature she'd birthed in him. He knew she'd understand as he admonished her with old and dead soft tenderness, "Thought you'd have learned your lesson by now, messing with a Bennett witch."

Useless fury curved her back. "You should have killed me."

"Death would have been too kind." The tenderness vanished.

He heard her beg as he moved toward her and as he placed his hands on the door. He heard his name, his name on her lips, his name on her eyes, his own features closed and detached He felt their gazes touch. He pushed. Elena's in danger. Stop.

Start. Mock belief contorted his face, tinged with true feeling. "No," softly. It took long moments for his eyes to reach hers again. "Lying," the word at first quietly triumphant, "you're always lying," then burdened by honesty.

"Why do you think I haven't killed her?" Stop. "Because she's the doppelganger. She needs to be protected."

"Then I'll protect her." Shift. "While you rot in hell." Start.

She begged again, his name again. Katherine voiced her desperation, "You need me. You need me! YOU NEED ME!" The door shut, fitting seamlessly where her fingers had scratched and scrabbled, obscuring the image of her thin arms spread wide and her knees faced inward, of her dark chocolate hair hanging plainly, without glamour, minus passion, sans lust or fervor or pretense of favor. "You need me!"

Damon stepped twice, and breathed necessarily.