This will be a long author's note. Feel free to skip.

It's another beginning and ending for Damon and Elena...and for me. In a way, it's so appropriate that I wrote Impostor at this time. Just as being Katherine helped Elena find herself, so "being" these characters helped me find my own, long-dormant voice. And that's why it's time to move on.

I've loved every single second I spent writing these guys, talking with you. Your reviews made my day-hell, some of 'em made my week. I've met some incredible reviewers, like onerepublicgirl (happy birthday!), afanoftvd, jade2099, skeezix. I've been inspired by amazing authors like ThreeJays and KKetura. And I've met true friends who did all that and a hell of a lot more, like WildYennifer, JWAB, and ElvishGrrl. Ladies, you mean a lot. Seriously.

I'll still be in the community, reading and betaing and watching with the rest of you. And it's not impossible I'll be back some day-I love these characters so much. But my writing time has to go to other projects-has to go to things I can keep, I can put my name on, I can create. But thank you. None of it would have been possible without each and every one of you. Thank you.

-Allison, 7/18/12

Listen. Can you hear the swelling violins? See the doves dropping rose petals? That is how much love is oozing out of the boarding house right now. Stefan and Elena are back in sugary, fluffy, undeniably real love. There's no doubt that my brother's cavity-inducing affections have returned Elena to her default state, overflowing with compassion and guilt and martyrdom. True love saves the day and goodness reigns supreme.

Congratulations on a job well done, Salvatore. You are the world's best (not to mention most masochistic) matchmaker. I'm considering a sideline as a life coach after this successful endeavor, that's how good I am. I hope.

I walk up the drive. I probably should've stayed away longer; it's only been a month. After I figured out Elena's problem and helped her to see that Stefan is, as usual, the solution, I made a beeline for my car. Didn't even go into the house, didn't take anything with me. Just went. Because there in the woods, everything became so clear. Stefan was right. Elena made her choice—even if she didn't follow through with it, she made it—and my presence just fucked everything up. Maybe it's even my fault she wound up as that hollow, cracked shell in the first place.

I owe her—and him—a shot at happiness. I'm the guy who teaches her how to ambush motorists; he's the guy who'll teach her how to paint with all the colors of the wind or some shit. Her choice was always a no-brainer.

So for once in my life, I did the right thing. I gave them time to figure it out, to find a new rhythm and a new way of being together, let them figure out how they'll deal with their eating issues and their guilt issues and all their many, many issues. I stayed away for as long as I could, but I had to come back. It's only to pick up a couple of things—some books, some keepsakes, that killer bottle of Macallan '26 in the basement.

Yeah, that's bullshit. I had to see her, okay? I had to come back to make sure it worked, to make sure those empty places have filled. But it has to have worked. I know it worked.

They're probably canoodling on the couch right now, having a long, in-depth conversation about the ethics of hunting bunnies versus deer and how that reflects on their souls. Or else watching Friday Night Lights for the billionth time. Either way, she'll turn to me and smile and mouth "thank you" when Stefan can't see it. And I'll nod and grab the handful of things that matter to me and hit the road again. This time, I won't come back.

I brace myself and open the door.

There's not a single light; even the fireplace is cold and dark. They must be at her place. Well, that answers that question. The world is spinning back on its axis because Stefan and Elena have rediscovered their forever love. Perfect. I'll do a drive-by on my way out of town, maybe catch a glimpse of the happy couple through her window. It'll be easier this way. For everyone, but mostly me.

My footsteps ring off the walls as I head directly for the drink cart. It's dusty; Stefan's such a pig. This house is going to fall apart without me. At least Zach knew his way around a can of Pledge. I glug two fingers of Knob Creek into a highball glass and-

"You're back."

I almost drop the glass. Only supernatural reflexes and the sure knowledge that I'm going to need this drink in a minute keep me from splashing bourbon everywhere. She scared the ever-loving shit out of me. Not that I'll let her know that.

I only get a glimpse of her, mostly from behind. She's sitting on the couch, her red Converses propped up on the coffee table. There's a crumpled blood bag on the side table, along with a Biology textbook and a stack of magazines promising to teach you how to drive your man wild with just your tongue and some dental floss. Her hair is straight. Thank God.

It's all I can do not to run over to her, grab her face in my hands and stare and search until I'm satisfied she's whole again. But that's not the way to play this. Not when she's patched things up with Stefan. That's not my place anymore. Never really was. And to be honest, I'm not ready to face her yet, because the only thing worse than seeing that those empty places inside of her have filled up with him again is seeing that they haven't.

I'm fucked no matter what I do, so I play it cool. Scratch that, I play it cold. "Hey," I say like I just ran out for a pack of smokes. Like this is all no big deal. I mosey (I hope it looks like a mosey and not a scurry) over to the bookshelves. I had a whole list of titles I had to make sure to take with me, that I couldn't live without. But now I can't remember a single one. I blindly pluck a book off the shelf.

"Where have you been? You just left," she says. I half expect her to pull out that "you promised you'd never leave me" line again, but she doesn't. Because deep down, we both know I "just left" for her.

"Took a drive. California. Beaches, bikinis, and babes. Good times were had by all," I say with my best smirk. And it's true, I did go to California. Multiple times. My itinerary for the month was simple: drive until you hit ocean. Then turn around and do it again. And again and again. I lost count around the seventh cross-country trek.

I strain my ears, but I don't hear Stefan thumping around upstairs. That's weird. Isn't it weird? It's late; if she's here, he should be. I gulp down my liquid courage and thunk the empty glass on the shelf. "Where's Stef? Emergency hair gel run?"

"He's around. Out. He'll be back. I tried to call you," she says. She sounds okay. I think she sounds okay. It's kind of weird she hasn't come over to me yet—Elena usually had a hug for me. Or fuck, a touch on the shoulder. Something. She would have done something. But then, I usually would have made eye contact—or at least thrown an eye thing her way- but I still can't. I choose another book at random and add it to my mystery stack.

"I lost my phone." Which again, technically true. I always try to tell her the technical truth. I lost my phone when I chucked it into the James River. She wouldn't stop calling. Again and again in that hour after I left her in the woods, she called. And I knew if she called just one more time, I'd answer. And then I'd come home and ruin everything. She didn't need me. She had him. She was supposed to have him, so where the fuck is he?

"Oh." There's silence. I glance down at the books in my arms. I have volume N of the 1992 Encyclopedia Britannica and a copy of the Book of Mormon. I love Mormon missionaries—no caffeine, no alcohol. Pure. Man, I'd love to find two of those uptight little fuckers, one for Elena and one for me, and show her what it's like when the blood's clean and-

What the fuck is wrong with you, Salvatore? It's never going to happen. It can't. Because you're leaving. As soon as you can man up, turn around, and see her staring back at you, real and complete, you're gone. Which you're going to do any minute now.

Any minute now.

"Damon?" The leather couch creaks. Her bare feet whisk along the thick pile of the Persian rug. I stare at the bookshelf. Why the fuck does Stefan have every work in the Dan Brown oeuvre? His taste in literature is as shit as his taste in-

"Stefan and I tried. I want you to know that. I know you think I've forgotten how, but no one could have tried harder to make it work than we did," she says softly, like she's afraid I might turn around and bite her head off. Which I intend to, as soon as this feeling of being drop kicked in the stomach passes.

This wasn't how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to be better; she was supposed to be fine; she was supposed to be with him. And none of those things are true.

I'm going to find him and murder him. He had one job. And it's the simplest job in the whole goddamn world. All my idiot brother had to do was love her. And he couldn't even do that.

The cover of the encyclopedia buckles in my hand. I shove both books back onto the shelf. I still don't look at her, because now I know what's waiting for me, that clawing, clutching wrongness. But I won't give up, even if she has.

"Try harder," I grit. "It's been a month, you two have literally forever to figure it out. Maybe go away, change of scenery. Up to your lake house, or-"

"It didn't work. It's never going to work with him. He and I both know that." Stefan has to be the answer. If his love couldn't fix her—if his love couldn't help her fix herself—then I don't know what to do. I didn't have a Plan B this time. I was so sure.

So much for the life coaching.

I fling one arm out, still too chickenshit to turn and face her. "Give me your phone."

She's wary, because she's not an idiot. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to call Stefan and find out where he is. Then I am going to grab him by his poofy hair and haul his ass here. Finally, I am going to lock the two of you in the dungeon until you figure this out." Christ. Do they need me for everything?

"You're not listening to me." There's a tremor in her voice, but that doesn't mean anything. Not a fucking thing. She's playing me again, messing with my head so I do what she wants and let her roll over and die, accept that this is her new normal. But I don't give a fuck what she wants; I need her back. "I love Stefan, but not in the right way. I don't know. But-"

I continue addressing the bookshelf, because I may literally be out of my fucking mind at this point. "Then we'll get Bonnie. Maybe it's a spell—Rebekah or Esther getting revenge. If the other thing didn't work, then something has to-"

"Damon," she says. She lays a hand on my shoulder but I shake it off. I can't handle her excuses or her touch right now. I just need to fix this. I will fix it. "I know what we—what I- need to do. There's one thing I haven't tried. But I'm pretty sure it'll work." She draws a long, rocky breath. "I know it'll work. Will you trust me?"

I shouldn't. There is not a single, solitary reason on this planet I should ever trust Elena Gilbert with anything. Every plan we make, she fucks up. Everything she touches, she destroys, up to and including herself. The girl is a walking disaster area in every conceivable way.

"What do you need?"

"For starters, I need you to look at me and stop avoiding me like I'm some kind of leper," she says. I can practically see her standing there, hands on her hips, lip plumped out in a pout that she'd never admit was a pout. Well. That's how she would have looked once upon a time.

If you're ever going to see her that way again, first you have to look at her, you pussy.

I steel myself, preparing for the annihilating, soul-obliterating nothingness I know will greet me. And then I turn.

Before I can do or say anything, before I can even get a good look at her, she reaches for me with both hands. They tremble. I'm afraid she's going to pull me in and kiss me (Seriously? I'm afraid of a kiss? From her? Fuck yes I am) and we'll have to relive that whole bit about how she can't fuck her way back to feeling. But she doesn't kiss me.

Painfully soft, her fingers brush my cheeks, smooth across my lips. It's the gentlest touch you can imagine, but it sets off an electrical storm in my very bones. But I barely notice. All I can see is the light in her eyes, growing brighter by the second.

It isn't a shiny, easy light. It's a hushed light tinged with the deepest sadness imaginable, a weariness and dimness no child—no person—should know. But there's determination there, too. Warmth and strength, fire and steel. And maybe, all the way down at the bottom, a speck or two of happiness.

"Elena?" I ask, but it's her. I know it's her.

"I was right." She smiles. At first it flickers, but then it catches hold and it's real and it's her and it's just for me. "So were you."

She melts into me, and I can only stand here, stiff as a tin soldier. She lays her head on my shoulder and lets out this sigh. It's the kind of sigh you make when you slide into a hot bath after a long day. It's the kind of sigh you make when you're standing in the desert and someone gives you a drink of water. It's the kind of sigh you make when you come home after a journey of a thousand years and a million miles.

I don't—I'm not—I can't-

Damon. Shut up. Just hold her. Just love her.

So I do.

The End.