WAKE ME UP WHEN CHRISTMAS IS OVER

His thoughts are as bitter as the alcohol that burns the back of his throat. He looks around the lonely bar, recognizing that even this desperate, desolate place serves as no refuge. There's no solace to be found among the stupid trees and wreaths, the gaudy red and green, and the distastefully blinding strings of lights.

It's pretty much the same routine every year. Living as long as he has, he figures he should be used to it by now. Figures he should be numb to it all by now. But every year when Christmas comes around, it's like picking away at an old scab, leaving him open and wounded. It's strange how one relatively insignificant day of the year can stir up so much emotion and inspire so much misery. It's just one more Christmas alone; number 146 to be precise. Except, this one is special in the very worst way. This one hurts more than all of the others combined. Because this is the one he expected to break with tradition and end this awful routine.

But, it's not to be.

He knows he shouldn't expect differently. After all, he's the "bad boy"; the bad brother, and the bad son. Everyone knows the bad boys don't get rewarded on Christmas. But he feels like he can't help what he is, and the love that drives him so feverishly sometimes comes rushing out in the most destructive ways.

He's uncompromising. Relentless. Ruthless, even. A hopeless romantic. A fool, perhaps; but he doesn't care. And he finally got into that damned tomb, but she wasn't there. She wasn't where she was supposed to have been for all those years. Nothing turns out the way it's supposed to.

She's out there somewhere, and she doesn't care, and he's alone in a bar, and he's absolutely dying inside.

Last call.

He staggers his way home through the snow, cutting through a field to get away from the roads. By now he should be too jaded for his heart to jump, but it does. By now he should be too hardened and cynical for his humanity to come pouring out when he sees her, but it does. She stands there among the trees in late nineteenth century dress, as real as she ever was; his own ghost of Christmas past. For nearly a century and a half, she's always been just out of reach, always haunting him.

His drunken stride comes to a halt and his blurry eyes open wide. "Katherine?" He swallows the precious name.

She stands ethereal; statuesque, still and silent.

He edges closer; his jaw clenches; his fingers curl into a fist, and for just a moment he'd like to rip her heart out and show her exactly what it feels like. But it's her picture perfect face; the snowflakes as they alight on her skin and melt; her inviting lips that lure him in; and "kiss me or kill me," he's only capable of one. He's been to hell and back; he's broken, defeated, and weary; but one look at her and he's ready to do it all over again without a second thought. The flask he's carrying falls into the snow with a soft crunch as they collide in their embrace; twin flames so dangerously close to consuming each other and incinerating with their own collective intensity; warm breath lingering in the frozen air around their kiss.

"Merry Christmas, Damon," she says softly into his ear.

He feels her slipping, and he pulls her closer. It's too soon. Desperate to hang on to this moment, he grips her by the wrist, the cold gold chain of her bracelet digging into his palm. "Don't leave. I can't lose you again, after all of this," he pleads, his throat tight with melancholy and dulled with drink.

"But I've never really left you, Damon," she says. "Don't you see?"

He wants to object; but strangely, simply, it rings true. For all those years, Katherine never really left him. No one is truly gone unless they're forgotten, and Damon had never forgotten Katherine. She's always there, in his heart and in his dreams; the fleeting face in the crowd; her image burned into the back of his eyelids. But as soon as he grasps the meaning, her image fades, and the air around him goes cold. He despondently slumps to his knees in the snow, only to be helped back onto his feet again by a strong hand.

"Come on. Let's get you home," Stefan says as he leads his brother out of the field and back to the road.

"Wake me up when Christmas is over," Damon drunkenly mumbles as they walk off.

"I'll do that," Stefan obliges.

"Figures," Damon mutters, "the only love I can have is all in my head." He's well on his way to resigning himself to that belief as they trudge back to the boarding house.

"What is that?" Stefan asks.

"Huh?" Damon murmurs.

"What is that in your hand?" Stefan asks, a glimmer having caught his attention.

As soon as it's pointed out, Damon becomes strangely aware of the cold hardness buried in his still clenched fist. Curiously; carefully; fingers peel back, and he stares down at the nineteenth century golden chain still nestled in his palm; the pale moonlight illuminating the initials "KP" engraved in the centerpiece.

"Imagine that." He muses with childlike wonder. Maybe even the baddest boys are allowed a Christmas miracle once in a while.