This is what happens.

There is death. There is an ache in his chest that creeps into his arms, down his torso and throbs in toes and fingers.

He is dead.

And yet.

Somehow, he is back at home; or rather, the Gilbert home, but it has been so much his, these past few years, his comfort and his relief. Here he is again, drifting down the hall to the kitchen, wondering if maybe he didn't actually die, if there was a deux ex machina, if the Scooby gang came through again, but he slides through a door like he should have taught Jeremy to slide into home, and he realizes. Dead still. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Fuck.

Jeremy is there soon, and he soothes him, placates him, and tells him it's going to be okay, that everything is fine. That he is strong and he'll be able to do this, to be the man, to be strong; all those things that Grayson Gilbert should have said, or John, or someone other than him. He does not stop to think about the simple idea that the only reason he is able to say these things is because Jere can now see dead people; he could have been just another dead father figure who forgot to tell him he was important. That he was loved.

He was expecting after saying goodbye to his pseudo son for something. Expecting to see pearly white gates, or to be more honest and realistic with himself, fire and brimstone and Isobel, but instead there is nothing. No gentle harps and feathers, no whips and torture, nothing. Just, well, nothing. Not a black void, not a white void. It can't be written in human words, can't be spoken or explained. It was just a nothing. He thinks of Elena and prays that she will not join him here.

And just like that, he's with her. She's in a truck that is underwater.

Matt's truck he realizes with horror, his eyes widening and his hands outstretching to her, to grasp her. He passes through, a nothing. It's like watching TV, except right in front of him, surround sound booming in his ears. They're underwater, and he can hear the banging on the glass, the desperation to get free, can see it all, but he's not wet.

He's not really there. It pains him to realize it. Even if it shouldn't. Even if a degree from Duke means that he should have figured out by now what death means. What it all entails. But it doesn't, and he tries so hard to reach out and to help her.

He watches her die.

His screams could have awoken the dead. Pained, terrifying, feral screams as he watches the closest thing he has to a daughter close her eyes and die.

He's pissed.

His girl's dead, but not dead. The fall from earlier mixed with super healing blood mixed with drowning end up equating to a new baby vampire. Elena, sweet Elena, with Isobel's eyes and the Gilbert stubbornness has been turned.

Ric is furious.

And no one can hear him.

He's angry and being quite witty about it.

If only Damon could hear him now.

If only anyone could hear him now.

If only he hadn't died.

He could have stopped this; somehow; some way.

Maybe.

He hears Damon that night. At his grave. Which is weird and wonky and he doesn't like thinking about it for long, because a) it's his grave and it's all sorts of existential crisis and b) if he thinks about it for too long he ends up at it, and it's creepy.

But he hears Damon all the same. And Ric can't decide if he's relieved because Damon will be watching out for the kids or if he should be terrified because Damon will be watching out for the kids. He wants to cut in and ask if he knows anything about algebra, or the Cold War or how to do laundry, because don't mix black t-shirts with white dress shirts, trust me.

Wants to ask if he knows how to prepare a meal that will satisfy Caroline and her low-carb lifestyle as well as Jeremy and Matt's ravenous teenage boy hunger which means a lot of carbs and convincing Bonnie to stop trying to conquer what can't be conquered and maybe have a muffin.

Ric wants to reach over and tap Damon on the shoulder and remind him that the children have to go to school every day not just on the days they feel like it. And he wants to describe battle tactics and strategies on how to get Jeremy's test scores up so he can apply to schools next year, and what scholarships seem like good ideas for Matt and how to help Tyler write college essays that don't start with, "well I'm a werewolf" but then he realizes.

It hits him as hard and as fast and as terrible as it did the first time. Damon can't hear him.

Because he's dead. And these kids now have only Damon. And the elder Salvatore brother will have to do. And Ric knows, he knows, that Damon will do all that he can. But Elena is a vampire and Bonnie is going black with her magic and the boys are lost in a haze of confusion and need some guidance, and there's no one left.

All the grown-ups are gone and this isn't an 80's movie where that's something to celebrate.

It's an ache.

There are times in between.

Times when all he does is sit in a room and wish he'd had time to write out instructions, titled it "How to take care of the Scooby Gang" and left it with his weapons so he'd know they'd find it. Proper Feeding and Home Work Schedule and Curfews and all those things.

He should have written down the name and number of Bonnie's Calculus tutor, and the fire department liaison for when Tyler has chemistry lab work to do, and the office of the ammunitions dealer two counties over who is just shady enough to be helpful in a jam.

He would have explained the rule on school dances, no more than two a quarter, three if everyone's SAT scores are above a 1200 because he knows they all can do it. And yes, Caroline, Prom counts as one of the dances.

He could have listed the recipe for his Bourbon-Vervain cocktail for when Damon's being rude. It's just enough to make Damon's tears water as he downs it. Good for vengeance and when you're feeling petty.

He should have jotted down where everyone goes when it's too much. Caroline to the back porch, a cup of hot chocolate and an old blanket; Matt to the roof, with a beer Ric pretends he doesn't know about and a safe place to cry; Tyler to wherever he can draw and etch and imagine that this is all just a comic book, where it's so easy to turn the page and move on; Elena to the cemetery, where she takes a blanket and lays nestled between her aunt and mother and sings off tune songs from her childhood; Bonnie to the old tomb, where she sits cross legged on the floor and listens for an echo; Jeremy to the couch just beyond the kitchen, head phones in and fingers twitching, eyes closed, make-believing that when he opens them his mom is making dinner and his dad is watching her, adoration shining in his eyes.

He watches from the sidelines.

Watches Jere become a hunter, watches him fill out into the man Ric always knew he'd become.

He cringes with every bad decision the gang makes, wishing he could just step in for only a moment and give them some advice. But for some reason, perhaps with the new power of being a super hunter, Jere can no longer see him. Alaric's advice falls on deaf ears.

His tears fall unnoticed by blind eyes as the kids he loves fall one by one.

He eats cheeseburgers with them when the world is tilted on its axis, as the dead walk the earth. They talk about grease and how Ric and Jeremy don't have it where they are, and they laugh. But Jesus.

All he wants to do is take these two kids into his arms and never let go.

It hasn't yet settled in the pit of his stomach that Jeremy is dead.

You don't see any other dead people on the dead plane, and so he could pretend for a while that the kid wasn't. He was just as bad as Elena in that regard. Denial may not be a river in Egypt but it sure does flow freely though the Gilbert home.

Or where the Gilbert home used to be.

Where he used to make pancakes for breakfast and where there are only ashes now

Add that to the rule book. No matches for Elena.

Kids these days.

His kids.