THE FRENCH QUARTER — WHERE DAMON’S DELUSIONS GO TO DIE.
Imagine : Damon Salvatore was convinced — convinced — that Elena Gilbert was still in Mystic Falls, pining for him, waiting for him, dreaming about him, writing his name in a diary with little hearts around it.
He strutted down Main Street like a man returning to claim his long‑lost love.
Except… Elena wasn’t there.
And Damon, in true Damon fashion, didn’t bother to check.
Because why would he? In his mind, Elena Gilbert was still his girl.
Meanwhile… in New Orleans
The Abattoir stood tall and ancient in the French Quarter, its iron gates open to the warm morning air. Inside, sunlight spilled across the courtyard, catching on the soft curve of Elena’s three‑month baby bump as she sat on a cushioned bench, sipping tea.
She rested a hand on her stomach — their child. Due in November. A tiny life that already had Elijah Mikaelson’s quiet strength and Elena’s stubborn heart.
Elijah stepped behind her, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. Calm. Protective. Dangerous in that silent, elegant way that made even Klaus raise an eyebrow sometimes.
He leaned down, voice low and warm.
“You should rest. You’re carrying precious cargo.”
Elena smiled, rolling her eyes affectionately.
“I’m pregnant, not fragile.”
Elijah’s lips curved — that rare, private smile he only ever gave her.
He brushed his fingers over her bump, and the baby kicked lightly, as if agreeing.
Damon Salvatore had not crossed her mind in months.
Back in Mystic Falls… Damon’s Reality Cracks
Damon finally noticed Elena’s house was empty.
“Huh. Weird. She must be… visiting someone.”
But then he found the mail.
To an address he recognized.
The Abattoir — Damon Walks Into a Wall of Reality
Damon stormed into the French Quarter like a man on a mission, muttering to himself.
“She’s confused. She’s under a spell. She’s kidnapped. She’s—”
Glowing. Peaceful. Laughing.
Elijah stood beside her, one hand resting on her bump, the other tucked behind his back like the composed menace he was.
“Elena… what… what is that?”
“Yeah, I got that part! But… whose?”
Elijah stepped forward, expression calm but eyes sharp enough to cut stone.
Damon’s soul left his body.
“Yours? YOURS? You— you threw a pencil at me!”
“And I will do so again if necessary.”
Elena sighed, rubbing her belly.
“Damon, I’m not in Mystic Falls. I’m not in love with you. I’m not thinking about you. I’m building a life here. With Elijah. With our baby.”
For the first time in centuries, Damon Salvatore had no words.
Elijah stepped behind Elena, hands resting protectively on her shoulders.
“You should go, Damon. Elena needs peace. Stress is not good for the child.”
Damon pointed at Elijah, sputtering.
“You— you’re older than dirt!”
“And yet, somehow, still more mature than you.”
Damon backed away slowly.
Utterly, completely replaced.
As Damon disappeared down the street, Elena leaned into Elijah’s chest, his arms wrapping around her.
“I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Elijah kissed the top of her head.
“And you always will be.”
Their child kicked again — a tiny reminder that Elena Gilbert’s future was no longer tied to Mystic Falls… or Damon Salvatore.
A FEW DAYS LATER — MYSTIC FALLS, WHERE DAMON’S DELUSIONS THRIVE
Damon sat at the bar of the empty Mystic Grill, swirling a glass of bourbon like it held the answers to life.
But Damon? Damon was committed to the bit.
“She’s joking,” he muttered to himself.
“It’s an April Fools prank. A late one. A very late one. Elena loves jokes. She’s hilarious. She’s probably laughing right now.”
“She’s just messing with me. She’ll walk in any minute. Pregnant? With Elijah’s kid? Please. Elena would never—”
A photo of Elena in New Orleans.
Sitting at a long wooden table with a plate so massive it looked like a medieval feast.
Ziti with oil and garlic.
Calories? Damon didn’t even want to think about it.
Elijah was sitting beside her, napkin folded neatly, hand resting on her chair like she was the most precious thing in the world.
Elena’s bump was unmistakable.
Elijah was cutting her sausage for her.
Elijah looked directly at the camera.
Like he knew Damon would see it.
“No. Nope. Absolutely not. This is fake. Deepfake. Photoshop. AI. Witchcraft. Something.”
“Elena hates pesto. She told me once. In 2012. She said it tasted like grass. She wouldn’t eat pesto unless—”
Unless she was craving everything.
Unless she was eating for two.
Unless she was eating for Elijah Mikaelson’s child.
“No. No. No. She’s pranking me. She’s pranking me so hard. This is the longest April Fools joke in history.”
“She’ll come back. She always comes back.”
But the truth was settling in, heavy and undeniable:
Elena wasn’t coming back.
She wasn’t thinking about him.
She was in New Orleans, eating enough carbs to power a small army, glowing, happy, and carrying Elijah Mikaelson’s baby.
Damon was alone in a closed bar, arguing with a calendar.
THE ABATTOIR — PLATE FOUR, AND ELENA IS STILL GOING
The courtyard of the Abattoir was warm with late‑morning sunlight, the kind that made the French Quarter feel alive. Birds chirped. Jazz drifted faintly from a distant street.
And at the center of it all sat Elena Mikaelson‑Gilbert, three months pregnant, absolutely demolishing her fourth plate of food.
• Ziti with oil and garlic
• All piled together like a carb‑lover’s fever dream
• And garlic bread stacked like a tower beside her
Let’s just say the baby was eating like it planned to bench‑press Elijah by November.
Elena stabbed a piece of sausage, dipped it into pesto, and took a blissful bite.
“Oh my god,” she groaned softly.
Elijah stood nearby, arms folded, watching her with that serene, quietly amused expression he reserved only for her.
“You know,” he said, voice smooth as silk, “most humans would have stopped after the first plate.”
Elena didn’t even look up.
“I’m not most humans. I’m pregnant with your child. I’m starving.”
Elijah’s lips twitched — the closest he ever got to a grin.
He stepped behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder, thumb brushing lightly against her collarbone. Protective. Proud. A little smug.
“Eat as much as you need. Our child is… enthusiastic.”
As if on cue, the baby kicked.
Elena laughed, hand flying to her bump.
Elijah leaned down, whispering near her ear.
“Then more you shall have.”
He signaled to a passing server — because of course the Mikaelsons had servers — and gestured toward the emptying plate.
“Another… full plate, sir?”
“Yes. The same. And more bread.”
The server hurried away like his life depended on it.
✦ Meanwhile… Damon Would Actually Pass Out If He Saw This
If Damon could see Elena right now — glowing, laughing, eating her fourth plate of Italian food like a queen — he would spontaneously combust.
He’d probably say something like:
“Elena, what the hell? That’s like 4,000 calories!”
And Elena would shrug, mouth full of garlic bread.
Elijah would raise a brow.
He was in Mystic Falls, arguing with a calendar.
Elena was in New Orleans, living her best life, surrounded by food, love, and the calm, dangerous Original who adored her.
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