Postcards - Post A
Title: Postcards
Author: audreyii_fic
Fandom: Twilight (Team Jacob)
Rating: M for Mature
Characters: Jacob/Bella, Charlie
Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Summary: She wonders how she forgot that he's just sixteen. Sixteen and somehow overnight the whole weight of the world dropped on his broad shoulders, and it's not fair and she has to get him out of here. So she will. Yet another mid-New Moon Jacob/Bella roadtrip fic. I make absolutely no claims to originality.
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A/N: Oh, God, I can't believe I just wrote this fanfic.
Seriously. I quit fanfiction three years ago. Cold turkey. It was hard, but I did it, and life became a happier and more beautiful place. And now, after all that, it's Twilight that pulls me out of retirement? For a present-tense Bella stream of consciousness? Twilight?!? When I'm on Team I-Read-This-Series-On-A-Dare-And-Why-Didn't-Someone-Link-Meyer-To-The-Mary-Sue-Litmus-Test? What. The. Fuck. I am so confused right now.
Bear in mind that I prefer the movies, because Bella whines less there. Oh, and because of Charlie -- I love movie!Charlie. Purists read at your own risk.
Postcards
lead me to the truth and i will follow you with my whole life
-Mumford & Sons, "White Blank Page"
"What if we ran away? Just you and me. What if we left home, and left Sam behind?"
***
His eyes go wide with shock. "What?"
"Let's just... go," she hears someone say in a voice that sounds a lot like hers. "Tonight. Right now." On impulse, she reaches forward and grabs his hand, and it stings her cold skin like a candle flame. "We can do it. I can do it." A strange sensation washes over her, a certainty she hasn't felt since before she first came to Forks, the steadiness of having a clear, definable goal. "Run away with me, Jacob."
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. A breath. Two. Three. Finally -- with all the effort in the world -- he inclines his head into a slight nod.
It is good enough for her.
With firm arms she sits him down on the bed, determined to ignore how hollow he suddenly seems. When she pulls her duffel bag off the top shelf of her closet, it knocks her in the head; she waits for him to laugh and tease, but it doesn't come, and that scares her as much as anything that has happened so far that day. Her motions are mechanical, not rushed, or thoughtful, or particularly planned -- she may as well be packing for a trip to Jacksonville. A handful of underwear and bras. Some socks. A pair of shorts and two pairs of jeans. Pajamas. Short-sleeved shirts. A hoodie. Sandals. Sneakers.
She looks at her desk and knows she is going to leave without her cell phone and her laptop. She empties her purse of everything except her wallet and a handful of hair ties, grateful for at least those concessions to her appearance -- she doesn't dare go to the bathroom for toiletries in case she wakes up Charlie.
Charlie.
"I have to write a note." She glances at him, but he doesn't look up from his feet. "I can't leave the way I left last time." It takes a moment, but he nods minutely. "Do you want to leave something for your dad?" A tiny shake of his head. "Okay."
She pulls a piece of paper from her desk, grabs a pen out of the purple cup, and starts to write.
Charlie--
She stares at the word for a moment, feels disgusted with herself, then crumples up the piece of paper and throws it in the trash.
Dad--
Jacob and I have to go away. I'm sorry I'm not
saying goodbye properly. I don't know when
we'll be back. Tell Renee and Billy that we'll be
fine. Please don't chase us or worry too much.
You didn't do anything wrong. You were
right -- I need to get out of Forks for awhile.
I'll write to let you know we're okay.
Love, Bella
Good. That's good. On impulse, she adds:
PS. I'm taking my pepper spray.
***
He gets into the truck like an old man, like every movement is painful. When he's finally in, she closes the door for him, comes around to the driver's side, turns the key in the ignition. It is one o'clock in the morning.
His head is bowed almost to his knees. She notices his knuckles are white where he is gripping the edge of the seat, and she reaches over hesitantly (since when is she hesitant with him?) and covers his left hand with her right. For the first time -- but not for the last -- she wonders whether this is a good idea.
But then he looks up at her; his face is tortured, and she sees for a moment how very, very young he is. She wonders how she forgot that he's just sixteen. Sixteen and somehow overnight the whole weight of the world dropped on his broad shoulders, and it's not fair and she has to get him out of here. So she will.
As she pulls out of the driveway, she catches a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror, and it occurs to her with a shock that eighteen isn't really that old either.
***
They've driven an hour east before he speaks. "Bella?"
"Yes?"
"Where are we going?"
She decides to be honest. "I don't know. Away."
A beat. "Far away?"
"I think so." She wishes she could look at him, but it's dark and she doesn't dare take her eyes off the road. The trip will be cut rather short if she crashes into a tree.
Another beat. "For how long?"
The words come out of her mouth: "Until the truck falls apart." That hadn't been her plan -- there isn't any plan -- but she knows it's the truth, somehow. They'll just keep going and going until there's no way to continue.
Something comes out of his mouth that almost sounds like a chuckle, and she wants to weep in relief. "That could be a long time. I can always fix it."
"Probably so." She bites her lip. "Is this okay, Jacob?" He deserves a chance to say no. Even though she'll probably ignore him if he does.
She catches his shudder out of the corner of her eye, and reaches for his hand again. His skin is on fire. "Yes," he whispers, the word choked, as though someone has a noose around his neck.
She steps on the gas.
***
At the first motel she pays with her debit card. It's more expensive than she expects; next time they'll have to find something cheaper, but she's driven for four hours and her adrenaline rush is long gone and this was the only place they'd passed in twenty miles. He and she both collapse into their separate beds without taking off their clothes. For a half second, she wonders with an ache what Edward would think of all this. Then she passes out.
When she wakes up at noon, he is still there. He's even gotten complimentary coffee for her. She looks him over and realizes something in a flash. "Jake," she says, "we need to buy you a shirt."
He doesn't speak, but he does smile.
***
They go to a bank and she writes a check to herself and empties her college savings account down to the last cent. Almost six thousand dollars, all in a thick pack of hundreds. It terrifies her to be carrying so much cash, and somehow he can tell; he takes the envelope from her shaking hand and puts it in his own wallet. "No one will try to rob me," he says with a wink, and it's the most normal he's sounded since they left, so she doesn't argue. Besides, he's probably right.
He has to wait in the truck while she goes to K-Mart, thanks to the sign on the front door saying No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service. She gets some clothes and shoes, but also toiletries -- shampoo, razors, toothbrushes. She hopes he doesn't mind sharing soap. She hadn't thought to ask. She buys a pack of beef jerky in the checkout isle.
When she comes out, the truck is running. He's in the driver's seat.
Instead of sprinting, she walks slowly and deliberately to the passenger's side door, getting in as though she totally expected him to have his head resting against the steering wheel while sweat drips off his back. "Your turn?" she says lightly.
He doesn't respond. Guiltily.
"Would you rather I drive for a little longer?"
He takes in a deep, shuddering breath, then slowly raises his head. "No. I can do it."
"All right, then." She hands him the bag. "Put on a shirt first, though."
His smile becomes a puzzled frown as he digs through the bag. "Boxers? I'm a briefs man."
She'd guessed wrong, and looks out the window to hide her blush. "Buy them yourself next time, then." As he drives out of the parking lot, she points at the turn signal. "Left is east."
"Right." He swallows. "Sorry."
***
Dad--
Sorry, there's not much room on a postcard.
We're still okay. The truck is holding up fine.
Love, Bella
***
When they cross into Montana, he perks up considerably, to her immense relief. No more longing looks out the back window, no more clenched fists. He starts babbling happily about whatever pops into his head, and she's so thrilled to hear his voice again that she grins at everything he says.
He doesn't tell her what's wrong, though, doesn't tell her why they had to leave in the first place, but she lets it go for now. She'll ask later.
She lets him drive for a long stretch, satisfied he won't turn around while she's sleeping, and he looks proud to be weaving among the mountains at speeds that make her stomach lurch. He looks his age, even. She can survive the nausea because her heart feels lighter than it has in months.
A few hours later she throws up on the side of the road after a hairpin turn. He laughs at her, but he drives at sixty-five for the rest of the day.
***
In the motel that night she wakes up to a nightmare, and it takes her a fuzzy moment to realize it isn't hers. He's moaning in his bed. She's at his side in an instant, legs still twisted in the cheap blankets. "Jake? Jacob, wake up, it's okay." She gives him a little shake and he bolts upright, a strangled noise still in his throat. "Jake, look at me." When he doesn't turn, she climbs onto his bed and kneels in front of him, straddling his knees, cupping his face in her hands. "It's me. It's me."
Slowly his eyes begin to focus on her face, as if confused to see her there. "Bells?" His voice is hoarse.
"Yes." She can't see that well in the dark, but she can feel the scorching tears running over her thumbs. Whatever is left of her heart breaks. "Yes, it's Bella. I've got you."
He hesitantly reaches up to touch her hand, and then she is pulled flush against his body, his arms wrapped so tightly around her waist that she knows he'll leave bruises. His face is buried in her neck, she wraps her legs around his waist, and though she admits, has to admit that she thought they might one day wind up in this embrace, she never imagined it would be for this kind of comfort. "Bella," he sobs, and she rubs his back soothingly. "Bella, I have to go back."
"No, you don't."
"Yes, I do." His entire body is shaking now. She holds him tighter, tries to hold him still. "I can hear them in my sleep. I have to go back."
"Shh." Acting on instinct, she presses her cheek against the top of his head, smelling sweat and something earthy. "It was a bad dream, that's all. It's over now."
His head shakes minutely against her shoulder.
She knows him well. She knows what he needs to hear. "Jacob Black," she says with authority, "you are staying with me."
The trembling stops, and he pulls away from her, just enough to look at her face. "What?"
"You are staying with me," she repeats, enunciating carefully. "I am ordering you to stay with me. And I'm older, so you have to obey."
His bitter laugh is something like a bark. "It doesn't work like that, Bells."
"Yes, it does." Her hands are back on his cheeks and she holds his face firmly. "You're staying, do you understand? You're staying. Even if I have to force you to."
"And how are you going to do that, exactly?" Some of the tension begins to leave his body.
"I don't know, but I'm sure I'll think of something," she says with dignity.
"Handcuffs?" he teases, relaxing.
"If I must."
This time he laughs genuinely, and she giggles in spite of it all. She lets him untangle himself and lay back down on the bed, and she lays down with him, spooning herself against his back, arms wrapped around his heated body. He is not going to disappear on her watch.
Once his breathing has slowed, she finds the courage to ask, "Jake... can you tell me why?"
There is a long pause, then a soft, "No." She frowns, but then he continues, "It seems to get easier the further we go, though."
"Okay, then. We'll go further."
She doesn't leave his bed that night.
***
Three nights later she is the one who wakes up screaming, and he is the one who strokes her back and sleeps beside her to keep the bad dreams away.
***
Dad--
The nightmares are getting better.
I miss cooking.
Love, Bella
***
Weeks pass. Life settles into a strange sort of routine.
Sometimes they drive for ten hours a day, sometimes for just two, but they almost never stay the same place for more than one night. There are a few exceptions -- the time she got food poisoning from the fish sandwich in Bangor, for example, or when he begged to stay a few extra days in Yellowstone. By and large, though, they move. They move to stay one step ahead of the demons.
***
He loves Boston; she hates it. She loves Santa Fe; he hates it. But they both love the sights and sounds and smells of New Orleans (where they hover for four whole days, until they've finally had their fill of cajun shrimp), and they agree that Cleveland is the armpit of the universe. She makes sure they never come within a thousand miles of Forks.
***
He is a morning person; she is not. One time, though, she wakes before he does, when they are sharing a bed -- it happens more often than not now, but they always begin the night separately -- and is shocked to feel his erection pressing into her lower back. She squirms from his embrace, waking him up in the process, and he explains to her (clearly trying not to snicker) the concept of "morning wood." She is stunned to realize that that's what the boys on the school bus had been talking about when she was twelve; she had always wondered what was going on, since Truman Middle didn't have any shop classes. When she tells him this, he falls out of bed laughing.
***
They eat at the greasiest diners. She runs around the truck one hundred times each evening in an effort to keep down the inevitable weight gain, but she's only partially successful -- her body fills out to the same proportions it had been before her birthday, before everything fell apart. She complains about this to him, but he smirks and says, "No one likes a twig, Bells." He, of course, remains irritatingly perfect, no matter how many cheese fries he inhales.
***
His hair is beginning to grow out, and it sticks up adorably first thing in the morning. Her hair, on the other hand, cannot be kept under control; the truck has no air conditioning, and with the windows open all the time, the wind manages to snarl every single strand on her head. After yet another evening of trying to detangle the mess, she storms out, walks to the drugstore across the street, and returns to thrust a pair of scissors into his hands and demand that he cut it all off. His protests are in vain. She heaves a sigh of relief when the weight of the ponytail comes away, leaving her hair barely touching the nape of her neck; his relief is even greater than hers when she assures him she really doesn't care that it's uneven. After that he apparently thinks it's safe to tease her about looking like a twelve-year-old, and only his quick reflexes save him from being stabbed with the scissors.
***
He hates when they can't get radio stations. She can't sleep if the television is on.
***
Post B: There are things they don't talk about, of course.