(no subject)
Twilight fic that I wrote months back. It amuses me, because I know the context of the Midsummer Night quotes that I use, and the context is frequently quite bizarre.
Jacob/OC (oh yes I did). Rated G, or K, if you prefer to be all legal-like about it. Post-Eclipse. I don't own Jacob or Mike, of course, though, you know, if anyone's offering.
Naomi's fate goes like this:
They first meet in the produce section, looking at each other over the piles of oranges. She smiles, polite; he goes warm all over and grins because he knows.
She doesn't know, yet, but that doesn't matter because he can afford to wait until she does.
'Hi,' he says. 'Hi.'
And it doesn't matter if she answers, because they are made for each other, and she'll know that soon enough. It's fate, after all.
That's how it was supposed to happen. It doesn't, however, because as Naomi is reaching for another orange, Jacob Black is racing deep into the forest because another girl broke his heart.
Naomi pauses for a moment with her hand around an orange, frowning. She feels uneasy, unbalanced, like she forgot something. She looks up as a shadow falls over the oranges, expectant without knowing why.
(This is the woman, but not this the man . . .)
"What?" Mike asks finally, self-conscious under Naomi's scrutiny.
"Sorry," she mutters, dropping her eyes back to the orange in her hand. She runs her fingers over its rough surface and waits for the disorientation to pass.
Mike waits and it's her turn to become uncomfortable. She looks back at him, and "Hi," he says. "Hi."
It isn't fate. But it's close enough that it feels like it is. Mike introduces himself and offers to show her around town, show her where the high school is (she has one more year and is jealous that he doesn't). They get ice cream cones because it's dinnertime and they're hungry, and they exchange emails. Naomi grins all evening.
(Believe me, king of shadows . . . I mistook.)
--------------
The wolf runs. As long as he runs he can forget why he needs to.
--------------
(Are you sure
That we are awake? It seems to me
That yet we sleep, we dream.)
Mike and Naomi make the most of the summer weather, and spend most of their time outside. Mike burns even in the soggy Washington sun; Naomi doesn't, with her coffee-brown skin, but she starts carrying sunscreen around in her purse because Mike always forgets. They laugh about his forgetfulness even as she scolds him, and it feels perfectly natural for Naomi to smooth the cream over his skin.
She finds out he's never had Indian food, and she takes him to an Indian restaurant despite his protests. (he teases her about the fact that she barely reaches up to his shoulder even in high heels) She laughs at his mangled pronunciations, and orders for both of them.
After she asks what he thought of the food. His face twists as he struggles for something polite to say, and she laughs out loud. "The company was better," he tells her, finally, and she can only shake her head and grin.
(the next week he takes her to a steakhouse. It is appropriate revenge)
"So do you like Forks?" he asks her that evening, as he braids her hair absently.
"Parts of it," she says, letting her gaze linger on him. A strange expression flits over his face, and the moment is suddenly awkward. To cover her discomfort, she twists around to try to see his hands. She makes her tone light. "What are you doing to my hair?"
"Making it beautiful," he tells her, mock-defensive.
"I think I liked it better before."
"If you're going to be that way . . ." He unwinds her hair, and combs his fingers through her hair, gentle and intimate.
She tells herself she must have misinterpreted, and because it's easier, she even believes it.
--------------------
One evening Naomi gets tired of waiting, and she kisses Mike herself. She has to stretch up on her tip-toes to do it, but he grins as foolishly as she does afterwards. She wonders if you can fall in love when you're seventeen. She thinks maybe you can. (she thinks maybe she has)
But as the night progresses, she watches Mike get more and more anxious, more and more distant. Finally she asks him what's wrong. He just smiles, shakes his head at her like it's a silly question. The knot in her stomach tightens.
The next day he introduces her to Bella Swan, radiant bride-to-be (there are dark circles under her eyes and her fingernails have been nibbled to the quick). Naomi sees how Mike watches Bella. More, she sees how Mike watches to see if she sees.
(Why should he stay, whom love doth press to go?)
"Okay," she tells him after, twisting the seatbelt around her hand. "I get it."
His eyes are troubled and intense, cutting through all her pretense of calm. He stumbles over his words as he tries to explain, to offer up an excuse for playing with her heart (does he call it that? He never calls it that, but the truth of it hangs between them, heavy and oppressive). She brushes away his apologies and doesn't look at his face the whole way home.
"Naomi --" he tries again, as she freezes with one foot out of the car. It takes effort to breathe.
(Why, get you gone: who is't that hinders you?)
"See you," she lies, standing suddenly and shutting the door a little harder than she needs to, turning away so he won't see the tears fall.
-------------
No one can run forever.
He turns around.
-------------
It is four days before she leaves her house again. Over dinner, Naomi's father asks what happened to that Mike kid; her mother reaches over and hits his arm, because there are some things mothers don't need to be told. Her father drops the subject, but the knowing silence is just as painful as the questions would have been, and Naomi can't stand to be in the house anymore. It isn't raining, so she gets on her bike and rides.
The library is closed when she gets there. She glances at her watch and hisses under her breath. Too late
She lets out a frustrated breath as she gets on her bike again, not sure where she's headed this time, because what is there to do in Forks, really? She lets her legs carry her without thought.
(She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play.)
They carry her to a pebbled beach; her bike slides on the pebbles, and she and it overbalance. She waits a moment for her breath to come back, then she shouts an obscenity into the night air and struggles out from under her bike, shaking her skinned and bloody hands in front of her.
Too late, she realises that she has an audience. Hot embarrassment sweeps through her, and a weary sort of apathy follows soon after. Naomi presses her stinging hands against her jeans and waits for the person to laugh, leave, both.
Instead he walks over, pulling his silky black hair out of his face with an abrupt gesture. He looks almost ill.
"Are you all right?" He is trembling, she sees, so that he can barely twist a rubber band around his hair. His breath comes as fast as if he were running.
(A very gentle beast, of a good conscience . . .)
"Are you?" she can't help asking.
"No," he frankly admits, dropping to the rocks beside her. She stiffens, because he is too close. "Are your hands okay?"
She looks at them. The bleeding has stopped; the stinging hasn't. She'll need to do something about the bloodstain. "I'll be okay," she says, and she stands, uneasy because of his honesty and his closeness. His eyes follow her movements, disconcerting in their intensity. "I need to go."
"I'm Jacob," he tells her.
The name is out of her mouth, reflexively, before she can help it. "Naomi."
He makes no move to follow as she picks up her bike, so she feels secure enough to add, "I just moved here."
"I know." He laughs softly, at some private joke. "Yeah, I know. I'll see you around, then." A beat. "Naomi."
Nobody ever said her name like that before, and it raises goosebumps on her arms. "Goodnight," she tells him, as she wheels her bike away.
He nods, wraps his arms around himself and looks up at the sky. She follows his gaze to the moon, full and bright in the sky.
Well shone, Moon . . .
"Goodnight," she murmurs again, and she rides away.
Jacob/OC (oh yes I did). Rated G, or K, if you prefer to be all legal-like about it. Post-Eclipse. I don't own Jacob or Mike, of course, though, you know, if anyone's offering.
Naomi's fate goes like this:
They first meet in the produce section, looking at each other over the piles of oranges. She smiles, polite; he goes warm all over and grins because he knows.
She doesn't know, yet, but that doesn't matter because he can afford to wait until she does.
'Hi,' he says. 'Hi.'
And it doesn't matter if she answers, because they are made for each other, and she'll know that soon enough. It's fate, after all.
That's how it was supposed to happen. It doesn't, however, because as Naomi is reaching for another orange, Jacob Black is racing deep into the forest because another girl broke his heart.
Naomi pauses for a moment with her hand around an orange, frowning. She feels uneasy, unbalanced, like she forgot something. She looks up as a shadow falls over the oranges, expectant without knowing why.
(This is the woman, but not this the man . . .)
"What?" Mike asks finally, self-conscious under Naomi's scrutiny.
"Sorry," she mutters, dropping her eyes back to the orange in her hand. She runs her fingers over its rough surface and waits for the disorientation to pass.
Mike waits and it's her turn to become uncomfortable. She looks back at him, and "Hi," he says. "Hi."
It isn't fate. But it's close enough that it feels like it is. Mike introduces himself and offers to show her around town, show her where the high school is (she has one more year and is jealous that he doesn't). They get ice cream cones because it's dinnertime and they're hungry, and they exchange emails. Naomi grins all evening.
(Believe me, king of shadows . . . I mistook.)
--------------
The wolf runs. As long as he runs he can forget why he needs to.
--------------
(Are you sure
That we are awake? It seems to me
That yet we sleep, we dream.)
Mike and Naomi make the most of the summer weather, and spend most of their time outside. Mike burns even in the soggy Washington sun; Naomi doesn't, with her coffee-brown skin, but she starts carrying sunscreen around in her purse because Mike always forgets. They laugh about his forgetfulness even as she scolds him, and it feels perfectly natural for Naomi to smooth the cream over his skin.
She finds out he's never had Indian food, and she takes him to an Indian restaurant despite his protests. (he teases her about the fact that she barely reaches up to his shoulder even in high heels) She laughs at his mangled pronunciations, and orders for both of them.
After she asks what he thought of the food. His face twists as he struggles for something polite to say, and she laughs out loud. "The company was better," he tells her, finally, and she can only shake her head and grin.
(the next week he takes her to a steakhouse. It is appropriate revenge)
"So do you like Forks?" he asks her that evening, as he braids her hair absently.
"Parts of it," she says, letting her gaze linger on him. A strange expression flits over his face, and the moment is suddenly awkward. To cover her discomfort, she twists around to try to see his hands. She makes her tone light. "What are you doing to my hair?"
"Making it beautiful," he tells her, mock-defensive.
"I think I liked it better before."
"If you're going to be that way . . ." He unwinds her hair, and combs his fingers through her hair, gentle and intimate.
She tells herself she must have misinterpreted, and because it's easier, she even believes it.
--------------------
One evening Naomi gets tired of waiting, and she kisses Mike herself. She has to stretch up on her tip-toes to do it, but he grins as foolishly as she does afterwards. She wonders if you can fall in love when you're seventeen. She thinks maybe you can. (she thinks maybe she has)
But as the night progresses, she watches Mike get more and more anxious, more and more distant. Finally she asks him what's wrong. He just smiles, shakes his head at her like it's a silly question. The knot in her stomach tightens.
The next day he introduces her to Bella Swan, radiant bride-to-be (there are dark circles under her eyes and her fingernails have been nibbled to the quick). Naomi sees how Mike watches Bella. More, she sees how Mike watches to see if she sees.
(Why should he stay, whom love doth press to go?)
"Okay," she tells him after, twisting the seatbelt around her hand. "I get it."
His eyes are troubled and intense, cutting through all her pretense of calm. He stumbles over his words as he tries to explain, to offer up an excuse for playing with her heart (does he call it that? He never calls it that, but the truth of it hangs between them, heavy and oppressive). She brushes away his apologies and doesn't look at his face the whole way home.
"Naomi --" he tries again, as she freezes with one foot out of the car. It takes effort to breathe.
(Why, get you gone: who is't that hinders you?)
"See you," she lies, standing suddenly and shutting the door a little harder than she needs to, turning away so he won't see the tears fall.
-------------
No one can run forever.
He turns around.
-------------
It is four days before she leaves her house again. Over dinner, Naomi's father asks what happened to that Mike kid; her mother reaches over and hits his arm, because there are some things mothers don't need to be told. Her father drops the subject, but the knowing silence is just as painful as the questions would have been, and Naomi can't stand to be in the house anymore. It isn't raining, so she gets on her bike and rides.
The library is closed when she gets there. She glances at her watch and hisses under her breath. Too late
She lets out a frustrated breath as she gets on her bike again, not sure where she's headed this time, because what is there to do in Forks, really? She lets her legs carry her without thought.
(She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play.)
They carry her to a pebbled beach; her bike slides on the pebbles, and she and it overbalance. She waits a moment for her breath to come back, then she shouts an obscenity into the night air and struggles out from under her bike, shaking her skinned and bloody hands in front of her.
Too late, she realises that she has an audience. Hot embarrassment sweeps through her, and a weary sort of apathy follows soon after. Naomi presses her stinging hands against her jeans and waits for the person to laugh, leave, both.
Instead he walks over, pulling his silky black hair out of his face with an abrupt gesture. He looks almost ill.
"Are you all right?" He is trembling, she sees, so that he can barely twist a rubber band around his hair. His breath comes as fast as if he were running.
(A very gentle beast, of a good conscience . . .)
"Are you?" she can't help asking.
"No," he frankly admits, dropping to the rocks beside her. She stiffens, because he is too close. "Are your hands okay?"
She looks at them. The bleeding has stopped; the stinging hasn't. She'll need to do something about the bloodstain. "I'll be okay," she says, and she stands, uneasy because of his honesty and his closeness. His eyes follow her movements, disconcerting in their intensity. "I need to go."
"I'm Jacob," he tells her.
The name is out of her mouth, reflexively, before she can help it. "Naomi."
He makes no move to follow as she picks up her bike, so she feels secure enough to add, "I just moved here."
"I know." He laughs softly, at some private joke. "Yeah, I know. I'll see you around, then." A beat. "Naomi."
Nobody ever said her name like that before, and it raises goosebumps on her arms. "Goodnight," she tells him, as she wheels her bike away.
He nods, wraps his arms around himself and looks up at the sky. She follows his gaze to the moon, full and bright in the sky.
Well shone, Moon . . .
"Goodnight," she murmurs again, and she rides away.