Twilight Fic: want to play extinction?
want to play extinction?
au. bella swan; bella/jacob, bella/edward. russian roulette for beginners. 2700 words. pg.
she misses her flight. really. “maybe,” mom sighs, “it’s a sign.”
-
when I go forwards you go backwards
and somewhere we will meet.
(radiohead) electioneering
zero
she misses her flight. really.
“maybe,” mom sighs, “it’s a sign.”
so she’s a teenager and these things, small, simple things, have telling signs that you’ve got to follow. with a little luck. with that stretch of breathing.
so bella closes her eyes, forehead sighing against the back of her head, and she ignores the sounds of rushing people, a little too faint at the non-disappointment - dear dad charlie, sorry but maybe i should really think about this.
“yeah,” she nods, stepping back, “maybe you’re right.”
1.
to the years, phoenix starts to burn her skin at eight, after she decides she’s skipping eighteen with mom and phil playing ball in some godforsaken town in florida, spring or some training, and all of that stuff that she doesn’t get.
ask her first - she’s not guilty, isn’t guilt, and forks will remain as is, stuck for holidays, random birthdays, hopes for the coming eighteen year old. she does miss charlie, from time to time, a promise of a truck as if he was ready to have her before she was ready to go and stay.
so phoenix for the last two years has been home alone and it’s been good - a few friends, singing step on a crack, break your mother’s back, except bella slips and falls, skidding and even wearing flats.
“it’ll be good,” mom’s soothing on the phone, in florida, “promise, i mean your dad’s been on me like forever.”
you’re not my best friend anymore, bella rolls her eyes with a closed mouth, dropping to a seat - it’s two flights, she remembers, or three maybe, and she’s tired already, too tired.
“it’s just christmas, mom.”
“it is not.” and there’s the guilt again and bella cringes because really, she’s not good at this. or maybe, irony’s ready to bite her in the ass.
but mom’s sighing, “gotta go, babe,” bella cringes, a new nickname already, “time to go and watch some of the practices.”
she doesn’t know what she says exactly, her attention on the people swarming the terminal, but somewhere between goodbye and later, she’s dropped her phone and settled back on her seat.
great.
dad charlie’s hanging out in the kitchen already with the car lights on outside - coming back is a blur, the snow filling her frowns for most of the drive back, and college conversation halting after so your applications? because she’d rather not.
“hungry?”
charlie’s shrugging, “sure,” and the excuse follows, there’s no longer any help for the teenage daughter, “i’ll be back though. things to grab at the station. billy’s bringin’ around the truck.”
bella blinks.
suitcases still closed, no groceries in the fridge, and it’s like a point’s being proved; all your self-awareness is useless, bella swan, time to to start again.
seven o’clock and she’s starving and there are no groceries, but she’s pacing and it’s bad when she paces because there’s nothing for her to do.
she’s an idiot, you’ll figure this out later. “you’re not billy.”
boy, dark eyes, wild grin - and oh, those novels, “nah,” he laughs, “at least, i hope not.”
it’s jacob, but he tells her jake, and she sticks to jacob because he’s making fun of her for hating peanut butter with a passion.
she’s drawn, too easily, to the fact that he’s looking to his hands a lot - a nervous habit? - teeth over his lip, but no, no, not like that. she’s really not paying attention like that. it’s just nice to have company -
there’s a crash, more peanut butter cookies.
“you’re not funny,” she scowls.
he smirks.
the market is small, too small, and she’s already overwhelmed by being boxed in like this. oh come on, bella, really, because it’s not like she hasn’t been here before - perhaps, really, it’s the time and being here and more aware is tightening her perspective.
“you know,” jacob’s already casually amused, pushing the cart as she walks slowly, looking over pastas, “your dad was expecting you, uh, a couple years ago.”
“i’m not staying long,” she snaps.
he laughs; there’s a flush on her cheeks.
“so, your day?” charlie dad’s trying to make it up.
it’s - okay?
she just shrugs. so goes the holiday.
2.
easter should be a pagan holiday, she writes an email to mom, sitting back in the airport, still waiting for dad to coming to pick her up.
she’s early admission to dartmouth, spawned from one quiet small town, to go and live in another, it’s her education or at least, there’s a drifting excuse. but her laptop’s down, an investment on her part because charlie dad still lives in the fucking stone age.
“i can see you miserable from outside!”
of course, it’s jacob (jake, bella, jake) and she’s trying to bite back a grin as she gathers her stuff, brushing a kiss against his cheek as he grabs her bag. she doesn’t say anything, maybe glad to see him, but walks in step with him.
“what happened to your face?” she’s quiet, no where’s dad, because he turns and there’s a slash, red pink skin, and she’s hushed, “jake, your face.”
he shakes his head. “messing around. nothing to worry about.”
she’s a better liar than he is; bella doesn’t push.
church is a cop-out.
dad charlie just grins in amusement, late, when he brings home a stack of films that she’s never seen, but, at his word, we’re going to fix it - hello father-daughter bonding, years later.
mom’s the one that’s bothered by the non-believer.
there are rocks at her window, before she meets the cullens, and she’s pissed because jake is standing outside with that stupid grin of his as she sleepily jumps to her feet to go and let him in.
“screw you,” she slurs with a yawn.
he laughs, but it wakes her up - harsh, cold, sad; the influx of commas make her pause and she’s turning to make tea for the two of them, maybe something to eat too because charlie’s working late for the holiday tomorrow.
she studies him because this is what she does, quiet and sullen, and reaches out to brush her fingers along his jaw. she trembles a little, he flinches, and there’s something here that she’s just not getting.
“i was okay,” he says softly, “before you came, don’t start now. you’ll -”
her lips are dry. “i’ll?”
he shakes his head.
it’s much colder when she meets the cullens, going to a town function, her fingers curling in dad’s hand because she’s still fucking clumsy and really bitter about being clumsy and can hear jake laughing in her head.
“this is my daughter,” charlie grins, “bound for dartmouth next fall.”
and it’s the polite chorus of nods, stopping at one of the boys, edward - edward? - but her attention’s more on not falling on her face. he’s stepping forward though, already, his hand on her arm to help dad steady her.
“dartmouth?”
she shrugs, a little annoyed about personal space, her fingers drifting over his arm and looking up. he’s cold, it’s cold, and she’s a little surprised at the intensity of his gaze. her hair brushes over her eyes.
“um,” she murmurs, “yeah?”
he nods. it’s headcliffe with the eyes, the dark turn of his mouth, and she’s surprised because he’s letting him catch her -
“we should go in, dad,” she says quietly, switching hands.
charlie’s polite enough for the both of them, tugging her into the crook of his arm, a bit awkward, but here nonetheless.
she can feel the boy watching.
spring in washington, there’s a lot of rain.
3.
jake comes to see her, in phoenix with record highs.
“mom,” she says quietly, “this is jake, jake, my mom.”
but mom’s attention is folded into boxes, on her way out with phil slamming his fist on the car horn, there are no more children, but this isn’t what bella’s come to think about as mom gives her and jake a sloppy kiss goodbye.
“well.”
she looks down, jake’s hand skipping over her wrist. “yeah.”
he stays with her over boxes.
“i’m coming back,” she says, the second day, “the top of the summer so that charlie can get his parental fill before i’m off.”
jake sighs quietly, kneeling by her. she can’t keep her eyes off the scars, over the red tears, fading in his hands, his arms, and another right across her throat. she’s asked, yes, she’s asked, but there’s never any solid answer.
“you should get him to see you, come out here. it’s not like your mom’s around and he’s got vacation days,” he’s blubbering like a small boy, his hands stretching and clenching in front of him.
her lips part. “i -”
there’s a tear in his palm, hard and gray, and his fingers brush over her jaw. she looks down, embarrassed, but far from sure and why.
“just don’t ask it,” he murmurs.
- this is jake. and not a request.
she’s an idiot, didn’t she tell you?
she’s back in forks, a small bag, and billy at the airport because charlie’s got a little something to do. she’s underestimating all of this, but hey, bella’s got to start admitting a few things -
why not start at this?
“he hated phoenix,” billy says in the car, grinning a little, maybe a lie, “too hot.”
she snorts. but she’s not stupid, there’s a lace of he and wanted to see you.
so the one time, the one time, she decides to go and do one of those father-daughter things, a big dinner, she runs into edward cullen and his sports car, a shout out to sixteen candles and the 1980s.
“have dinner with me,” he says, slipping a smile.
she’s bewildered, tense, and stepping back to press against the truck, hers if she had come back all those years ago. there’s something here. something there. and it’s blanking, the adulterated spin of her deprecating understanding.
“uh,” she breathes, “not tonight.”
he frowns. “then tomorrow?”
she shakes her head, her arms crossing her arms around her chest. “not tomorrow.”
“how long are you here?”
“not long,” she mumbles.
his fingers are cold against her face, the slip of her hair over her eyes, and she flinches, it’s that space thing, that grace of avenues that mom left her with as she kept leaving her. she sighs and reaches for her keys.
“i don’t know you.”
edward doesn’t touch that. “he should tell you.”
she doesn’t tell jake. doesn’t see jake.
that summer, it’s too hot. and she leaves fresh, a week’s morning.
4.
there are boys in dartmouth, much to the delight of mom and her roommate, new-old friend, that’s already convinced that her solitude is a self-exile.
she writes jake, mailbox empty:
so, you’re a jerk. where are my letters?
bella dreams in blanks too much.
the first one, the real first one that she remembers, is two boys, a boy and another boy and she’s watching nothing happen. nothing that she understands - but there’s this eagerness of a choice, thick in her throat.
she wakes up. she’s cut her hand.
jake’s come, over the insistence of billy, which is prompted by bella guilting her father - she’s still got it - because he’s an idiot. but she bought the plane ticket, new job and all so that her advisor will stop bitching, calling to make sure that he’s coming.
“you’re annoying,” he scoffs.
she laughs until he’s here.
her roommate wrinkles her nose, long enough to leave them alone, and side-by-side and staring at their hands. she’s quiet. he’s sullen. and god, there are more marks, more scars, and she’s scared because it’s getting to her.
“what’s happening to you?” her lips are pressing hard.
his shoulders slump. “you wouldn’t believe me.”
they stay in.
watch hitchcock because there’s nothing else for her to say.
6 - 1.
it’s christmas again, mom’s in europe with phil and the excuse is, at least to save face, that they had thanksgiving.
she goes to jake.
he’s writing her, sure, but letters are odd things. there’s nothing to reveal. there’s everything to reveal. and she knows that there’s something that he’s hiding from her. and she can’t stand it. it’s driving her insane.
she slams her modern literature book on his knee instead of unpacking, her eyes dark and her mouth thin.
“i want to know.”
jake is tired. “no,” he says quietly, “you don’t.”
“i want to know.”
and here comes to the petulant child, eyes grim as she weeps for nothing that she understands. so she gives in, her hands folding over both sides of his face, her mouth covering his. she’s anguished, no base, but she’s kissing him and she means to kiss him, the sense of desperation folding forward because it’s scaring her that he’s not telling this to her and it’s important.
his mouth stays closed. “bell.”
she’s breathing heavily. “jacob.”
he takes her hand.
over the morning, it’s snowed.
it’s darker at night, her feet loose in her boots as he drags her into the woods, back behind her house. she doesn’t know what’s going on and her heart’s started to slam against her chest.
“jake.”
he’s firm. “you wanted to know -”
it changes everything.
there are no words -
his body rips, her eyes wide for the scream, and there’s a snarl over flesh. she sees fur, jolting back as jacob isn’t jake anymore. she stumbles back, slamming her knee into something and scrambling to the tree.
it’s a wolf. and it’s silent.
she doesn’t see him for days.
when you’re ready is a blank email, one more, after economics reading, days before going back, and she’s half-asleep so that she has to blink several times.
she hesitates -
i’ve been waiting. but she gets nothing back.
cullen scares the hell out of her.
he appears, one morning, a quiet walk to the market because the truck’s ancient and dad’s charlie forgot the snow tires.
“you’re not exactly little red,” he calls.
she stops, her eyes dropping to his mouth, to the slide of his tongue against his lip and she’s colder, her hands steady in her jacket.
“everybody has their secrets too,” she calls back. thoughtfully, shivering.
the library spills the legends, old legends, tribal stories and page after page, she’s starting to manage with wolves and the walking dead, outside all of this super-reality. she rubs her eyes.
and misses him.
5 + 1.
the last time she sees jacob black is somewhere between the sighing of spring, the end of winter and sudden ties to forks.
she’s getting busy, the old excuse and he repeats it:
“you’re getting busy,” he points out, on the steps of her dad’s porch, knee to know, his hands are shaking and they’re not talking about that, “i just - i need to get away for a bit. on my own.”
she stares at her hands.
“i won’t see you?”
jake sighs softly. “no.”
she thinks about asking him for dinner, just for a little longer, but she really doesn’t understand the circular sensibility to any of this. maybe, at best, it should stay that way. maybe not.
“will you try?”
he hesitates. “maybe.”
and he’s lying for her, already, but she takes it because she needs it. she brushes her mouth close and sighs.
“okay.”
she wants to tell you that he kissed her.
really. she wants to tell you. but they sat, still, and stood, still, as they moved to his car and to the things in his car.
bella remains tall, even in the memory, as his palm brushes against her cheek. his hand is shaking and she’s confused about his confuse, helpless beyond a why? and leaves it just like that.
“i’ll write,” he says softly.
she snorts, her throat burning. “liar,” she mumbles, “liar,” and she’s not really paying attention to the quiet laugh.
he presses his thumb to her forehead, her eyes closed as it drifts through her hair, down to her neck and shoulders. it’s the closest they’ve been -
this is what she gets.
+
some notes:
• i have absolutely no idea where this came from or why. so yeah, yeah, start the making fun. i know some of you are like “HAHHAAHAH.” *grins* maybe, i’ll shoot for a sequel and with WANKING. because sex is all ‘oh noes’ in this fandom, apparently, or so i’ve been told.
• special thanks to randomneses for subjecting me to an entire night, after drinking, to edward cullen’s venom sperm a la fanfiction. net. also to anythingbutgrey for being charming and encouraging and adorable. and for the rest of you lot coming out and admitting that you read it. *is amused*
• why did i pick an au? probably because i’m more bemused by the current state of the story in my mind. i was automatically annoyed by the first person pov and then the source of true lurve, a la edward/bella and the lack of development, etc, etc. so she missed her plane. *laughs* and i might sequel this sequel. who knows?
• oh and yes, i’m well-aware of the fact that this is 2700 words. shut up.
au. bella swan; bella/jacob, bella/edward. russian roulette for beginners. 2700 words. pg.
she misses her flight. really. “maybe,” mom sighs, “it’s a sign.”
-
when I go forwards you go backwards
and somewhere we will meet.
(radiohead) electioneering
zero
she misses her flight. really.
“maybe,” mom sighs, “it’s a sign.”
so she’s a teenager and these things, small, simple things, have telling signs that you’ve got to follow. with a little luck. with that stretch of breathing.
so bella closes her eyes, forehead sighing against the back of her head, and she ignores the sounds of rushing people, a little too faint at the non-disappointment - dear dad charlie, sorry but maybe i should really think about this.
“yeah,” she nods, stepping back, “maybe you’re right.”
1.
to the years, phoenix starts to burn her skin at eight, after she decides she’s skipping eighteen with mom and phil playing ball in some godforsaken town in florida, spring or some training, and all of that stuff that she doesn’t get.
ask her first - she’s not guilty, isn’t guilt, and forks will remain as is, stuck for holidays, random birthdays, hopes for the coming eighteen year old. she does miss charlie, from time to time, a promise of a truck as if he was ready to have her before she was ready to go and stay.
so phoenix for the last two years has been home alone and it’s been good - a few friends, singing step on a crack, break your mother’s back, except bella slips and falls, skidding and even wearing flats.
“it’ll be good,” mom’s soothing on the phone, in florida, “promise, i mean your dad’s been on me like forever.”
you’re not my best friend anymore, bella rolls her eyes with a closed mouth, dropping to a seat - it’s two flights, she remembers, or three maybe, and she’s tired already, too tired.
“it’s just christmas, mom.”
“it is not.” and there’s the guilt again and bella cringes because really, she’s not good at this. or maybe, irony’s ready to bite her in the ass.
but mom’s sighing, “gotta go, babe,” bella cringes, a new nickname already, “time to go and watch some of the practices.”
she doesn’t know what she says exactly, her attention on the people swarming the terminal, but somewhere between goodbye and later, she’s dropped her phone and settled back on her seat.
great.
dad charlie’s hanging out in the kitchen already with the car lights on outside - coming back is a blur, the snow filling her frowns for most of the drive back, and college conversation halting after so your applications? because she’d rather not.
“hungry?”
charlie’s shrugging, “sure,” and the excuse follows, there’s no longer any help for the teenage daughter, “i’ll be back though. things to grab at the station. billy’s bringin’ around the truck.”
bella blinks.
suitcases still closed, no groceries in the fridge, and it’s like a point’s being proved; all your self-awareness is useless, bella swan, time to to start again.
seven o’clock and she’s starving and there are no groceries, but she’s pacing and it’s bad when she paces because there’s nothing for her to do.
she’s an idiot, you’ll figure this out later. “you’re not billy.”
boy, dark eyes, wild grin - and oh, those novels, “nah,” he laughs, “at least, i hope not.”
it’s jacob, but he tells her jake, and she sticks to jacob because he’s making fun of her for hating peanut butter with a passion.
she’s drawn, too easily, to the fact that he’s looking to his hands a lot - a nervous habit? - teeth over his lip, but no, no, not like that. she’s really not paying attention like that. it’s just nice to have company -
there’s a crash, more peanut butter cookies.
“you’re not funny,” she scowls.
he smirks.
the market is small, too small, and she’s already overwhelmed by being boxed in like this. oh come on, bella, really, because it’s not like she hasn’t been here before - perhaps, really, it’s the time and being here and more aware is tightening her perspective.
“you know,” jacob’s already casually amused, pushing the cart as she walks slowly, looking over pastas, “your dad was expecting you, uh, a couple years ago.”
“i’m not staying long,” she snaps.
he laughs; there’s a flush on her cheeks.
“so, your day?” charlie dad’s trying to make it up.
it’s - okay?
she just shrugs. so goes the holiday.
2.
easter should be a pagan holiday, she writes an email to mom, sitting back in the airport, still waiting for dad to coming to pick her up.
she’s early admission to dartmouth, spawned from one quiet small town, to go and live in another, it’s her education or at least, there’s a drifting excuse. but her laptop’s down, an investment on her part because charlie dad still lives in the fucking stone age.
“i can see you miserable from outside!”
of course, it’s jacob (jake, bella, jake) and she’s trying to bite back a grin as she gathers her stuff, brushing a kiss against his cheek as he grabs her bag. she doesn’t say anything, maybe glad to see him, but walks in step with him.
“what happened to your face?” she’s quiet, no where’s dad, because he turns and there’s a slash, red pink skin, and she’s hushed, “jake, your face.”
he shakes his head. “messing around. nothing to worry about.”
she’s a better liar than he is; bella doesn’t push.
church is a cop-out.
dad charlie just grins in amusement, late, when he brings home a stack of films that she’s never seen, but, at his word, we’re going to fix it - hello father-daughter bonding, years later.
mom’s the one that’s bothered by the non-believer.
there are rocks at her window, before she meets the cullens, and she’s pissed because jake is standing outside with that stupid grin of his as she sleepily jumps to her feet to go and let him in.
“screw you,” she slurs with a yawn.
he laughs, but it wakes her up - harsh, cold, sad; the influx of commas make her pause and she’s turning to make tea for the two of them, maybe something to eat too because charlie’s working late for the holiday tomorrow.
she studies him because this is what she does, quiet and sullen, and reaches out to brush her fingers along his jaw. she trembles a little, he flinches, and there’s something here that she’s just not getting.
“i was okay,” he says softly, “before you came, don’t start now. you’ll -”
her lips are dry. “i’ll?”
he shakes his head.
it’s much colder when she meets the cullens, going to a town function, her fingers curling in dad’s hand because she’s still fucking clumsy and really bitter about being clumsy and can hear jake laughing in her head.
“this is my daughter,” charlie grins, “bound for dartmouth next fall.”
and it’s the polite chorus of nods, stopping at one of the boys, edward - edward? - but her attention’s more on not falling on her face. he’s stepping forward though, already, his hand on her arm to help dad steady her.
“dartmouth?”
she shrugs, a little annoyed about personal space, her fingers drifting over his arm and looking up. he’s cold, it’s cold, and she’s a little surprised at the intensity of his gaze. her hair brushes over her eyes.
“um,” she murmurs, “yeah?”
he nods. it’s headcliffe with the eyes, the dark turn of his mouth, and she’s surprised because he’s letting him catch her -
“we should go in, dad,” she says quietly, switching hands.
charlie’s polite enough for the both of them, tugging her into the crook of his arm, a bit awkward, but here nonetheless.
she can feel the boy watching.
spring in washington, there’s a lot of rain.
3.
jake comes to see her, in phoenix with record highs.
“mom,” she says quietly, “this is jake, jake, my mom.”
but mom’s attention is folded into boxes, on her way out with phil slamming his fist on the car horn, there are no more children, but this isn’t what bella’s come to think about as mom gives her and jake a sloppy kiss goodbye.
“well.”
she looks down, jake’s hand skipping over her wrist. “yeah.”
he stays with her over boxes.
“i’m coming back,” she says, the second day, “the top of the summer so that charlie can get his parental fill before i’m off.”
jake sighs quietly, kneeling by her. she can’t keep her eyes off the scars, over the red tears, fading in his hands, his arms, and another right across her throat. she’s asked, yes, she’s asked, but there’s never any solid answer.
“you should get him to see you, come out here. it’s not like your mom’s around and he’s got vacation days,” he’s blubbering like a small boy, his hands stretching and clenching in front of him.
her lips part. “i -”
there’s a tear in his palm, hard and gray, and his fingers brush over her jaw. she looks down, embarrassed, but far from sure and why.
“just don’t ask it,” he murmurs.
- this is jake. and not a request.
she’s an idiot, didn’t she tell you?
she’s back in forks, a small bag, and billy at the airport because charlie’s got a little something to do. she’s underestimating all of this, but hey, bella’s got to start admitting a few things -
why not start at this?
“he hated phoenix,” billy says in the car, grinning a little, maybe a lie, “too hot.”
she snorts. but she’s not stupid, there’s a lace of he and wanted to see you.
so the one time, the one time, she decides to go and do one of those father-daughter things, a big dinner, she runs into edward cullen and his sports car, a shout out to sixteen candles and the 1980s.
“have dinner with me,” he says, slipping a smile.
she’s bewildered, tense, and stepping back to press against the truck, hers if she had come back all those years ago. there’s something here. something there. and it’s blanking, the adulterated spin of her deprecating understanding.
“uh,” she breathes, “not tonight.”
he frowns. “then tomorrow?”
she shakes her head, her arms crossing her arms around her chest. “not tomorrow.”
“how long are you here?”
“not long,” she mumbles.
his fingers are cold against her face, the slip of her hair over her eyes, and she flinches, it’s that space thing, that grace of avenues that mom left her with as she kept leaving her. she sighs and reaches for her keys.
“i don’t know you.”
edward doesn’t touch that. “he should tell you.”
she doesn’t tell jake. doesn’t see jake.
that summer, it’s too hot. and she leaves fresh, a week’s morning.
4.
there are boys in dartmouth, much to the delight of mom and her roommate, new-old friend, that’s already convinced that her solitude is a self-exile.
she writes jake, mailbox empty:
so, you’re a jerk. where are my letters?
bella dreams in blanks too much.
the first one, the real first one that she remembers, is two boys, a boy and another boy and she’s watching nothing happen. nothing that she understands - but there’s this eagerness of a choice, thick in her throat.
she wakes up. she’s cut her hand.
jake’s come, over the insistence of billy, which is prompted by bella guilting her father - she’s still got it - because he’s an idiot. but she bought the plane ticket, new job and all so that her advisor will stop bitching, calling to make sure that he’s coming.
“you’re annoying,” he scoffs.
she laughs until he’s here.
her roommate wrinkles her nose, long enough to leave them alone, and side-by-side and staring at their hands. she’s quiet. he’s sullen. and god, there are more marks, more scars, and she’s scared because it’s getting to her.
“what’s happening to you?” her lips are pressing hard.
his shoulders slump. “you wouldn’t believe me.”
they stay in.
watch hitchcock because there’s nothing else for her to say.
6 - 1.
it’s christmas again, mom’s in europe with phil and the excuse is, at least to save face, that they had thanksgiving.
she goes to jake.
he’s writing her, sure, but letters are odd things. there’s nothing to reveal. there’s everything to reveal. and she knows that there’s something that he’s hiding from her. and she can’t stand it. it’s driving her insane.
she slams her modern literature book on his knee instead of unpacking, her eyes dark and her mouth thin.
“i want to know.”
jake is tired. “no,” he says quietly, “you don’t.”
“i want to know.”
and here comes to the petulant child, eyes grim as she weeps for nothing that she understands. so she gives in, her hands folding over both sides of his face, her mouth covering his. she’s anguished, no base, but she’s kissing him and she means to kiss him, the sense of desperation folding forward because it’s scaring her that he’s not telling this to her and it’s important.
his mouth stays closed. “bell.”
she’s breathing heavily. “jacob.”
he takes her hand.
over the morning, it’s snowed.
it’s darker at night, her feet loose in her boots as he drags her into the woods, back behind her house. she doesn’t know what’s going on and her heart’s started to slam against her chest.
“jake.”
he’s firm. “you wanted to know -”
it changes everything.
there are no words -
his body rips, her eyes wide for the scream, and there’s a snarl over flesh. she sees fur, jolting back as jacob isn’t jake anymore. she stumbles back, slamming her knee into something and scrambling to the tree.
it’s a wolf. and it’s silent.
she doesn’t see him for days.
when you’re ready is a blank email, one more, after economics reading, days before going back, and she’s half-asleep so that she has to blink several times.
she hesitates -
i’ve been waiting. but she gets nothing back.
cullen scares the hell out of her.
he appears, one morning, a quiet walk to the market because the truck’s ancient and dad’s charlie forgot the snow tires.
“you’re not exactly little red,” he calls.
she stops, her eyes dropping to his mouth, to the slide of his tongue against his lip and she’s colder, her hands steady in her jacket.
“everybody has their secrets too,” she calls back. thoughtfully, shivering.
the library spills the legends, old legends, tribal stories and page after page, she’s starting to manage with wolves and the walking dead, outside all of this super-reality. she rubs her eyes.
and misses him.
5 + 1.
the last time she sees jacob black is somewhere between the sighing of spring, the end of winter and sudden ties to forks.
she’s getting busy, the old excuse and he repeats it:
“you’re getting busy,” he points out, on the steps of her dad’s porch, knee to know, his hands are shaking and they’re not talking about that, “i just - i need to get away for a bit. on my own.”
she stares at her hands.
“i won’t see you?”
jake sighs softly. “no.”
she thinks about asking him for dinner, just for a little longer, but she really doesn’t understand the circular sensibility to any of this. maybe, at best, it should stay that way. maybe not.
“will you try?”
he hesitates. “maybe.”
and he’s lying for her, already, but she takes it because she needs it. she brushes her mouth close and sighs.
“okay.”
she wants to tell you that he kissed her.
really. she wants to tell you. but they sat, still, and stood, still, as they moved to his car and to the things in his car.
bella remains tall, even in the memory, as his palm brushes against her cheek. his hand is shaking and she’s confused about his confuse, helpless beyond a why? and leaves it just like that.
“i’ll write,” he says softly.
she snorts, her throat burning. “liar,” she mumbles, “liar,” and she’s not really paying attention to the quiet laugh.
he presses his thumb to her forehead, her eyes closed as it drifts through her hair, down to her neck and shoulders. it’s the closest they’ve been -
this is what she gets.
+
some notes:
• i have absolutely no idea where this came from or why. so yeah, yeah, start the making fun. i know some of you are like “HAHHAAHAH.” *grins* maybe, i’ll shoot for a sequel and with WANKING. because sex is all ‘oh noes’ in this fandom, apparently, or so i’ve been told.
• special thanks to randomneses for subjecting me to an entire night, after drinking, to edward cullen’s venom sperm a la fanfiction. net. also to anythingbutgrey for being charming and encouraging and adorable. and for the rest of you lot coming out and admitting that you read it. *is amused*
• why did i pick an au? probably because i’m more bemused by the current state of the story in my mind. i was automatically annoyed by the first person pov and then the source of true lurve, a la edward/bella and the lack of development, etc, etc. so she missed her plane. *laughs* and i might sequel this sequel. who knows?
• oh and yes, i’m well-aware of the fact that this is 2700 words. shut up.