Those Sad Eyes (Weren't Made For You) PG-13 (Edward/Bella)
Title: Those Sad Eyes (Weren’t Made For You)
Author: tmt_catalyst
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Five years after an Eclipse where Edward asked Jacob to take Bella into hiding.
Spoilers: Eclipse
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. Title is from a song called “Brooklyn, I’m Calling." And one of Jacob's lines is from "The Park" by Feist.
Those Sad Eyes (Weren't Made For You)
You expect to go somewhere warm, somewhere bright and sunny where you’ll at least be safe between dawn and dusk. You tell yourself you’d be calmer if you had, because you wouldn’t spend every moment checking over your shoulders, wondering if the dull grey of the London sky hid a monster.
When you’re honest, you know you’d be even jumpier in the sunlight, where any sparkle could mean he’d changed his mind. That somehow he’d finally realized he loved you in the desperate, needy way that you still love him.
You know they won in the end. You don’t know what - or who, a quiet voice reminds you - it cost them, but you know without a doubt that Victoria and the newborns are dead. Otherwise, she would’ve found you by now. Otherwise, the sizable checks you receive in the mail every month would’ve never started.
Jacob doesn’t show those to you anymore, though. Not since you tore the first to shreds and cast it out into the mist that seemed to linger late into the early fall mornings. You want nothing from them, but your quaint check from the local pub won’t pay for the flat that the two of you share, and Jacob doesn’t even bother trying to find a job.
You fought with him in the beginning. You’d taken your passport and made it two steps closer to the door than you thought you would before he threw you over his shoulder and deposited you onto the small futon he usually slept on. He had your passport in his pocked before you’d registered that it was missing from your fingers.
He doesn’t want you to come back, Bella, he’d told you, his voice full of sympathy, but holding a twisted piece of hope. Why do you want someone who just… leaves you like this?
You stormed out then, your eyes blurred with tears as you found your way to Kensington Park. It was early evening by then, and a chill was setting in, but you curled up beside round pond, heedless of the dew soaking through your jeans.
You’d gotten those jeans from Alice. You wanted to grab fistfuls of grass and rub the stains deep into the fabric, believing that somehow, she’d know. She’d know and she’d come at least to tell you what a ridiculous, fashionless bum you are. But she would come, and somehow, you told yourself, you could fix things. If only one of them would come.
They never did, and the years strung together, one long, bleak excuse for living.
…
You still speak to your father, but you know it’s less often than he would like. He thanks you once for the phone cards you keep having delivered, tells you they’re unnecessary, and it takes you longer than it should to realize who’s been sending them. You want to tell him to throw them out, but you love hearing from him too much to go through with it. His voice is something you can cling to from that brief moment when your life was perfect.
You assume your mother gets the same treatment, but she calls less than your father. Apparently she’d seen something on your brief visit with Edward, and Jacob was no comparison. Over and over again, you remind her that Jacob is just a friend, that you’re no more than roommates, but she’s spoken to him twice and knows that he still loves you. She still believes in true love and fairytales, just not matrimony and commitment. She thinks you’ve chosen this life, so far from home and with a boy who can’t possibly make you happy enough.
You don’t have the heart to tell her the truth. Next time, you promise yourself. Next time you’ll correct her.
Maybe, by then, you’ll be able to admit it to yourself.
…
You grow to love the parks, and your ambling late afternoon walks become commonplace quickly enough. In the spring, you curl up on a lawn chair beside the round pond, a few loose pounds in your pocket in case you don’t see the collector before you can evacuate the seat. In the fall, you just wander aimlessly. Your time in Forks didn’t exactly make you impervious to the rain, but you notice the drizzle less now.
You love the Peter Pan statue and Princess Diana’s playground. When you don’t work the closing shifts at the pub, sometimes you come in the morning, when they let adults in without children. Everything there is fantastical, something pure and extraordinary in the center of reality.
It reminds you of what life used to be.
. . .
Jacob changes less now. He still hears the pack when he’s a wolf, and you realize he’s been trying to block them out since you left Forks. Something about that makes you uncomfortable, but you don’t question him on it. You also realize he probably knows exactly what happened after you left, but you don’t ask him about that either.
You’re nearly twenty-three, and he’s full grown and somewhere just a touch older than you, and you can see him trying to come back, to be normal for you. He assumes that’s what’s between you, that it’s the reason you’ve never let him take you beyond friendship.
You used to love him, once.
Now your insides feel like ice, and love is all you need to thaw it out.
You don’t know how to make that feeling come back. You think things might be easier if you could.
. . .
You haven’t seen a real summer in so long that you grow to love the winter. At least it is what you expect it to be, and the city comes alive when the temperature drops. You have your name on a list for every outdoor skating rink in town, booking your weekends from November through Christmas. You waste an entire paycheck buying tickets for the Ferris wheel in the park so you can ride it each Friday it’s open.
You don’t tell Jacob, but you’re sure he knows. You shiver from the chill of the empty seat beside you, and it’s so familiar that you feel the burn of tears in your eyes as you step off the ride.
You pull a scarf tighter around your face and ignore the unsteady beat of your heart that briefly reminds you what happiness felt like.
. . .
The first time it happens, it’s hailing. You’re on a bench near the pond, shivering from the breeze and the pellets that gently assault every piece of bared skin. It’s not much of an attack - you’re bundled in scarves and gloves and sweaters all the way to your eyes.
It’s his eyes you see, though you know it’s improbable. A flash of dark, honeyed amber catches you, and you know without a doubt that he’s there. In a blink the image is gone, but your heart flutters unsteadily in your chest for the rest of the night. When you go home to Jacob, the slight quirk of his eyebrow tells you he can hear the uneven beat, but you brush the question away thoughtlessly.
Fleetingly, you wonder about taking him there, asking him to confirm what you absolutely know you saw, but something stops you. The park is yours, and there’s no reason either of them should know where you go.
But it doesn’t surprise you in the least that Edward is the one who finds you first.
Jacob doesn’t even know that you’ve been lost.
. . .
You watch for him constantly. You didn’t realize, but you always have been; ever since he sent you away, you’ve been searching your peripherals for him. Now, for the first time in years, it becomes something conscious again. You actively scan crowds, hoping for the barest glimpse of his coppery hair or a flash of his too-pale skin.
Still, even with all of your effort, it’s nearly two weeks before it happens again. You’re at your pond, but the day is mild for a London December. The clouds linger, pale and dry, and you only shiver when the wind catches the fringes of your scarf and teases bare skin.
You see him in the trees, and the hundred yards between you suddenly feels like nothing. His eyes are endlessly black, radiating a dark, primitive hunger, and they bore into you. Your heart races.
The wind rushes by, and by the time it catches your attention, your scarf has been pulled loose and a strip of your bare neck is exposed. It takes a moment longer to realize that he’s downwind of you, and his nostrils flare as you watch him take in the rush of your sent. Impetuously, you tug the rest of the scarf loose, holding it by a corner as the wind carries it. The wind tugs the edges of your jacket, biting into your bare neck, but the shiver that runs through you has nothing to do with the chill.
You watch the same shudder run through him.
The hunger in his eyes is fierce and filled with a dark need, and you wonder if his bloodlust for your scent is still under control or if maybe time has reduced you to the bare, primal temptation you had been when he first met you.
A small but vocal part of your mind wishes that it had. You’ve been living this half life, and you’d trade it all for the feel of his lips against you again, even just for a moment, even if it was the last thing there ever was for you.
Almost as though he can read your mind - and you wonder momentarily if maybe he has that power over you now too - his expression turns troubled. Sense returns to his hungry stare, and just as you drawn in your breath to call to him, he’s gone.
You slump back into the bench, not realizing that you’d perched yourself right on the edge of it, unconsciously trying to close the distance between you. The wind hits you suddenly, but the chill is neither welcome nor comforting.
The scarf tugs at your fingers, and you stare at it for a moment before tying it to the bench.
Somehow, you know he will come for it.
. . .
Jacob notices you changing. However ignorant he’s become to your sullen state of being, he still notices the spark of life that returns to your eyes.
Or, you think bitterly, maybe he’s just noticed the sudden abundance of time you spend out of his company.
You don’t expect him to question you, though. This life you’ve both led is a walk-along, and he’s never bothered to question your moods before. So when he finally does blurt out his confusion, the bluntness of his voice surprises you. You realize it’s been years since he has said anything of real importance to you, anything besides questions of dinner or weekend vacations or what was on the television at night. His questions for the past years have all been in the form of inquisitive glances and the occasional defeated sigh. The sound of his voice, concerned and confused, is a shock to your system.
Suddenly, you’re seventeen again, and he’s the best friend you don’t love in quite the right way. The déjà vu of the moment startles you into an honest answer.
There’s a moment of stunned silence before he laughs, but you see a tension in his eyes that’s been gone for years. He turns from you, shaking his head in astonishment. His voice is low when he speaks, and though it’s mostly a comment for himself, you know he means for you to hear.
Yeah, because he’s the one who’d know where in London to find you.
He leaves, and you wonder if the bitterness in his voice is because he never came looking.
. . .
When Jacob begins phasing again, you aren’t entirely surprised. While he’d spent years telling you he was stopping because it simply wasn’t safe in the metropolis of London, you’d always known that you were the real reason. If he was going to stay with you, to begin to age as you would, he would have to stop being a wolf.
Part of you hopes his pack can still hear him, that Sam can still be the voice of reason in his head. You want them to tell him to come home, to tell him that you had been a waste of his time and efforts.
You want them to tell him the things that you can’t.
You never wanted him like he wants you.
You were never good for him, and they had always known.
. . .
You don’t expect to find him in your home. Of all the places you could run into him, somehow you never expect to find him on your couch, watching the recording of Graham Norton that you’d left on the Tivo. He must have heard you on the stairs - probably all the way from the street - but he pretends he only notices you as you walk in, and the room falls to a sudden silence when the TV clicks off.
You feel as though he must’ve turned you off as well, because you find yourself frozen in the doorway, your keys still in your hand and the door still ajar behind you.
It’s your name that finally breaks the spell as he drops it reverently from his lips.
Your keys fall from your fingers, and you drop your weight into the door, the latch clicking heavily as your body forces it closed. Only one thing is on your mind, and you’re so scared to speak that your lips tremble around the words.
Are you real?
He laughs, but the sound has little humor, and in the briefest of moments he’s in front of you, his hand hovering a hair’s breadth from your cheek. There’s a question in his eyes, and you wonder what he could possibly need to ask in that moment that would keep him from touching you. Your hand finds his, pulling him to you. Despite his superior strength, he falls into you immediately, one hand brushing over your cheek while the other finds your hip and draws you flush against him.
You don’t know when the tears come, but his lips are against yours when you feel them, and he pulls just far enough away to press your face to his shoulder, his arms enveloping you in the welcome chill of his body. His voice is a low melody, the words hitting you as meaningless syllables.
You don’t remember him gathering you in his arms or carrying you to your room, but when you feel him pulling back from you, there’s suddenly a pillow below your face. You cling to his shirt, ignoring the absolute knowledge that he can be gone from you in a moment and your feeble fingers will do nothing to stop him.
The whisper of his breath against your ear, and the sweet scent of his skin calm you.
I’m here, love. Rest.
A blanket falls over you, followed by the comfort of his stone arms. You have no conscious thought of sleep before it takes you.
. . .
You wake to the harsh, clipped tones of an argument. Though they could both speak and hear well below your range, the flat is small and their anger brings them to your level. You sit up, groggy from sleep and the sweet smell of Edward that lingers on your sheets.
In the doorway, you hover, trying to catch the snippets of their conversation, knowing they’ll fall silent as they see you. If they weren’t so angry, you’re sure they both would’ve felt your movement by now.
-lied to her… supposed to protect her.
You’re surprised to hear his velvet voice, darkened by anger. You expected this to come from Jacob, the righteous indignation and accusation.
I did! She’s been safe with me. She’s... You hear his voice trail away, and you’re baffled by the defeat in his tone. She’s still alive.
Those words seem to stick, to mean more to him than they should. You hear a whisper of breath as Edward expels every expletive he’s learned over the last century, too low for you to make out the distinctive sounds.
You jump at the crash that follows, and you know they’ve felt you as the room suddenly falls silent. You stumble into the room, surprised to find Jacob on the floor in the middle of the shattered remnants of the coffee table.
Edward is beside you in a moment, pulling you against his chest as he mutters constant apologies that you don’t understand. Jacob brushes himself off, but you’re surprised when he doesn’t instigate the fight. Instead, his whole body slumps in defeat, and he drops himself to the couch.
I never knew how to be what you wanted, Bella. His voice is a whisper, and the finality in it brings tears to your eyes. But I never wanted to know what I would do without you.
You still don’t understand, but you know this is his goodbye. Tears gather on your lashes, and you want to give him something, anything that you can.
I always wanted to be happy with you.
He trembles, and you see the wolf in him screaming to break through. Edward pulls you away, and somehow you know you’ll never see your friend again.
. . .
You expect him to lead you to the park, but he turns left instead of right, and you find yourself pressed against him in the corner of a semi-crowded tube. The chill of his body seeps into you, and you’re thankful for it on the overheated train.
When he pulls you off the train only two stops later, you stumble after him without thought. His arm around your waist guides you through the crowds, leaving you only long enough to slide through the barrier. He takes you again, and you gasp when you realize where you are.
He asks if you’re okay and you nod dumbly. If you had an indoor hideaway, Harrods would be it, and it shouldn’t surprise you that he still knows you this well, but it does.
I thought you’d like this place, he tells you softly. And I want to show you something.
You’ve probably spent months of your life here, but you still only know a few distinct routes through. You’ve spent hours hopelessly scouring for a door or an elevator. Edward, unsurprisingly, seems to know exactly the way, and he twines his fingers with yours, forcing you to follow his step.
You doubt there’s a direct route to anything here, but somehow, walking with Edward makes it feel less roundabout. He guides you subtly, leading you through the empty luggage showroom and the crowded Christmasland, past the pastel pink laundry machines and a pet shop with smushed-faced kittens. He brings you to a stop outside the chocolate bar, and his fingers brush your cheekbone.
You’ve got no color in your lips, love.
You get a table, and he orders you a Belgian hot chocolate, and a decadent cake that you are sure you won’t finish. He’s constantly touching you, his fingers brushing yours or pushing back your hair or brushing the length of your neck. You never want him to stop, but you’re chilled by the time your drink arrives, and you swallow it in hot, burning mouthfuls.
Your mouth is numb by the time you speak, and stress and confusion have voided any control you might’ve had over your words.
Why did you leave me?
A pained look crosses his face, and it kills you to see him hurt. You want to take back your question, to forget you asked it and force yourself to forget that he left, to just be happy that he’s here right now. For however long this might last.
But something in you wants to - needs to - know what happened. Why you’ve been so easy for him to toss aside again and again. How he’s so willing to hurt the both of you over and over.
I thought you were leaving me. His voice is quiet, and you can tell that the words have tortured him.
Three seconds of confusion, and then your blood pounds furiously in your head, adrenaline filling your limbs as pure, unadulterated rage fills you. He must hear it in the beat of your heart, because his hand falls on yours. With that touch, a begrudging calm settles over you.
But you told Jacob to take me away. You whisper the words, your heart warmed and broken in the same beat. Your best friend betrayed you. He’d taken the one thing you’d ever wanted more than life itself.
You were always supposed to come back when it was over. I saw… He pauses, the words seeming to cause him physical pain. I saw that you kissed him. That… that you love him. When he said -
Not like that. Your whisper is a plea, and your hands clutch his frantically. Never like I love you. I never wanted him like I’ve always wanted you.
His palm turns up, weaving his fingers through yours. I know now. He smiles, a bittersweet, melancholy mockery of a smile, reflecting all the years between you, all the things you don’t know about each other now. He pushes the cake toward you. Eat, love. We have all the time in the world to talk.
And, for the first time in years, time seems like a gift.