Post by swivelcanines on May 4, 2008 23:18:12 GMT -5
((AN: Don't ask me. I don't know. It just came to me and was unstoppable.
And all my fics are this short, kay? I cannot help it.))
It’s daybreak at First Beach and the silhouette of a young woman shadows the sun from Paul’s eyes. He doesn’t need to wonder who it is. The cries and sobs of Sam again and again are telling enough. Each word, each time she utters his name in a broken gasp, a wound cuts itself into his chest. He’s never felt pity before. He’s never felt sympathy before. But if Paul knows one thing its how it feels to be left behind. Over time he’s grown numb to that fact but her wounds are new, fresh blood falling down her cheeks and swaying in rivers of pain that will turn to hate.
It may be too much to ask but Paul doesn’t want to see her grow bitter like he has. She’s older than him but more delicate, livelier. She has a future, had a future before the blood of their ancestors stole it away. It’s a good thing he knows why Sam had to leave her; if he hadn’t he would’ve been aflame with his anger and consequently would have phased into the fur, the rippling muscle over his old bones with new pink skin. Twice he’s phased and it’s torn him both times, sound in the fortress of his and Sam’s mind but soul still restless in it’s new harbor, filling out and twisting into the new places where before there was no where to touch. He’s a man now, Sam said, but he still feels like the helpless teenager he’s always been. Too old and too young simultaneously.
The rock is familiar beneath him; all of La Push is home and he knows every nook and cranny like the lines that traces over the back of his hands, scars from thrown beer bottles that cast green shadows, permanently staining his eyes. His past is a long hall of closets inhabited by bodies long rotted into the bleached bone skeletons. He’s let them fade from his thoughts but Leah’s, poor Leah’s, hers will sting for years to come. And that’s where the hate thrives. She’ll hate Sam and love him. He never would have known the two emotions could have existed beside each other if it weren’t for everything he’s gone through.
His arm is strong with the new muscles and it tightens around her heaving body, chin resting on the top of her head as she cries into his shirt. There is too much pain to wonder why it’s Paul there and not the person she wants. Paul is used to that, not being the one people want and he doesn’t know it yet but Leah is twisting her own knives into his side. He doesn’t know that her name will be the curse on his lips for years to come. And that’s the beginning of the pain. That’s the hate.
The kitchen is warm and filled with the sweetest aromas known to man; cookies, cupcakes, pastries filled with creams and muffins decorated with sugar sprinkles. Every confectionary imaginable has been created in this kitchen, mashed by Emily’s worn wooden spoon and looked over with her loving eye. She couldn’t be more unlike Leah if she tried, for Leah does not bake and she does not look at anything with an emotion even close to resembling love. Her face is so clear it could have been a mirror to Paul; the scowl, the glare, the arms crossed against the chest. Defensive, and she doesn’t even know it. Defensive against Emily’s superior baking skills and so much more.
They’re alone there one day by chance, Sam out with Brady and Emily shopping. It’s quiet and their love leaves nothing to linger, so Paul is forced to choke on the forced friendship instead of the affection Sam and his Emily share. They’re selfish people; they leave nothing for Paul to take and took everything from Leah. But they’re in love, and love leaves room for vices.
Being the stubborn girl she is Leah stands, hands on hips, and declares boldly, “I’ll cook. It can’t be that hard.” Emily can do it, after all he hears as if she said it. He frowns at her figure as she bustles around the kitchen, taking out this and that and murmuring to herself under her breathe, “one cup, no, two cups-“ and she’s deluding herself so deeply he wants to reach out and shake her. Say, you can’t be her. Like he can’t be Sam.
He wishes he could fool himself like she fools herself. Sadly, though, he knows what he does to himself. He’s a realist, not a moron. The saddest realist on planet Earth.
He laughs when she takes out the wrong type of vanilla extract and reaches past her, body achingly close, to reach the high shelf where the right one is. “Here,” he says, handing it to her with a smile.
“I could’ve reached it myself,” she snaps, brushing past him to measure the proper amount and add it to her mix, but his smile doesn’t lessen, just twists into something cruel and spiteful. Why he does this to himself, he’ll never know.
Leaning against the countertop, he watches her as she works, eyes never straying from the look of concentration from her face. He’s seen that face on Emily a million times and for once, she’s not a mirror at all, but rather a portrait of someone capable of healing.
They stare at the timer as the cookies bake and she comments lazily, “I hope you like peanut butter cookies.”
“Me?” he asks, turning to face her. “I love peanut butter cookies.”
Her glare is vicious. “Well, too bad, because they’re not for you.”
No matter how many olive branches he gives, she’ll always torch them.
It’s a split moment, a howl and a grunt, a flash of russet against white, and his world drowns out around him, drizzles of a fight that never mattered and an enemy that is his ally. It’s so still that he’s scared to move in fear that he’ll disrupt the fragile rip of time that his life hangs on, a small, silver thread of nothing and nothings that weave into the lives of others who mean little or less than his does.
It’s Jake, it’s Jake at the hands of the newborn, and his heart doesn’t start beating again until days later when she looks at him with fear in her eyes.
“It was almost me,” she whispers.
He’s fast, a wolf in the disguise of a man, speeds broken on paw and foot that could have never been achieved by someone human. His heart heals fast and it hates fast, too.
The look he gives her is cold and callous. “Yeah,” he says, and in it’s depths are the embers of every fire she’s started, the ashes of what was strung-out hope held by weary fists and let go just as quick, as quick as she started them.
His shoulder bumps with hers as he is the one to brush past and he’ll never say what he wanted to say to her; you’re the girl for me.
In a world without magic and monsters, there was Jacob and Bella, Sam and Leah. In a world full of treaties and tension there is Edward and Bella and Emily and Sam.
In a world without hate and heart there could have been Paul and Leah.
No such world exists.
And all my fics are this short, kay? I cannot help it.))
It’s daybreak at First Beach and the silhouette of a young woman shadows the sun from Paul’s eyes. He doesn’t need to wonder who it is. The cries and sobs of Sam again and again are telling enough. Each word, each time she utters his name in a broken gasp, a wound cuts itself into his chest. He’s never felt pity before. He’s never felt sympathy before. But if Paul knows one thing its how it feels to be left behind. Over time he’s grown numb to that fact but her wounds are new, fresh blood falling down her cheeks and swaying in rivers of pain that will turn to hate.
It may be too much to ask but Paul doesn’t want to see her grow bitter like he has. She’s older than him but more delicate, livelier. She has a future, had a future before the blood of their ancestors stole it away. It’s a good thing he knows why Sam had to leave her; if he hadn’t he would’ve been aflame with his anger and consequently would have phased into the fur, the rippling muscle over his old bones with new pink skin. Twice he’s phased and it’s torn him both times, sound in the fortress of his and Sam’s mind but soul still restless in it’s new harbor, filling out and twisting into the new places where before there was no where to touch. He’s a man now, Sam said, but he still feels like the helpless teenager he’s always been. Too old and too young simultaneously.
The rock is familiar beneath him; all of La Push is home and he knows every nook and cranny like the lines that traces over the back of his hands, scars from thrown beer bottles that cast green shadows, permanently staining his eyes. His past is a long hall of closets inhabited by bodies long rotted into the bleached bone skeletons. He’s let them fade from his thoughts but Leah’s, poor Leah’s, hers will sting for years to come. And that’s where the hate thrives. She’ll hate Sam and love him. He never would have known the two emotions could have existed beside each other if it weren’t for everything he’s gone through.
His arm is strong with the new muscles and it tightens around her heaving body, chin resting on the top of her head as she cries into his shirt. There is too much pain to wonder why it’s Paul there and not the person she wants. Paul is used to that, not being the one people want and he doesn’t know it yet but Leah is twisting her own knives into his side. He doesn’t know that her name will be the curse on his lips for years to come. And that’s the beginning of the pain. That’s the hate.
The kitchen is warm and filled with the sweetest aromas known to man; cookies, cupcakes, pastries filled with creams and muffins decorated with sugar sprinkles. Every confectionary imaginable has been created in this kitchen, mashed by Emily’s worn wooden spoon and looked over with her loving eye. She couldn’t be more unlike Leah if she tried, for Leah does not bake and she does not look at anything with an emotion even close to resembling love. Her face is so clear it could have been a mirror to Paul; the scowl, the glare, the arms crossed against the chest. Defensive, and she doesn’t even know it. Defensive against Emily’s superior baking skills and so much more.
They’re alone there one day by chance, Sam out with Brady and Emily shopping. It’s quiet and their love leaves nothing to linger, so Paul is forced to choke on the forced friendship instead of the affection Sam and his Emily share. They’re selfish people; they leave nothing for Paul to take and took everything from Leah. But they’re in love, and love leaves room for vices.
Being the stubborn girl she is Leah stands, hands on hips, and declares boldly, “I’ll cook. It can’t be that hard.” Emily can do it, after all he hears as if she said it. He frowns at her figure as she bustles around the kitchen, taking out this and that and murmuring to herself under her breathe, “one cup, no, two cups-“ and she’s deluding herself so deeply he wants to reach out and shake her. Say, you can’t be her. Like he can’t be Sam.
He wishes he could fool himself like she fools herself. Sadly, though, he knows what he does to himself. He’s a realist, not a moron. The saddest realist on planet Earth.
He laughs when she takes out the wrong type of vanilla extract and reaches past her, body achingly close, to reach the high shelf where the right one is. “Here,” he says, handing it to her with a smile.
“I could’ve reached it myself,” she snaps, brushing past him to measure the proper amount and add it to her mix, but his smile doesn’t lessen, just twists into something cruel and spiteful. Why he does this to himself, he’ll never know.
Leaning against the countertop, he watches her as she works, eyes never straying from the look of concentration from her face. He’s seen that face on Emily a million times and for once, she’s not a mirror at all, but rather a portrait of someone capable of healing.
They stare at the timer as the cookies bake and she comments lazily, “I hope you like peanut butter cookies.”
“Me?” he asks, turning to face her. “I love peanut butter cookies.”
Her glare is vicious. “Well, too bad, because they’re not for you.”
No matter how many olive branches he gives, she’ll always torch them.
It’s a split moment, a howl and a grunt, a flash of russet against white, and his world drowns out around him, drizzles of a fight that never mattered and an enemy that is his ally. It’s so still that he’s scared to move in fear that he’ll disrupt the fragile rip of time that his life hangs on, a small, silver thread of nothing and nothings that weave into the lives of others who mean little or less than his does.
It’s Jake, it’s Jake at the hands of the newborn, and his heart doesn’t start beating again until days later when she looks at him with fear in her eyes.
“It was almost me,” she whispers.
He’s fast, a wolf in the disguise of a man, speeds broken on paw and foot that could have never been achieved by someone human. His heart heals fast and it hates fast, too.
The look he gives her is cold and callous. “Yeah,” he says, and in it’s depths are the embers of every fire she’s started, the ashes of what was strung-out hope held by weary fists and let go just as quick, as quick as she started them.
His shoulder bumps with hers as he is the one to brush past and he’ll never say what he wanted to say to her; you’re the girl for me.
In a world without magic and monsters, there was Jacob and Bella, Sam and Leah. In a world full of treaties and tension there is Edward and Bella and Emily and Sam.
In a world without hate and heart there could have been Paul and Leah.
No such world exists.