A/N: Three different takes on Bella's first interaction with Jacob after she changes (ignores Breaking Dawn). Because I couldn't decide on just one.
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One: Ending
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You find him at First Beach, and because it's him you don't think about treaty lines or mortal enemies when you see his dark eyes take in your pale skin.
You see the way his lips purse together and his fists clench, and for a second you think maybe he'll phase and maybe he'll kill you and all of this, everything, all the wasted friendship and kisses and heat will end. But he has always had more control than you (than Edward), and the hard mask that covers his features is one hundred times worse than anger.
"Jacob, I'm sorry," you breathe, and the words are rushed and clumped together. He nods, a single, fluent gesture—practiced, precise.
His eyes reach yours and in the moment it takes him to breathe in, every word that has every meant anything to you rushes through your head. "Sure, sure."
You stare at each other for the longest second and you try to remember what humanity feels like. It has only been four days since you took your last breath but it feels like four hundred years since you were alive. The dark-haired children in your fantasies (because that's what they are now, just myths, the same as the ones you've grown so used to hearing) have disappeared along with the blush in your cheeks.
"For what it's worth," you say, and by then he has already turned around and all you can see is his brown-skinned back—broad shoulders and the lines of bone and muscle. You watch the sun catch on his dark hair and even though he doesn't sparkle, he's still pretty goddamn beautiful. "I do love you, Jacob." The last word catches on your tongue in its truth. "Forever."
He doesn't look back at you as he lets out a low, crooked laugh. It stings your heart and his rough voice is bitter when it reaches your ears. "Love. It always ends with love."
He starts to walk away and you watch the footprints his bare feet leave in the sand.
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Two: Names
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When you knock on his door, you didn't really expect him to open it (the same way you didn't deserve his heart when he gave it to you, or your life when he saved you from drowning, or immortality when all you wanted was him). But he does.
He looks you up and down and not for a second does he seem surprise. His nose bunches up when he sniffs the air, and the grin that you love so much spreads across his face.
"Man, Bells, you stink."
Your body takes over and suddenly you're wrapped in his (almost) unbearable heat, in his copper arms and big hands. His wide mouth is pressing against your own cold lips and he doesn't seem to mind that you're made of stone.
You mumble your apologies as your clothes fall to pieces, ripped and too-fancy and not you: "So stupid," with the clink of buttons on the hardwood floor; "Wrong choice," as the zipper on your dress breaks in three; "Always you," as your body touches his on the mattress, fitting together like the puzzle piece you were always missing (the hot to your cold, the soft to your hard, the life to your death).
His voice is low and urgent and he is still sixteen-year-old Jacob Black, the happy one, the sun—but now he has grown up and you know that if you were to add up the ages, he would be the one on top.
Because you were irresponsible and head-over-heels, and you didn't listen to reason (reason meaning life, reason meaning him, reason, for once, meaning love). You listened to the call of your blood and the sweet midnight legend of immortality—of Romeo and Juliet.
You know now that you're not going to end up with Romeo, but the feeling inside you tells you that Jacob's no Paris, either.
And that's okay. Because even if you can't have the future you were meant to, at least you have someone to keep you warm.
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Three: Gone
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You call him up two months after you're changed, and you know that he knows when he hears your voice.
"Bella," he sighs. His own voice is resigned and it seems like he's had time for acceptance, but the sadness leaks in even through the shitty reception.
"Jake, I…" you trail off and can't seem to finish, even though you've been practicing your line for days now. "I was…wrong."
It's quiet except for the faint static of distance, and you imagine him sitting at home in La Push, the long cord of the phone wrapped around his finger, the white plastic pressed against his hot skin.
"Bells…" he begins, filled with the same hesitation as your own words, and even before he speaks you know that something isn't right. "Honey, I—" your skin tingles with the simple, forgotten nickname, and your hand tenses around the small black cell. His pause seems to take forever before he finally lets out a harsh breath. "I imprinted, Bella."
"You…that's…" you struggle for words, because it's so strange, not unexpected but hopeless and sad, and you're trying to think but your mind is cloudy and slow. "When?" you ask, then, because it suddenly seems so important: "Who?"
"Does it really matter?" he asks, and you know he's right.
"I guess not." You feel overwhelmingly foolish and clumsy, something you were promised you would never feel again. "Um, you know, Jake…forget it," you mumble. "I should just—"
He interrupts you and his voice is softer, deeper now. It reminds you of a time not so long ago (of the dreams you can no longer have). "I still love you, Bella," he says into the receiver. "I'm sorry you're dead."
Out of context, the words seem scary and wrong. But in your world, right now, they are the perfect, stinging truth.
"Yeah," you mutter before hanging up the phone.
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END