Summary: Bella changes some things. Maybe for the better, maybe not. But more importantly, she realizes there's no living "happily ever after" when you can't even live. And she realizes there's a time when it's too late to change the things that matter most.
A/N: Takes place during/post Breaking Dawn; heavy on the angst; inspired by the song "Return" by OK Go.
Disclaimer: I do not own the OK Go song "Return", nor any of these characters owned by Stephenie Meyer, etc., etc....
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Return: Part IThe first time he sees her, he dies. And the second time is similar. The third time is not as bad. Not as bad, he thinks, but bad enough.
But the first time he sees her, redness blinds his eyes. Bile rises to his throat. Tremors shake his body like he's a human earthquake. He feels like he'd just been punched in the gut—well, no, that's not exactly a good comparison. (He wouldn't have been hurt in that case.) No, he feels more like he'd just been run over by a semi-truck. Like a knife had been repeatedly stabbed through his heart. Like someone had taken anything and everything that ever existed or mattered in his life and flushed it down a toilet, never to return.
He excuses himself from the room, calmly, collectively, under control. He even manages to stop shaking for her sake, no one else's, of course. Several pairs of eyes follow him, he knows that; but he can only actually feel one of them burning a hole through his back with a liquid, blood-red stare. Those pair of eyes were the only ones that mattered—the only ones that would ever matter—the only ones he kept himself alive for. And now they belonged to a monster.
When the door closes behind him and he's alone with himself on the outside, not five seconds pass before he's vomiting his entire stomach into a nearby bush (which, ever so conveniently, happened to be stationed right outside the Cullen's lair). Stupid fuckers, he thinks, oddly smug, as he continues to puke.
The retching doesn't stop, nor does the pain. Moments pass and he finds himself finally dry-heaving, having nothing left in his stomach to get rid of. And the only thought that comes to mind as he catches a glimpse of his guts on the Cullen's yard is not irrational—definitely not!—so he doesn't feel guilty in the slightest bit as his mind screams yet again in the strangest, smuggest way, Fuckers deserve it, damnit!
It shakes his body in an awfully painful way, shakes his body so hard, he's sure he could literally fall to pieces any moment.
But he doesn't fall to pieces, not literally, and the next second he has four legs and is running umpteen miles per hour through the forest, not seeing anything and not wanting to ever see anything.
A few miles away, he regrets running in the first place. (He slows.) Why hadn't he beaten the shit out of Cullen right there on the spot? Honestly, was the matter with him? Was he a coward?
Jacob Black was many things, but he wasn't a coward; right now just wasn't the right time, he decides. He'd get back to beating the shit out of Cullen later, once he collected himself and had calmed down enough to form coherent thoughts.
But what if coherent thoughts wouldn't do any good? What if he realized he probably shouldn't kill Edward if he was thinking properly? He didn't like the sound of that. He really wantedto kill Edward, wanted to kill him so fucking badly, so maybe he wouldn't have a chance later, so he considers turning around—but he doesn't turn around.
He realizes Bella will be hurt—more than hurt. But, geez; was he feeling guilty about feeding her a bit of her own medicine? He wasn't willing to just let things slide that made him feel the way he did just now. Definitely not. (All these thoughts about Bella were irrational, of course, but he wasn't willing to admit that.)
But the fact that he could never hate Bella no matter what she did makes him stop running right then and there. That fact was so painfully true, and he didn't know why. He had plenty of reasons to hate her. So many reasons. He realizes that he probably should hate her, a whole lot, in fact. But he doesn't hate her.
Geez, Jake, Embry's voice enters his thoughts. Calm down, will you? It's not the end of the entire world.
It might as well be, Jacob hisses back. Now fuck off.
Tsk, tsk, Embry laughs. Completely playfully. It angers Jacob to no end. You know Sam's 'rule'—no excessive cussing in your thoughts.
Jacob shakes his wolf head back and forth, head throbbing. And what if I don't give a fuck about what Sam's stupid 'rule'?
He sees Embry shrugging. Well, don't come whining to me when Sam lectures you on being all considerate and shit. I'm out.
And with that, Embry disappears from Jacob's head. No one else is there, strangely. Sam was supposed to be on patrol—wasn'the? Or perhaps Jacob had just lost track of time and was being completely idiotic.
A few moments pass as he stands there, in his wolf form and all, staring morosely at the half-moon. It's waning, he realizes, and he didn't usually take symbolism seriously, but the comparison of the moon to his life was really starting to freak him out.
Story of my fucking life, he thinks, and amazingly gathers enough will power to become human.
As soon as he sees his hands right where they're supposed to be (and feels the animal slowly ebb away, for now, to somewhere deep in his chest), he curls up on the frosty ground, crying and naked and cold and completely unconcealed in the middle of a clearing in the forest.
She doesn't try to find or follow him, and for this he is grateful.
---
Time passes. Not much time, but time all the same.
He tries to see her again, and then thinks better of it when he catches only a glimpse of her white skin through the un-curtained window of the white house she resides in by the river. The previous events of just a few months ago basically repeat themselves, only this time, he keeps on running, running, running—all the way to Southern Mexico, where he stays, only barely surviving. Insanity begins to creep into his mind. Thinking about anything at all makes absolutely no sense anymore, because what the hell's the point?
He makes no more attempts to see her again for a few years. But that doesn't keep away the image of her perfectly chiseled face, the only memory he has of her now, because everything else is gone. That image is burned right into his mind and the insides of his eyelids and within every bit of his peripheral and non-peripheral vision, with every single inch of her impossibly gorgeous face there and layered in excessive detail. So every time he closes his eyes, she's there. And every time he opens his eyes, she's there. And this isn't a good thing, not now, not like it used to be.
But he can't see anything else—he doesn't remember what she used to be like. Maybe, he supposes, that's because she's already thrown away anything and everything that ever mattered—anything that still matters (even if not to her). So he knows her only as being a monster, and nothing else. And he thinks so hard, hard enough to make his head throb with pain, but no matter how hard he tries to remember her real face (the one he knows used to be real), he can't think of it. And he can't think of anything else but the dangerous mask she now wears.
He's perfectly lonely, and she still doesn't try to find or follow him. And for this he is so enormously grateful.
---
"So, I know we've known each other for a while now," his girlfriend mumbles, "and I've really, really liked knowing you, Jacob, and we've had bunches and bunches of fun together and you're really, really hot" —at this, she giggles, while Jacob internally rolls his eyes— "and I definitely, you know, like you and stuff. But…"
This is the moment he'd been waiting for, for… how long had it been? Probably ever since the first month he'd known her. Erin was pretty great, sure, but she wasn't a goddess, either (unlike someone…, he can't help but think).
"…but, Jacob!" Erin continues, completely bubbly and apologetic at the same time. "I just think that… well, I guess what I'm trying to say is... Maybe it's time to… I dunno, like, see different people…? Maybe? Uh… yeah." Erin shrugs and looks adorable, just like how she did when he first met her. But no amount of adorableness could ruin this moment for him.
His response is very distinct and much too quick.
"Yeah, that sounds like a great idea!" he bursts, grinning weakly. Erin glares, suspicious. "I mean, well… if you think so." He erases the stupid smile on his face and pretends to look a bit disappointed.
She's not so observant, so she doesn't notice the unmistakable excitement and joy behind his fake grimace. "Great! That went smoothly. Then, well, I guess this is goodbye." She shrugs again, hugs him, says goodbye once more, walks away without a backwards glance, and starts flirting with the next hot guy that comes within range of sight.
Jacob really doesn't care much. He's not hurt, not regretful in any way. He doesn't get an unquenchable desire to run and hold her in his arms again, nor does he wish that he had gotten to know her better. He's quite glad he hadn't, actually.
What he feels at that moment is hard to describe, and he doesn't try to describe it. Well, it's not exactly happiness, and it's not excitement like his physical appearance might have suggested. Even as he smiles to himself as he watches Erin disappear around a corner to inevitably stay out of his life forever, he doesn't feel joy. Perhaps he was grateful he had one less thing to worry about—a girlfriend included.
Or, maybe, just maybe, he was happier for the girl than he was for himself. It may be that he was glad she didn't need to deal with him anymore. That was definitely a good thing.
But that's it. Another stupid, fucked up, miserable episode of his life—now over.
So what could possibly be next in line?, he thinks, not needing to fake a grimace this time.
---
The next time, somehow ironically, is at a party. A. Fucking. Party.
Why the hell did his life make no sense whatsoever?
He tries not to dwell too much on that, though. What he thinks about is how he was here only to keep an eye on Seth (and a few of his high school buddies), who still had an unreasonable and unexplainable attraction the Cullens. So, Jacob doesn't get why Seth wanted to go to a damn party hosted by the Cullens in the first place, because there's really no way to describe his hate for them (well, all but one of them, of course).
Jacob doesn't really question anything the little dude says, only insults him. So he wants to go to a bloodsucking party? Fine. So be it. Just please don't have one of them bitches ask me to dance is all he really prays for. Other than that, he doesn't care so much that the lights are flashing crazily and the music is way too loud, way too techno. He doesn't even care that Seth and his whole group is enjoying themselves—that everyone there is. He doesn't get upset about the fact that none of the silly humans there know what the hell the Cullens really are. He seriously, honestly and truthfully, does not care.
"Oh, God," he mutters again under his breath, under the loud roar of the music overhead. "Don't let one of those bitches ask me to dance."
Rosalie gives Jacob sarcastic sex eyes from across the room, with eyebrows raised suggestively. He tastes vomit in his mouth.
Thankfully, one of Seth's friends named Michael comes over to distract him from the hideous sight.
"Hey," Michael laughs, breathlessly, reaching for a cup on the table behind Jacob and overflows it with cherry punch. Jacob tries to remember that none of the friends Seth brought with him tonight are werewolves. They're just so… so scrawny. He can't say he's gotten used to being around Quileute boys that weren't absolute beasts.
"Name's Jacob, right?" Michael continues, sounding drunk although there isn't any of that stuff at the Cullens' place. Jacob assumes vampires can't get drunk, so what use had they for alcohol?
"Yeah," you reply, nonchalant, indifferent. "And your name's Michael."
"Yup," the boy hiccups. "Man, this party is hot. And that includes the girls…" He looks around, catching the eye of an especially cute girl and winks at her. The girl giggles and Michael takes another gulp from his plastic Dixie cup of cherry punch.
Of course, there are more than a few girls present at the party. It's as though the Cullens invited every damn person within twenty miles of this place. How in the hell did they stand to have so many humans in their house at the same time? What crazy reason had they for throwing a party and inviting a bunch of smelly teenagers, anyway? They just didn't make sense half the time. (And that definitely included every single one of them.)
"Ha," Jacob laughs once without humor. "Go make a move on one of 'em, then. That one was pretty cute." His voice is bored, kind of like an I-really-don't-give-a-fuck-about-your-love-life type of tone. Jacob rolls his eyes when the boy's not looking.
"What are you doing here, anyway?" Michael ignorantly asks, disregarding what Jacob had just said as though he hadn't just said it. "I mean, you're just standing here looking bored. You're not making a move on a girl. And you look kinda old to be at a party like this, anyway. So what are you here for?"
"Seth invited me," he says, and it isn't exactly a lie. Seth had chosen Jacob to take along to the bloodsucking party. It all amounted up to the same thing in Jacob's mind. "So I just tagged along. And the Cullens are kind of old friends of mine." Now that was definitely a lie.
"Ah," Michael says, nodding his head, not questioning the topic any further. A silence passes between the two of them (well, excluding the blasting music overhead) while Michael chugs down the rest of his punch and pours in some more.
"Holy shit!" Michael shouts very suddenly and excitedly, causing the drink to spurt from his mouth and down his chin and onto the perfectly clean, tiled floor of what Jacob thought of as 'The Fucking Ballroom, For God's Sake'. "Would you just take a look at her!" He points a shaking finger in the opposite direction of where Jacob is facing.
So Jacob turns around to take a look at her, even though he already knows who he's going to see. Who else could cause such a strong reaction from a fifteen-year-old hormonal boy?
She's stunningly gorgeous, of course. The shining, unnatural colored lights from above make a strange effect on her snow-white skin. She's sitting with her knees tucked up to her chest in a couch on the other side of the room, a part of the room where very few people occupy. Surprisingly, she wears nothing special, nothing flashy or fancy like the other bloodsuckers in the room. A pair of sweats and a big T-shirt. That's it. And it is wonderful.
Edward Cullen sits by her side. He holds her delicate little hand, rubbing over it again and again with his thumb in a way that was probably meant to be comforting. Bella looks anything but comforted.
Her expression is frightened. Scared. Sad. To all other eyes, it probably made her look sexier, and that's probably the expression that caught Michael's eye. But to Jacob (Jacob, who could see right through any and all façades Bella had ever had and ever would have), that look on her beautiful face shot a pang of sorrow through his heart. His body threatens to yet again repeat what had happened the first and second times he'd seen her this way. He manages to control himself, though, despite the dark topaz eyes that stare right through his soul.
And that's when Jacob realizes that she's looking at him. Intensely so. It changes when Jacob stares right back her, completely captivated and mesmerized by the overwhelming and sheer beauty presented before him. Her eyes squint up the slightest bit; her mouth parts in a way that is hardly noticeable. Her eyebrows rise just a little bit and her hand, the one that is held in Edward's, begins to tremble. Edward's mouth moves, murmuring words much too quiet to hear from where Jacob stands, and his lips press against Bella's temple.
She flinches.
She then finally looks away from Jacob and devotes all her attention to the leech at her side.
The encounter—if you could actually call it an encounter—was short, probably only a few seconds, but in that short time, Jacob sees something that he never thought he could believe ever again; Bella's life wasn't really all just about Edward, was it? The way she reacted to his touch obviously showed that.
Michael interrupts this revelation much too early.
"Holy shit," he repeats, suddenly sounding beat. "Did you see that? She was totally giving you sex eyes, man! You know her?"
Jacob manages to wrench his eyes from Bella to look at Michael, an irrational feeling of anger taking over his entire body. Hell, it wasn't the kid's fault he had absolutely no clue about Jacob's situation!
"Yes," he replies stiffly. "I know her." It was the largest understatement of the century.
"Dude," Michael continues to swoon. "How much do you know her?" There's a mischievous glint in his eye.
"I know her enough," Jacob spits, looking down at his feet.
"And how much is that?" The kid just doesn't know when to leave something alone, does he?
"More than I know myself," he says, "which, by the way, is not too much. I don't think I know her anymore, though." His eyes squint together at this terrifying possibility.
Michael chuckles. "Guess you've done it, then," he says before taking another huge gulp from his cup.
"Done it?" Jacob hisses dangerously.
"Sure," he replies, shrugging. "You know, done it. Please don't tell me you're probably ten years older than me and don't even know what doing it means." He rolls his eyes.
Little did Michael know that Jacob was probably about only one year older than him—only sixteen, in fact. Sometimes even Jacob didn't get how he could be so young, yet so incredibly old at the same time. He decides that mental age definitely mattered more than physical, even if he did look roughly twenty-five to all other eyes.
"I know what it means," Jacob whispers loudly, his voice seething with annoyance. "And no. We are not doing it. Go mind your own fucking business." The last part is said a bit quieter so that Michael wouldn't be offended.
"Fine, fine," the boy says, tossing his cup in a nearby trash can and simply walking away.
"Annoying kid," Jacob mutters under his breath, going back to looking at his feet like he'd been doing before Michael had shown up.
Minutes pass and he realizes he can't take it anymore. He carefully picks out Seth in the midst of all the sweaty, dancing teenagers, and vehemently whispers in his ear, "I'm leaving now. You can take care of yourself, can't you?"
Not waiting for an answer, Jacob whips around and heads toward the door. Thinking twice before exiting, he makes his way back toward the refreshment stand placed against the wall where he had stood the past two hours.
Doing it quickly so he doesn't have time to change his mind or realize he is being completely immature and stupid, Jacob spits a large wad into the nearly half-full bowl of fruit punch. He stirs the newly-contaminated liquid with the tip of his finger for thoroughness and dries it by hastily rubbing his hand on his jeans. Not giving what he'd just done more than a second look (and not looking towards the couch in the corner of the room, either), he flips around on his heels to leave.
Then he literally bolts out the door and away from the crypt of hell behind him.
---
Jacob realizes that things change over time. He gets that, he really does. But some things never fail to surprise him.
Rosalie saw what he'd done at the stupid party, and made sure that his "stupidity had no effect on the stupid humans" by dumping out the bowl of punch containing Jacob's spit and quickly replacing it with a better beverage than there'd been before.
How does he know all of this took place? Well, quite literally, Rosalie had stalked him down to take him on guilt trip of "spiking the punch", which had not taken a toll on Jacob's conscience. He couldn't care less who had drunk his spit—that was the point he'd done it in the first place, but it apparently had not worked.
She encounters him in the forest one night. All a planned visit, of course.
"I just think that, for someone so old, you'd at least have the sense to act your age at a teenage party," Rosalie sneers with distaste. "Honestly, Jacob? Spitting in the punch? Geez, I sure haven't heard of that one before." Her voice is layered thick with sarcasm and haughtiness. She rolls her eyes.
"Why the hell does everyone think I'm so old?" Jacob yells, disregarding her lecture. "I'm fucking sixteen, for crying out loud!"
Rosalie's sneer grows wider, if possible. "That's just what you think. Have you looked in a mirror lately? When was the last time you celebrated your birthday? And why in the hell do all you mutts think you never grow a day older? Because that's not exactly what I've seen over the past few years, observing you."
Jacob grimaces. "First of all, don't mention observing me ever again or I am quite liable to barf in your bitchy face. Secondly, I suggest you wait a few more decades, and then you'll see what we mean when we say we don't get any older."
Now Rosalie frowns. Jacob feels proud as he realizes he struck a nerve. She leans in dangerously close to his face, only a few inches away, and her voice grows deadly. And he just smiles wide, standing his ground. "You don't know who you're dealing with, dog. I suggest you take that stupid smile off your face or I'll slap it off. And by slap it off, I mean I may accidentally remove your head in the process." She smiles innocently. Jacob mimics it.
"Nice to know," he replies simply. "Now, I'd appreciate it if you'd step away now." He grabs a hold of his nose in exaggeration and pretends to gag on the stench. (Maybe he wasn't pretending. She did smell pretty damn bad.)
Rosalie gives Jacob one more killing look and leans away. "Don't threaten me, Jacob Black." She flashes an impossibly perfect white smile, showing all of her pretty-fucking-white teeth, and dashes away the same way she'd come, quickly disappearing within the shadows of the trees. Like a ghost. And when she's gone, Jacob's smile disappears. He's alone—again. He'd rather grace the presence of a snobby bloodsucker than be the only one residing with himself.
"Bitch," Jacob mutters at Rosalie's departure, more out of habit than sincerity. He sighs, and then regains his wolf form more easily than he'd been able to in a long time.
---
She comes looking for him, finally.
Of course, being a vampire and all, Bella was susceptible to amazing senses—and, included in that, the ability to track down Jacob with her nose from more than twenty miles away. And that's just what she does, when the guilt finally overwhelms her.
She'd already heard of his move to Tacoma, and she understands exactly why. It was far enough away to not be tortured by the proximity they had to each other, and close enough so that he could get to her without going very far, or perhaps it was reciprocated—because, in this case (while Bella forlornly drives toward her destination), it definitely was. She was the one who needed to see Jacob now, not the other way around. (Although she couldn't be sure how Jacob felt about her now.)
The reason she was driving rather than just running was not something she liked to think about. Because, if she was being honest with herself, running at an average of sixty miles per hour when she probably would have been running at an average of ten did no good to her mental stability. Especially due to the fact that the word "if" and the phrase "would have" had become her largest enemies. Thus, Bella doesn't like running too much. Or walking, for that matter. Hell, Bella doesn't like to do anything that could quite possibly cause someone pain—because, lately, that's all she does—hurt people. There was nothing else anymore, and nowhere she could go to escape the guilt. Or at least she believed so. But that's why she was on this trip in the first place—to try and find some piece of mind, to try and fine just one person that could accept her no matter how awful she was, and prove her wrong.
But what if Jacob doesn't accept her? How can she possibly live with herself if she knows that the one person she thought she could always depend on was no longer there for her? What if being killed by a monster—and no less, her best friend—suddenly seems like a very appealing idea, if she has no one and nothing else left to live for?
Bella tries to push all of these negative thoughts to the back of her mind, but it's difficult, now that her mind is able to think of all sorts of things at the same time. It's like a curse, she thinks. An inescapable curse…
Although she her dislike to go at fast speeds was still quite prominent, Edward would not let her escape home without a ridiculously fancy version of a car—and was he was still reluctant about her escaping otherwise—which she still thought was completely and totally unnecessary. Right now, she drove a sleek and white Audi R8, with so many shiny and flashy features she thought she'd never use. There was never a time when she missed her red Chevy truck more than she did now.
She catches a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. Her golden eyes are piercing, a not-so-nice-touch to her already exquisite features. Bella hardly ever wears makeup (and still doesn't), but it very much looks like she does. Natural makeup, she thinks, that is definitely very unnatural.
Everyone else probably saw her as amazingly, inhumanly beautiful—the very same way she still sees all the other Cullens. And her outward features were extremely beautiful; that much she would not deny. Her insides, of course, were another story. But the only word that comes to mind every time she sees herself is unnatural. And it's all unnatural; every single thing about her is. So she quickly looks away from her reflection.
Around this time, Bella had already passed Port Angeles about an hour prior to where she was now and would near Tacoma in about another forty-five minutes. While she refused to go over the speed limit, at the same time she was more than a little bit anxious to reach her destination. But what would she do when she gets there? Will she need to start a conversation, or would Jacob do that…?
If breathing were vital in her case, she would have passed out that very second from lack of air. But she doesn't need to breathe, so (unfortunately) she doesn't pass out.
Only thirty minutes away now, and way too much on her mind, Bella decides to take a desperate measure and turn the radio on. A few channel switches to avoid the static, and now a song is blaring from the dashboard.
It seems wonderful at first, the song—there's heavy use of drums and what Bella classifies as screaming guitars. There's a bouncy, happy air to it. In all, it's easy for Bella to focus on the song rather than anything buzzing around in her head at the moment. And while it's loud (especially with the volume dial turned all the way clockwise), it still pacifies Bella.
Until the singing begins.
It's not that the singer has a bad voice, because he definitely doesn't—no, it's the lyrics Bella hears that cause her to cringe. She refuses to even comprehend what she hears until the second verse.
For a while, with the vertigo cured, we were alive—we were pure.
The void took the shape of all that you were, but years take their toll,
and things get bent into shape...
Antiseptic and tired, I can't remember your face.
Return.
The last word repeats several times, each time a stab to Bella's non-beating heart.
Return. Return. Return.
Bella hadn't returned. But now she is—the song couldn't blame her for that. She is returning, returning back to whom she knew she could trust with all her heart; she is returning to the one person who needed her to.
But Bella is frozen in her seat, and she can't reach over to the radio to turn it off. The song continues, and this time around, it's worse, even if Bella tries to convince herself that it's all just a coincidence.
You were supposed to grow old. You were supposed to grow old.
Reckless, unfrightened and old, you were supposed to grow old.
And it's him. It's all from his heart. It's Jacob yelling the words in her face, accusing her with everything he had. The worse part was that she couldn't deny any of it. She'd let him down; she'd betrayed him; she hadn't grown old, and still wasn't. And that was something she could never, ever take back.
And the song continues.
Return. You were supposed to re—
"Enough!" Bella screams at the radio, promptly pulling back her hand and thrusting it forward into the dashboard almost as hard as she can. The song abruptly cuts off, with a sound of electrical wires under pressure and sparks in its place. A large hole is present in the center of the radio, looking dangerously close to a perfect circle going almost all the way through the car. The car still drives, though, but Bella turns onto the side of the road anyway. A few cars behind her honk at her sudden change in direction, and she receives a few fingers as they drive past her, annoyed. But she doesn't care.
Once the engine is cut and she's sure she's not in the way of hurting anybody with her hazardous driving, Bella leans on the steering wheel and begins to cry. She cries strangely like—well, like a vampire. No tears come out of her tear ducts. She feels no moisture fall onto her lap as she would have, if she were physically able to produce tears. But she's not, so the only thing she can do to cry is let the strange sobs shake her body, her every nerve, and it gets more and more painful with each passing second.
She finally gathers the strength to stop, just stop, because there's no use in crying when you can't even cry.
Only a few more seconds later, and she's on the road again. And this time, she doesn't turn on the radio (it's broken), and she doesn't try to not think dreadful thoughts (it's impossible not to).
And only a few minutes later, she sees the green road sign she hadn't expected so soon—"Tacoma, 1 mile", it reads.
What the hell, Bella decides, and pushes down the gas to go just over ninety.
---
Merry/Happy Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanza! (Yes, I know it's late.)
Expect part two (of probably three or four) very soon.