Notes: There isn't any canon evidence that Jane and Laurent ever even met, so just take the story as AU.
Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight, New Moon, and any other spinoffs. No profit is being made off of this fanwork.
She has these perfect little freckles on her left cheek, he muses, and Laurent wants them all to himself.
He doesn't love Jane. Love would indicate some semblance of emotion, and he learned long ago that to be one such as himself, to lust for that feel of warm blood splattering on your throat and to sing for the black pleasure of that scream, that horribly beautiful scream as they realize that that's it, it's over, and that beautiful dread descends on them... The only emotion one can have, when one is like himself, is rage.
But she fascinates him. Button down dresses and sugar coated smiles and the faintest smell of when the wind is just right. She's a porcelain doll with a deadly smile, and she knows (god, she knows, and it makes him want to kill her and kiss her) that he watches her. She's told him before that she loves him, and then she laughs, and he knows that she doesn't. If she has any affection at all, it's towards her brother (take him crush him kill him), sneering little brat all decked out in velvet and silk, leaning into her as they stare at him across the courtyard, whisper something in her ear, and then the faintest, lilting, identical laugh from both of their mouths... It's insufferable.
Victoria says to ignore it. She tosses her hair and closes her eyes and smiles that knife-blade smile, and he wants to ask her if she misses James, but doesn't. Instead he scowls at her, and snaps that how can he, she's everywhere he turns, everywhere he looks, that glint in her eyes and that scent in her hair. Victoria opens one eye, drawls isn't he sweet, in love with a ten year old girl. (When he screams at her, she just laughs.)
He doesn't talk to her, and she doesn't talk to him, but there's this mutual feeling between them; passion and rage and hatred all wrapped up into one small bundle. Laurent wonders if it's that her blood sings for him, like those old human legends that the one that killed James was always prattling on about, him and his little human puppet. He wonders what her blood would taste like. Sour, most likely, sour and old and horrible, just like her.
And sometimes Laurent dreams, stretched out in the middle of the dark, that they're human. That they're young and beautiful and in love, and that Alec is dead and that Victoria is away, far away, and they don't know about anything but themselves. And she smiles at him, but not that knowing smile that whispers of dark places and dark secrets, only happiness.
And then he wakes up, and the sunlight streams through the broken roof, and he watches his skin sparkle and he feels his eyes burn, and in the morning she doesn't look at him, and he doesn't look at her, and his blood still hums and his soul still screams and somehow, someway, he goes on living.