dreams, wishes, hopes
Summary: He's thinking of what ifs and would have beens and should have beens and it depresses him, yet makes him happy at the same time, in a twisted and cruel sense.
Timeline: Post-Eclipse, because Breaking Dawn doesn't exist.
Characters: Bella, Jacob, Edward
Couples: Jacob x Bella, Edward x Bella
Words: 741
Note: Because I need to write angst. And in present tense.
Beta-Read: None.
dreams, wishes, hopes
He sees her standing wearing all white and her hair put up into a bun and stiff, her face covered in makeup and junk and all he wants to do it rip the dress off, smear the gunk off, and have her then and there.
He's dirty and filthy, having just run there straight from god-knows-where, and she's staring at him, her mouth wide open. She obviously didn't expect him to show up, and he hopes she's glad he did. He hopes he'll let her hug her, if not kiss her, and wish her well—even though I don't, I don't want her to turn into a bloodsucker, one of them, dead and cold and lifeless and not my Bells—and let him lie to her face even though she may see through it.
He takes a step forward. She takes a step back before stopping, closing her eyes, and his heart aches and hurts because he's making this difficult for her and he never wanted that but secretly a part of him does. He wants her to stop and think and change her mind, to let him grab her and carry her to his motorcycle and to ride off into the sunset. They won't look back, they won't regret it, they would live happy ever after.
He knows that's not possible, but he still dreams, wishes, hopes.
Her eyes open and he looks into them, the brown burning his black, the life in them burning his soul, his heart. He takes another step forward, and this time she matches him, step for step. He meets her halfway, cups her cheek, and runs a thumb down her face. He almost feels her shiver—or maybe I'm imagining it, letting my imagination go wild, run away with my thoughts, my dreams, my wishes, my hopes, what I want isn't what's happening, what I dream, wish, hope, pleasepleaseplease—but she just looks at him. She bites her lip and he resists the temptation to just lean down and kiss her, kiss her like never before, not like that first kiss—angry and lustful and desperate—not like the second kiss—guilty and hopeful and invoking and unethical and cruel—and not like their should-have-been kiss—sweet, sincere, loving, careful, amazing—but a combination of all three. He wants to—dreams, wishes, hopes—but he can't, he knows he can't and she knows he can't.
"Why are you here?" she finally chokes out, and the tears start and he shakes his head firmly.
"No, don't cry Bells, please honey, don't cry," he whispers, low and husky, into her ear. He wipes away that first tear, the second, the third.
"Why are you here?" she asks again and he knows he needs to answer.
"You can't have a wedding without the best man," is all he can think of saying, and he hopes it's enough—enough to make her think twice, pick me, please pick me, pick me, pick me, pickmepickmepickme—but it doesn't seem like it so he adds, "and I wanted to tell you that I love you, Bells. Always will. Not forever, but close enough."
She whimpers into his chest—she's moved and I'm hugging her tightly and maybe this is enough, maybe finally she knows enough and she'll chose me—and he dreams, hopes, wishes, that this is a different scenario, with a better and happier ending. But it's not, and he knows it, and it kills him.
She lifts his head and his heart sinks, because her eyes are sad and red and angry and tense and it's hurting her and he hates it when she's hurt. "I'm sorry. I can't. You know that."
"Of course I do." He does, he knows, he knew it all along, but it still hurts.
She knows it, of course. Of course she knows.
He walks out of the room, into the hall, waiting for the blushing bride to say her vows, but his mind is thinking. He's thinking of what ifs and would have beens and should have beens and it depresses him, yet makes him happy at the same time, in a twisted and cruel sense.
When she walks down the aisle, she throws him a look—love, kindness, pity, lovelovelove—but she takes his hands, says her vows to him, and kisses him when she's finally made a wife, and he knows.
He knows they're only dreams, wishes, hopes.
Author's Note: Reviews are amazing, please.
And this is dedicated to Owlie, because she's just amazing like that.