Author's Note: There are so few Rachel and Paul stories out there, I thought I'd try one. There isn't very much about Rachel or Paul in the Twilight books, so I'll probably end up making quite a bit of it up.. x]

Ooh, and just as a point, I know that when Rachel and Paul actually do meet, that Jacob would be older than sixteen, but Paul is also older than him and I needed Paul to be seventeen.

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight (:

Jailbait: Chapter One

Rachel's POV

The tiny house looked as it always did - tired, bedraggled and familar. I tried to avoid home as much as physically possible, it held way too many memories - memories of mum. I could almost see her now - standing on the doorstep, welcoming me home, a grin plastered across her beautiful face, arms outstretched towards me.

I blinked and the vision disappeared. I climbed out of my stationary car, closing the door gently. Taking a deep breath, I strode up the garden path and knocked on the front door.

"Rach!" I barely had time to register Jake's voice before I was swung up into a side splitting hug.

"Put me down." I used my big-sister voice, carefully Jake set me down on the floor.

Jeez, he was huge! He had shot up, he had to be well over six foot by now, he towered over me, and he had more muscles than a sixteen year old had any right to have. He seemed quite proud of them as well - he was wearing only a pair of shorts.

I reached out and hugged him again, quite wisely he didn't pick me up again, almost instantly I pulled away.

"Christ, Jake, you okay? You're burning up!" I laid one hand on his forehead, I had to stand on tiptoes to reach, he was boiling. Literally.

He scowled and ducked away, "I'm fine."

"Rach!"

"Dad!" Dad rolled himself into the narrow hallway.

"I've missed you." Tears shone in his big, wise eyes.

I hugged him, "You too, Dad, you too."

"Where's your stuff?" Jake cut in.

"In the trunk." I dug my keys out of the back pocket of my jeans and flung them at him. He caught them with ease and lolloped gracefully out of the back door. I watched him for a brief second - he was suprisingly agile.

"C'mon, Rach." Dad said impatiently, manoevuring his wheelchair back into the shabby sitting room.

I took in the room - dark, messy and dusty. Actually, that was an understatement. It was a dump. A thick layer of dust covered every surface, dirty plates perched precariously on the coffee table, empty pop bottles and pizza cartons littered the floor, the curtains were opened only a fraction, the television was on, but muted and something smelt.

"Does anyone ever clean in here?" I asked mildly.

Billy chuckled, "Well, it's kinda difficult to clean when you're in a wheelchair. And Jake, well he isn't in much."

"Right." I said, I couldn't say anything else for fear of screaming. Mum would never have let the place get like this, she was scrupulously tidy and always kept the house spotless.

Jake returned, noisily. "Christ, Rach. How much stuff have you brought? It's really heavy."

"You're a strong boy, you'll cope." I poked my tongue out at him. I heard him complaining as he lugged it up the stairs and dumped it in my room.

Well, my old room, and Rebecca's, my twin. We'd shared a room. Both of us had left home at eighteen, the minute we were no longer legally required to go to school, and neither of us had returned since. Now, I was twenty one and I had come home as a last resort, I had nowhere else to go.

"So, I'm just going to go unpack. Is Jake making dinner, or is that my job?" I teased.

"Well, if you're offering, Rach..." I jumped, I hadn't heard Jacob enter the room again.

"Fine. Go amuse yourselves then while I sort my stuff out." I ran lightly up the stairs and opened the door into the little room.

I shut the door behind me and turned around, leaning heavily against the door. It was the same.

Exactly the same.

In fact, I would put money on no one ever coming in here since me and Becky left. The floorboards were still painted white, twin beds each side of the room, stripped of bedclothes, the duvets folded neatly at the end of each. The window was in the centre of the room, with one bed each side, the window was closed, the pink curtains wide open. The bedside table doors hung open, completely empty. The huge shared wardobe was empty as well, a few hangers still there swinging mournfully.

I took in a deep breath and closed my eyes.

I saw her again, my beloved mother.

She was reading Becky and I a bedtime story, the curtains were closed, we were tucked up in bed, the bedside lamp on, illuminating everything with a soft glow. Becky was hugging a large pink unicorn - her favourite toy as a child, it was called Pinky, or something along those lines. Mum read slowly, putting on voices for all of the characters, I recognised the story - it was Snow White - Becky's favourite. Becky always did get her way - I had a temper, but her's was much much worse.

"Goodnight, girls." She closed the book and set it on the shelf, she kissed Becky's forehead and then mine. "I love you, always, my darlings."

"Love you too, Mum." I replied sleepily.

Becky yawned, "Me too." Her eyes fluttered close.

I opened my eyes, tears leaking from them. I sat on the bed - my bed - and cried silently. I cried for mum, I cried for dad, who tried his best to get on with life even though I knew he had never stopped hurting, for Jake, whi could hardly remember Mum, but still felt an overwhelming sense of loss, I cried for Becky, who still even now, had problems sleeping at night and, I;ll admit it, quite selfishly, I cried for myself.

When I had finished, I stood up briskly and wiped my eyes. I reached for the two black suitcases and assortment of bags on the floor and began unpacking, distracting myself with the menial task.

Around half an hour later, I'd finished. I closed the door behind myself and went downstairs, smiling brightly.

"Okay, what d'you guys want for dinner?" Dad and Jake were sprawled in front of some baseball game. I noted that they had not cleaned up any of the mess, opened the curtains and Jake hadn't put anymore clothes on, even though the summer night was getting cooler. I decided it was best not to comment on any of this, in case I got mad and started screaming at them.

"Erm... depends. Are you cooking a proper meal? Or are you just calling for take-out?" Jake demanded, the issue of food seemed to be very important to him - he'd actually sat up properly in his armchair and was watching me intently.

"I'll cook a proper meal. D'you go shopping? Get actual groceries?"

Billy laughed, "Sue Clearwater goes to the supermarket for us, once a month, we always have food in. Will you make lasagne?" Lasagne had always been Dad's favourite, when Mum had died Becky and I had more or less stopped cooking it.

"Sure, sure." I agreed, heading into the kitchen.

The kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it. Hundreds of empty food cartons (all take outs, obviously) lay on the worktops, spilling half chewed pizza crusts and pineapple chunks - neither of them ever ate pineapple. The whole room was filthy, except the oven which looked virtually new and suspiciously clean. Inside the refridgerator was a small chunk of cheese, a jar of pickles and something unidentifiable which was possibly, although not definitely, a tub of natural yogurt. The cupboards contained only cereal, a small lone loaf of bread and pretty much nothing else.

I stomped back into the living room. "I'm not making you dinner." I fumed. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, I'd promised myself before I'd even arrived that I wouldn't get cross or angry.

They looked up. "Why?" Jake looked heartbroken, "I'm starving." His stomach rumbled greedily, as if to emphasise his point.

"The kitchen is disgusting. There is no food in. I'm calling for take out, and tomorrow we, and that includes both of you, are going to clean this house up." I said firmly.

Jake moaned. Billy began to protest, "But, I can't -"

I cut him off, "Yes, you really can. Now where are those menu cards?"

Jake handed me them sulkily.