The first time Embry thinks about turning the car around is forty minutes in - forty minutes of pressing the pedal as far down as it'll go, almost willing the cops to pull him over. The plan is a colossal mistake, after all; there's no way to break the imprint, and even if there was, it would destroy the tribe, and it would sure as hell blow up everyone's lives like a fucking modern-day Hiroshima. He knows it, Kim knows it, and he knows that Lex knows it. And still, she's asking for him to do the one most destructive thing he could possibly do.

Sometimes, she can be a real asshole.

It's times like this, the days when she makes him want to tear his hair out, that he thinks that imprinting on a girl like Kim would have been easier. Simpler. Kim rolled with the punches, letting the whole shape-shifting revelation wash over her like water off a duck's back, as if accepting Jared was as easy as breathing. Kim embraced her new life with pure enthusiasm, or at least, with a lot less trepidation than Lex. After awhile, most people tended to come to the realisation that sometimes, things just happened to you, whether you liked it or not.

He would have thought that Lex, of all people, would have realised that by now.

The needle of the speedometer twitches, edging dangerously close to an even one hundred miles per hour. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, welcoming the blackness with a little too much enthusiasm. Just like the truck, his life is careering out of control faster than he can correct, and, this time, there are no guard rails to protect him. Instead, he's strapped into a course of action, figuratively and literally hurtling towards an unavoidable wreck. None of it was meant to be like this; none of it was meant to hurt. She wasn't meant to hurt.

Imprinting wasn't meant to be like this.

Embry remembers the first time he'd heard about imprinting, when Billy had told them the story of the Great Fire in the summer of sixth grade. Like all great revelations in his life, it had taken place on the rocks of First Beach, though Embry wouldn't realise the significance of the land until years later. If he focuses hard enough, he can almost taste the smoky air on his tongue, feeling the same trepidation and wonder that had washed over him years ago. Jacob nor Quil had believed the tale, considering it to be yet another horrifying myth spun around the bonfire, but it had stuck with Embry regardless. He'd lay awake that night, staring at the cloth ceiling of the tent they'd pitched in the Black's yard, imagining himself as one of the warriors. What would it be like, seeing everything you loved and held dear burn around you? What would it be like to lose everyone you'd ever loved in one fell swoop? He didn't have too many people to die protecting, but the thought of adding one extra special person into the mix - the fabled imprint - was a little thrilling. Protecting the tribe was a sacrifice; the promise of a perfect love was a fair trade-off. Of course, none of it was real, he'd reasoned in his little sixth-grade mind, but part of him still longed to become a spirit warrior, if only for the romance of the thing. It seemed noble, admirable, even, a kind of legacy you'd want to leave for your ancestors.

Six years later, he can't help but realise how entirely wrong he was. He'd thought imprinting to be this incredible, revelatory thing, something that brought two halves of a whole together into some perfect union. The reality, though, was far more lacklustre. Sam and Emily had been the blueprint, and their complete failure to achieve that idealised romance should have sounded the mental warning bell. Sam had irrevocably harmed the person he was slated to protect above all, and how could you undo that? No amount of apologies and penance could take away the trauma created by one errant swipe of a monstrous paw. Jared and Kim were next, and though she had emerged physically unscathed, Embry couldn't help but think about her words from earlier in the day. In joining with Jared, she'd departed from herself, melding their personalities into one palatable approximation of two previously independent beings. There was no Kim, only KimAndJared, one super-being, a model of what life could be like if Embry could just imprint. Her without him didn't matter: life had become a dual effort, and their only option was to muddle through the mess.

And then there was Paul and Rachel. Nothing screamed selfless love like unconsciously guilting your partner into abandoning college in a far-away state to come home to the epicentre of their trauma, if only to satisfy some primal pair-bonding mechanism. You didn't have to be an expert to detect the shadow behind Rachel's gaze, a kind of dullness that reminded Embry of shades being drawn across windows. Rachel didn't need protecting - hell, she'd endured much of the worst life had to offer before she hit adulthood, and still, she came out better. Rachel was a success story: this is what you could have, if only you left the Rez.

God, he was starting to sound like Leah.

Still, Rachel didn't need chains holding her to La Push. She didn't need the pack, and she certainly didn't need Paul. Imprinting had dulled her shine, had killed her spirit, and for what? For Paul to be handed a kind of love that he wasn't nearly mature enough for, a sort of bond that he didn't really appreciate. It didn't matter that Paul didn't mean to do it - Rachel still deserved better, and with him, she'd never have it. The Elders always made imprinting sound like some sort of peaceful, unifying activity, but after witnessing the process, Embry was inclined to think the exact opposite. It was curse, really: it weaponised their gazes, driving fear into the forefront of their minds each and every time they cast their eyes upon a new face. How could you pursue another with the stomach-twisting knowledge that a single glance could rip your relationship apart like an errant bullet? Anyone thinking otherwise had only look to Leah to see the catastrophic impact the so-called divine intervention had. Witnessing her heartbreak in real-time had practically forced his hand into signing a mental chastity vow. Sure, he could fuck around, but he couldn't have anything real, nothing that mattered. Imprinting wasn't a certainty, but it wasn't worth the risk. Sacrificing his own happiness to spare another from heartbreak was the right thing to do, even if the loneliness ate away at him in the darkness. Choosing to comply with the imprint, even before it actually happened, was truly the only choice he had. All he could do was hope that fate dealt him a fair hand.

The notion of fairness only led him closer to the most pressing issue at hand, the underlying repulsion that pushed him further away from La Push and pulled him towards Jacob: Claire and Renesmee. Arguably, Claire was the only one of the imprints who really needed protection - she was young, hailing from a broken home that offered even less parental guidance than Embry had ever had. Even so, it wasn't fair on Quil. What business did a sixteen-year-old have in caring for a child twelve years his junior? The fool couldn't even keep their make-believe kid alive in Family Studies class - his battered sack of potatoes was a testament to his total carelessness - and, still, the Elders expected it of him. A mere glance had sent his future up in a puff of smoke, destroying any chance of having a normal, sane relationship with an outsider. How was he supposed to explain his over-eager investment in the life of a girl born in a different decade, and a non-relative nonetheless? Though the Elders didn't explicitly state it, their continuing emphasis on imprinting as the ultimate love had insidious undertones that resonated on repeat in Quil's mind. Did they want him to pursue her when she was finally of age? Was he slated to spend his life waiting around for her, fulfilling her every whim? It wasn't Claire's fault, but it was hard to look at the situation without a heady dash of resentment. He didn't have a choice. None of them did.

Jacob was the ultimate exemplar of what a lack of autonomy could do to a man. His choice was Bella, and she had quashed his dreams with recurring no's. That part was fine - Jacob was young; he could move on, devoting his life to some worthier cause.

And then Renesmee was born.

At sixteen, Jacob's life had become irrevocably intertwined with a newborn - the child of his first love, as if the situation could be made even worse. He had taken it in stride, attempting to fulfil his spiritual obligation as best as he could. Jacob never spoke unkindly of Renesmee, and though he was forced to see Bella and Edward every day, he never complained. Even so, Embry worried, almost constantly, about Jacob's happiness. How long could a man fake contentment simply for the satisfaction of another? And, more importantly, how many fucking questions could Embry ask himself to avoid thinking about his actual situation? He knew Jacob inside and out, understanding him even without the mental link they shared. Jacob detested imprinting with every cell of his body, loathing the connection for his friends, and dreading the eventuality that he'd eventually be ensnared himself. Of course, these thoughts had been wiped away the moment his eyes had met hers, fading away like a shaken Etch-a-sketch. Critical thought wasn't on the agenda when an imprint was nearby, and questioning the order was a sure-fire route to pessimism. Jacob had been absorbed into the Cullens' routines with minimal resistance, and as the days ticked by, he fell further into their orbit. He served her without question, but he was no longer Jacob. The Jacob Embry had known would never have altered his life so drastically for a woman, and especially not an imprint.

The plan may have started out as something small, just a flash of an idea concocted in Lex's living room, but it's grown and twisted into something much bigger than the two of them. It's Kim, and the way that her mouth draws tight every time Jared volunteers her assistance for yet another pack gathering. It's Rachel, and the way he'd found crumpled post-graduate admissions papers in the recycling bin the week before, completed and signed. It's Quil, and the way he keeps a calendar stapled to his door with Claire's countless commitments scrawled in the otherwise empty squares. Imprinting has taken something from all of them, something that cannot simply be returned, but he's too far gone not to try. If fate has anything to do with it, then the universe has given him Lex for a reason, and if her intent is to separate them, then so be it. After all, his decisions come to rest with her will when all is said and done, despite her attempts to rebuff the bond. She's a strong motivator, breathing life into everything he does, but his clearest source of urgency comes at the thought of Jacob. If anything, Embry owes it to his brother in all things except blood (and really, they may as well be brothers in that realm, too) to try and right the wrongs of their world. Renesmee would never grant Jacob the freedom - and whether she's even aware of the possibility, he's not sure - and Jacob has absolutely no way of realising it while he's under her thumb. The bitter realisation - the knowledge that it has to be Embry to do this - is what propels him forward, keeping his foot flat against the accelerator. The truck trembles as it urges forward, as if somehow it's feeling the same trepidation that flows through Embry's veins. That, or his tires are on the verge of shredding. The latter is terrifyingly possible, but stopping is no longer an option. It's like he's a pendulum set in motion, on a pre-destined path with no brakes, no diversions, only collision. Lex had started him down this path, and the further he drives from La Push, the more sure he becomes that he's on an unstoppable journey.

It's a shitty version of the pilgrimage he'd dreamed of years ago, back when the worst of the worlds had collided and Jacob had disappeared into the thick brush of the forest. The thought of following him had crossed his mind more times than he could count - the idea of running as far as his legs could carry him, pushing his wolf to the precipice of total exhaustion, was more appealing than he'd ever confess. He'd imagined countless versions of the final journey away from La Push, ones that ended in him melting into the sea, or becoming one with the mountains. None of them ended with him coming back to La Push, or to life itself. It would have been easier that way. In a way, he's grateful that he's stuck driving instead - he can't let himself go, not in the way he'd imagined. This timeline has to end with him coming back to her, perishing slowly after a lifetime of involuntary servitude. Embry's not quite sure when he became this bitter - has he always been this sad? - or if, like a keg tap, Lex has somehow managed to start siphoning out all of his hidden secrets. Distaste for his tribe, his heritage, his whole fucking life, were things that he'd planned to keep under lock and key until the day his body returned to dust. Leaving was never an option, and she'd swept in and unleashed those plans in the blink of an eye.

Admitting there was a part of you that loathed your imprint was definitely not permissible in La Push, but this was the highway: a lawless land, a place where dissent was possible. He's angry, that much is clear, but the lingering undercurrent of guilt is enough to put a bitter taste in his mouth. Logically, Embry knows that it isn't her fault - Lex is just emblematic of a greater injustice - and still, a tiny part of him blames her for the whole mess. With shaking hands, he flips on the indicator, slowly pulling to a stop on the shoulder. His breathing feels mechanical, measured, as he roots around in the glove box, sifting through diagnostic manuals and discarded papers until he finds the object of his desire. As he smokes the bent cigarette, perched on the guard rail of the causeway, he can't help but feel shame: shame for hating her, for hating his family, for detesting what the pack has become. For a man who had always prided himself on being loyal, his thoughts couldn't be further from the mark. To phase right now would be an exercise in self-flagellation, and knowing the hurt his brothers would feel makes his bones ache.

He smokes the cigarettes one by one, lighting the next with the wizened butt of the last. He's never really been a smoker - he'd picked up the pack of smokes after he'd given Leah a lift home months ago, finding the box discarded in the passenger foot-well. She hadn't asked for it back, and he hadn't offered. Leah doesn't need the temptation. He hadn't intended to smoke it either; somehow, it had burst into his mind, and chain-smoking the entire pack had eventuated, as if it was a natural occurrence for him. It's not like it would really hurt him, anyway. Judging by the experiments Carlisle has conducted on Jacob - the mere thought of the cold, clinical poking and prodding making Embry grimace - their cells continue to repair and reproduce at incredible rates, even years into their phasing. They're virtually untouchable in every way, and a little toxicity doesn't seem to harm them. He can't even drink himself to death, like his father had - provided his father was Joshua Uley, and he doesn't really want to know, after all - and the knowledge disgusts him a little, knowing he'd have to kill himself in a more overt way.

Not that he could do that. At least, not until the whole Lex issue had been sorted, and that would involve ditching the cigarettes and getting back on the road. He's sluggish to pocket the remnants, slow to break from his slump, but he has no choice. Not in this matter, and not in any others, as far as he can tell. Embry settles into the driver's seat reluctantly, briefly dropping his forehead to the steering wheel. The last time he was in his car, it was all different - he was on his way to Lex's, enthused to spend the morning with her, optimistic for a day well-spent. It's funny how your path can shift so dramatically in a matter of sentences, he thinks, quirking his lips into a bitter smirk. Impulsively, he digs his battered phone out of his jacket pocket, scrolling through the notifications.

Quil: everything okay? sorry 4 being shitty. hate triples.

Lex: Thank you. I'm sorry. Miss u already.

Jared: Where are you?

He clears all the messages after a moment's delay. Quil and Jared can deal without him - he's barely got a head start as it is, and they'll know everything soon enough. He hadn't come up with a plan with Lex and Kim - that probably would have been a good idea, but it's too late to concoct something now. Lying low seems to be the better option. Still, he types out a brief reassurance to Lex, hitting send before he can second-guess himself. Even though leaving was her idea, he knows her too well to leave her on delivered. For every part of her he dislikes, there're countless reasons to adore her, and there's no way in hell he can ignore the little bright spots in a world of grey. They may not have that easy, low-key balance like Jared and Kim, but what they have is flawed and real and raw, and that has more value than anyone could ever know. Her reply comes faster than he'd ever expected, quicker than she's typed before, and he wishes he could etch the words into his memory to never be forgotten.

Lex: When you come back, I'm ready to tell you for real how I feel.

It's the closest to an admission as he's ever gotten, and the simple sentence has him blushing hot in the cab of his truck.

He drives in silence for the next hour, his mouth stretched wide into a smile.

Kim and Lex sit in silence for much of the evening. Kim works on her countless assignments, noisily leafing through papers on Lex's kitchen counter. The work gradually piles up around her, growing into stacks as haphazard and chaotic as the flurry of thoughts whirling through her mind, but she continues undaunted.

If only Lex could be so collected.

For the first hour, she paces, irritably rearranging her kitchen with the contempt of a disgruntled housewife. It's not until she drops the Pyrex salad bowl, watching through weary eyes as the glass shatters into a million pieces onto the tile, that she combusts.

Kim isn't sure what happens first: the crash, or the tears. She wraps a consoling arm around Lex's shoulders, gently tugging her away from the disaster zone with hushed words that can barely be heard over her sniffles.

"We can get you another bowl-"

"It's not about the bowl!" she wails, devolving into another round of sobs.

Kim's torn between comforting her friend and scooping up the endless shards of glass - and God, there's a lot - when one of Lex's roommates (Liz, she remembers) emerges from down the hallway, bleary-eyed and irritable beyond belief.

"Are you really crying over that ugly-ass thing? I was going to trash it last week," she comments, reaching around Kim to grab a banana from the counter.

Lex frowns, though her tears seem to dry up within seconds. "Yeah, it was ugly."

"See? Problem solved. What are you all tense about, anyway?" Liz props her elbows on the counter, looking across at Lex expectantly.

They wait.

Eventually, Lex shrugs, a tiny half-hearted dismissal. "Boy troubles, I guess."

Liz scoffs. "I'm yet to find a man worth my tears, and when I do…" she trails off in thought, pursing her lips. "Anyway. I'm sure he's not worth your time. I'm going out later, if you want to come. Take your mind off it."

Lex shakes her head quickly, her expression smoothing into something far more familiar. "Thanks, but I'm good. I think we're heading out soon anyway," she says, sliding her eyes across to Kim.

If she's surprised, she doesn't show it, only nodding once in the affirmative. "Okay. Give me a few to get this mess sorted."

Kim doesn't question her until they're both squished into the car, surrounded by a critical mass of clothes and books and stuff that threatens to spill out onto the sidewalk if she even so glances at the car wrong. Kim keeps her eyes focused straight ahead as she drives painstakingly slowly through the grid-like roads of Forks, curling her fingers tightly around the steering wheel. Finally, when they reach their third red-light - it's almost as if she's deliberately slowing down to miss the greens - that she turns to Lex, her face an ashy grey that conveys all the joy of a morgue.

"Do we really go back to the Rez? If they ask about Em, we have to lie, and I don't think I can lie to Jared. We've never had secrets," she says, her voice uncharacteristically quavering.

Lex chews her lip, checking her phone for the umpteenth time. No new messages. "What else do we do? I can't stay in my house any longer."

"Should I just keep driving?"

"Kimmy, are we going on the lam? I should've packed more food," she says, only half-joking.

Kim hiccoughs a laugh, hastily brushing away the tear that had taken up residence on her cheekbone. "I think there's some jelly snakes in the glove box. They're not that old."

"Ew," Lex comments, though she immediately reaches to retrieve them in the darkness.

Her hand catches the lever with ease, dropping the compartment open with a jerky snap. The mess was to be expected, sure - it was Kim's car, after all - but she'd completely forgotten about Kim's stash of Embry's offerings from the tumultuous weeks past.

"Yeah, it's in there somewhere," Kim comments offhandedly, her eyes never leaving the road. After a moment of silence, she turns her head towards the glove box, instantly remembering its contents. "Oh Jesus, Lex. Just close it. We can go to the gas station."

"I don't care about the snakes," she mutters, reaching into the space to curl her fingers around the first thing she can reach.

She raises the photograph close to her face with shake hands, carefully studying the figures. It's from a month or so ago, taken right before the wedding. In the photo, his arm's curled tightly around her shoulders, his face turned to gaze squarely at her. She's grinning widely, seemingly oblivious to his look of adoration, instead beaming brightly at the photographer. It's from one of the nights she'd spent camped at his house, battling for control over the PlayStation, laughing and joking as if there was nothing to fear, nothing that went bump in the night. Quil took that picture, Lex recalls. She's almost sure of it. On a whim, she turns the picture over, fully expecting the back of the glossy paper to be bare. Instead, in tiny handwriting, there's a scrawled inscription.

The night I realised I loved you.

Before she can change her mind, Lex reaches into the compartment again, drawing out a folded piece of paper.

It's Tuesday today and you've already frowned at me twice, even if I don't think you really saw me. I know you're hurt and you're scared and you need time to get better. I figure you'll see this when you eventually realise I'm a harmless dumbass, so enjoy the fruits of a study hall well spent:

Your eyes glow bright in the March moonlight,

Pinpricks of hope that guide my way home.

I thought you'd leave, and you just well might,

For all your reasons could fill a tome.

Even so, I'll wait for you,

In the hours and days that pass me by.

Because despite what we've been through,

Deep in my heart, for you, I cry.

His return can't come soon enough.

Aaand we're back! Ended up taking some unplanned time off due to personal stuff, but I'm aiming to get another update out within a month. Thanks for sticking with me folks. I've been slowly posting some shorter stories in my one shot collection (Little Universes) if you're after something to tide you over in the meantime.