The Man With Few Words
"The secret of love is seeking variety in your life together, and never letting routine chords dull the melody of your romance." –Anonymous
Chapter Eleven
Peter Petrelli
The alarm clock on Peter Petrelli's bedside table bleeped out an obnoxious honking noise, abruptly shaking the young man out of his nearly comatose slumber with a jolt. He reaches out blindly, outstretching his long arms, clawing for the source of the noise, palm slapping for the snooze button.
He lies in a tangle of bedsheets and floppy hair, half-conscious with his forearm pushed tightly into the socket of his eyes. He's much too tired to move but his mind is already doing their automatic organizing. He's still behind on the clinic hours he promised his hospital Dean. There's a woman who's coming in for her scheduled pre-natal exam and he's her attending physician. Mr. Emerson is due for another prescription refill for his ulcer.
He hadn't gotten home until 2:30 last night due to some traffic pileup in the middle of Time Square that made him stay well past his shift. When he'd finally taken care the last of his assigned patients, Nathan, a friend of his that's also working on his residency, rushed to Peter and confessed that his son was sick and that he wasn't going to be able to finish his shift. He asks if there was any way if Peter can complete his hours for him, offering him a desperate wad of cash.
Peter grinned weakly and told Nathan to go see his son. He also told him to keep the money for some antibiotics for Nathan Jr.
People warned him that one of these days, he was going to work himself to death. So he had promised that one of these days, he'd take the day off and do something nice for himself. But it just seems like there's always something coming up. There are always tests in the lab he needs to run. There are always patients he has to see. There's always medical school. He can't afford to miss a day. Not now.
The alarm clock is flashing 6:30. He needs to be reporting at the hospital in an hour. With the New York City traffic, he'll be lucky if he can beat the first mob of rush hours. Peter tells himself that he needs to get up now. He needs to shower and change and get coffee. He needs to finish the charts he owes the nurse. He needs to get over to New York Presbytarian Hospital and start making his daily rounds.
The clock is still buzzing.
He murmurs into the darkness, frustrated with not being able to silence it, "Jan. Jan, get the alarm, will you?" His hand is searching for her familiar form. Searching for that tell-tale bundle of raven hair and rail-thin form. But there's nothing in his bed except a hollow imprint, the kind of imprint you only get when someone's been sleeping in that same spot for years and the mattress has taken and molded into that shape. Unnerved by the lack of response, Peter hollers again, mind still foggy with fatigue, "January, can you please shut that off?"
Nothing. The clock is still going strong.
Peter's hand, which is working a wrinkle onto his forehead, pauses for a second, then drops completely from his face. He turns onto his side, reality finally bleeding it's way into his retinas, and deftly clicks off the digital alarm. He lets out a whoosh of breath, chest deflating before finally sitting up.
January. His Jan. She was in La Push, Washington. That's right.
He laughs lightly, feeling foolish and heartbroken yet again. He's done this at least a dozen times. He can't even count how many times he's woken up in the middle of the night, hopelessly calling her name or probed for her narrow waist. He misses her terribly. The thought of rather his feelings are reciprocated haunts him deep. Instances where he's tempted to buy a ticket, fly over to where she is, and tell her that life without her is torture and that he can simply bear no more.
But perhaps she was happy where she is. Perhaps she has found someone else. He knows that she needs time to heal. He knows that she has a tendency to run away. He also knows that the more he chases, the further it'll drive her. So he'll wait. Wait until she runs back into his arms; she will eventually. She always does.
Peter Petrelli rolls out of bed with practiced ease, his palm cupping the back of his neck, where it's strained and tight. He trots habitually into the kitchen, already clad in the trousers he was wearing yesterday, his tie hanging off his wrist. His dark hair is too girlishly long, always falling distractingly into his eyes as he worked. He's long overdue for a trim, yet whenever he picks up the bathroom shears or halt in front of the salon door, his muscles would clench in a completely awful way, and he would find himself walking away despite his intentions.
He refuses to think about the way she always smiled whenever he complained about his floppy bangs. The way she'd curl the strands around her long fingers and pleads for him not to cut it. "It's just so pretty, Peter. Promise me you won't clip it." Then he'd smile in that lopsided fashion he saves just for her, "I promise."
After a pot of coffee, nearly burning his tongue off in the process, he's fully awake now, therefore is racing through the apartment like a madman. He hops into the shower, hunts for a shirt, then shaves quickly all within 15 minutes. He's scouring the medicine cabinet for deodorant when a slip of ribbon falls out and flutters gracefully into the sink.
"I can't believe you still wear those ribbons."
"Why not? You bought them for me."
Peter Petrelli spends the next 10 minutes sitting on the rim of the bathtub with his head between his knees and a strip of scarlet ribbon thread through his fingers. He hates these little slips. These little relapses. Last week, he found a pair of her old pointe shoes and nearly had a mental breakdown. The cramped apartment is filled with her presence. Her clothes, her perfume, her soul. A few months ago, Jan stood at this very door and informed him that she can't take it anymore. The surgery, the pain, the memories. She can't live here anymore—can't see him anymore. Then she lugged her suitcase out the door, mismatched colors leaping in the bitter New York cold, her silvery eyes lost of their luster. Ever since then, he's tried to purge the place of her. He's hid all the stuff she accidentally left in a closet he never goes into because her scent lingers too heavily in there. He keeps the place immaculately clean instead of January's preferred way of organized chaos. He raided the fridge, throwing out all the ice cream. He emptied out the drawer where she keeps her cigarettes but thinks that he doesn't know about it.
Then afterwards, when the apartment feels hollow and alien to even him, he sat down on the couch then picked up the phone. He dials the number from memory. He waits. The line rings many times. So many times, in fact, that Peter almost gave up.
The buzzing stops, interrupted by a clear, crisp soprano, "Hello, its January."
"H-hey, Jan. It...it's Peter. I just wanted to call and make sure that you're settling in all right. How are you? Do you need any help? How's everything going?"
There's silence for a long while. A terse, tense silence he hasn't heard since their high school days. Peter didn't like this. He didn't like having to initiate conversations. Jan was always so affectionate towards him, and this new, damaged one in her place is throwing him for a loop.
She demands harshly, although he likes to think that she didn't really mean it, "What do you want? I thought I told you not to call."
"I was worried." Peter knows better than to get angry or hurt. He keeps his voice passive and calm, the way he always is with her. "I had to know that you were okay."
A heavy sigh. "I am. I just—I just want to get away from it all and...and I miss you a lot and I'm just trying not to let it get to me. Peter...I won't be able to get over it if you keep calling—"
"—How's your leg?" He interjects. He doesn't want to hear all the reasons why she wants to get away from him. He doesn't want to know why she's doing this to him. Hasn't he done all he could? Then why isn't she here? Why is it that whatever he does; however hard he tries, it doesn't ever seem to be enough? Enough to make her stay?
Another silence. She doesn't react as volatile as he thought she would. She replies softly, "I'll be fine." Another shuddering breath. "Goodbye, Peter. I'll miss you."
And with those haunting words, she walked out of his life.
---
Peter Petrelli has always loved the hospital. It's often considered weird but he's felt this way ever since he was young. He's always been an old soul; serene and at peace. When he was a child, he'd sit quietly in the hospital and he'd just watch. Watch the nurses bustle around, the doctors striding confidently with clipboards in their hands. Sure, there'd be sadness. There'd be misery, heartbreak, pain. But also joy, relief, love. The look on someone's face when they found out that their loved one is saved. They'd squeezed their eyes tight, whispering fiercely: "Thank God." As they smiled at the doctors as if they just made everything in the world right again. Those doctors...they always made it look so effortless, like they could do no wrong. They walk with their shoulders squared and every step had such a definite purpose.
Peter wanted that.
Nobody was surprised when Peter announced that he wants to be a doctor. Mom was just relieved that he decided against the Air Force option; she couldn't stand the idea of losing her innocent pretty boy with the most soulful eyes she's ever seen. Peter was born with a simple hero complex. Whenever he was needed, he'd appear outside your window, waiting to be let in. Peter is gentle and polite with everybody, it's the only way he knows how to be. But he's also fervent and passionate, just different than the brash, brazen style people often are.
From the first moment Peter Petrelli met January Jansen, he knew they were going to walk a long path together. He supposes it's the perfect alliteration of their name that convinced him. He tries to suppress the silly, unreal emotions bubbling inside of him at first. He's just anxious, he told himself. How he ever fell for that lie, he can never fathom but while those feelings were still developing, blossoming and blooming inside his chest like a fire, unfurling until he's sure that he would burst: it was easy to believe in the lies he told himself.
Jan's smile makes his stomach quiver with excitement: he's just anxious. January's fingers are tangled with his as they compared palm sizes: he's just anxious. His breath is caught as she leans up real close and plays with his ear: he's just anxious. The list grew longer and longer, as did his frustration. He was tired, he was bored, he was nervous. He was anything, anything, but attracted to January.
But in due time, January Jansen came out into the open. She told him the honest truth, without a single blush coloring her cheeks, that she loved him and does he or doesn't he love her back? Because she's tired of being led around like some lovesick puppy dog.
From that moment on, Peter Petrelli couldn't find it within himself to leave January Jansen ever again. He balances her well. She's impulsive, spontaneous, blunt. He's thoughtful, pensive, and dignified. He doesn't ever snap back at her. When she screams at him, he stands there and he takes it. When she accuses him of things that aren't his fault, he accepts the blame.
Peter Petrelli is there when she needs him. But most importantly, he's there even when she doesn't.
---
In the New York Presbytarian Hospital, Peter is doing his daily rounds in the clinic when he slides into one of the exam rooms and finds one of January's dancer friends staring wide-eyed at him.
He didn't recognize her at first. He's got his head ducked down low, studying her medical history, introducing briefly, "Hi. I'm Dr. Petrelli and I'll be taking care of you today." He flips a page, "What seems to be the problem...Angela?"
Sitting on the recliner chair is a tall, skinny brunette with blue eyes that seem to crowd her small face accompanied with an overall vibe that seemed just too familiar from a stranger. She's blinking her owl-eyes at him while he stands awkwardly, one hand still on the handle of the door, "Peter Petrelli? Is that you? January's Peter?"
He squints his sleepy, droopy irises, "Um...excuse me? I apologize, have we met?"
The brunette flashes him a wide, empty smile that looks too practiced or too forced. "Yeah. I danced in the Company with January? You probably don't remember me. We only met once—you know, when she, uh..." She swallows, somehow reliving the moment, and remembering that it's her fault for breaking her goddamn shoelace. "When she broke her leg. You probably didn't notice with all the things going on."
Peter is stunned. He nods, a little numb. He's not sure what that day meant. It's all such a vivid blur. Peter's always preferred to let things of the past remain in the past. There's no point in peeling back the scabs, was there? "Right." He answers, and if his expression suddenly appears fatigued or wary, she pretends not to notice. "It says here that you sprained your ankle. I'll just tape you up and set you up for a brace. Take it easy for a few weeks and you'll be just fine."
The way January will never be. The bitter thought swims in Peter's mind and he's shocked to find just the faintest hint of animosity towards this brunette. The vague, angry suspicion that this is all her fault. Peter stumbles back, nervously searching for the door. He'll tell Nathan to finish her up. He's too compromised to be treating her.
He's almost completely out the door, but she hollers at him, "W-wait!" He pauses, pushing his girlish hair back. He didn't dare to breathe. "Is—how is she? January. Is she all right? We all miss her a lot. I mean, I know how she won't, won't be able to..." She doesn't seem to have the courage to finish. She changes her question, "How are you guys doing?"
Peter Petrelli grits his teeth together. He tries to fight down the cold flood of panic and irritation swelling in the hollow of his chest. He's anxious, he's nervous, he's tired. He's anything but angry. Peter doesn't have the pleasure to be angry. He can't afford it. The muscle in his neck twitched as his back grew rigid. Chills are spiking down his body but his neck is burning. He sets his jaw and responds, wishing he didn't sound so unsympathetic yet not quite being able to help it, "How do you think we're doing?"
---
Break-time. Peter Petrelli isn't fond of the concept of break-time. Break-time was a gap in the regime. An empty hole in his otherwise filled up calendar. With his studies at Cornell Medical School, his residency at the hospital, as well as specialized training hours, there usually isn't much time left for anything else. He used to try to sneak time out. He'd rush through his homework, skip out on volunteering hours just so he can come home to a smiling January Jansen. But there's no point now. So he picks up extra shifts, he writes his essays ahead of time, he hangs around doctors that didn't mind him.
He doesn't want time alone. He doesn't want to let his brain slow down enough because once it does, he knows where his thoughts are going to drift to. When he works, the images of her are still there of course, glued onto the inside of his eyelids, but it's a dull, throbbing pain at the back of his head. He can get through that. With enough work and bustling, he does. But when he sits down with a cup of coffee in the lounge, the darkness of the room shrouding him, the softness of the couch much like the one he has at home. He sits alone frequently. And he remembers her.
Usually, her twin brother calls during this time. He attends NYU, just like she had. They never go anywhere without each other so when Jan decided that Juilliard was it for her, Jude followed her without a question. He phones and asks Peter out to dinner or to watch a baseball game. She's a sore subject with the both of them so it's usually easy to avoid her presence from cropping up. She didn't tell Jude where she is though. She only told him. Made him promise to keep it a secret. But whenever Jude asks him quietly, his eyes the exact startling shade of gray as hers, "Have you heard from January?" He can't help but wonder if he's doing the right thing.
He told himself that he was going to call. He told himself that he needed to check if she was all right. He told himself he'd buy a plane ticket and fly over there one of these days. Tomorrow, even. There's an old, nagging, heroic part of him that tells him this is all a big mistake. That she doesn't need time to heal, she just needs him. So why doesn't he go after her? But a bigger part of him, a rational, logical part that might also be a little too proud for his own good, is warning him to mind his own business because this is what Jan wants and he wants her to be happy, doesn't he?
Peter Petrelli stares at the phone. He's just going to drop off a message for her. He's going to act civil and ask her if he can come over for a visit. Maybe they can go out to dinner. Maybe they can talk. She'll like that won't she?
Tomorrow, he tells himself. He'll do it tomorrow morning. Vaguely, he recalls saying the exact same thing yesterday. And the day before that. And before that. And the month before that. Today, then. He'll call her right now.
He walks over to the corner of the resting lounge, the receiver of the phone booth feels too heavy in his hands. His palms are sweaty. Swallowing the cotton stifling his mouth, he tosses in a few coins. He's left his cell phone in his locker but no matter, the number is ingrained in his mind. He presses it without even thinking about it.
The phone rings. It rings. It rings a third time. On the fourth time, it's supposed to go to the machine. Peter Petrelli is ready for it. He knows exactly what he's going to say. He's got it all planned out.
"—the hell? Hello?" Comes a husky, drowsy voice. A voice that most definitely does not belong to January. Peter froze; flabbergasted, incredulous. He's got the wrong number. That must be it. "W-what—Hello?" The gruff voice demands again, sounding incredibly sleepy. Peter checks his watch. It's 12:14 AM. New York is 3 hours ahead, but still, January would've let it go to voice mail.
The panic attack is back at full force now. The same one he got in the exam room. Peter's starting to think that this is becoming a permanent condition. His throat is closing up and his chest feels as if it's smothered with ice. "I...I'm sorry." He can't speak. His words sound slurred. He wets his lips, shoves his hair back. "Is January there?"
"Wha-who, oh." Peter hopes he gets told that he has the wrong number. "Oh, um...yeah. She's here. Hang on." There's shuffling followed by heavy, uncoordinated footsteps. The unknown man with the deep, throaty baritone hollers, "Janie? Janie." He must've walked into somewhere with the TV on because he can hear animated dialogue in the background. Peter didn't realize that he's gripped the case around the telephone so tightly, his palm is bleeding. "—looking for you...some guy, pick up—damn phone...was having a nice dream." Were the scattered phrases he heard.
Then the speaker transferred over. That haunting, crisp chirp, "Hello, its January."
Peter Petrelli hangs up. He can't breathe. He slides down bonelessly onto the floor. He clutches his head in his hands. He can feel the wet blood smearing across his cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose.
There's a good excuse for this. He was probably a friend. A friend spending the night. January's always been good at that sort of thing. Charming men. She's good at it, but they never mean anything to her, because she always comes back to him. She'll get bored. She'll get restless with the suburban lifestyle. Yes. That's it.
Soon, he'll be able to fly over there and she'll realize how much she misses him. He massages his temples. He'll have to check with his Dean about vacation time. He'll have to talk to all of his professors. Somebody will need to take over his clinic duty for a while.
Absently, he twirls the silver band on his finger. He glances down at it and frowns. It's a promise to Jan, he reminds himself. Does she still wear hers? He wonders if she still has it, or is it one of the many things she left behind, hidden away in a drawer somewhere.
A shrill beeping cuts into the dense air. Peter gasps in surprise, his mind reeling back into reality. It takes him a few moments to pinpoint where the noise came from and a few more moments to gain enough senses to fumble for the pager vibrating against his pelvis. The fluorescent light of the screen burned his corneas. Blue, L3R12 read the message. His patient was coding. A seizure most probably if it were blue. He stands up shakily, ignoring the persistent ache in his chest, the throb in the back of his mind. He massages his temples again, pinching the narrow gap between his furrowed brows. He finds some gauze to wrap up his injured hand then in one fluid motion, shoves his mussed dark hair back. He's got to get a hold of himself. He needs to go back to calm Peter. Back to unperturbed Peter with expressive eyes and reassuring, poetic grins.
Tomorrow, he decides. He'll buy the ticket tomorrow.
Jacob Black
They were discovered by Jared and Paul in Janie's backyard.
Jacob Black has never been a secretive person. There was just never much he needed to keep from the Pack and then with the phasing and everything, he couldn't keep secrets even if he wanted to. Yet when Janie and him started this little tryst of theirs, he doesn't know what got into him but...he just wanted to keep it under wraps. He wanted to have just a little privacy for once in his life. He wants something—anything—for himself.
The way January Jansen slid into Jacob's life, it was like she's always been there.
Ever since Bella, Jacob grew tired of people. He grew tired of pretending to be happy; of pining for someone who just didn't care. Mostly, he just grew tired of trying. Jacob learned a lot from his heartbreak. He learned that feelings are something you can't force. He learned that some wishes just never come true. He learned that you don't need people in order to live.
All people do is ask him questions. How are you feeling? What happened with Bella? Are you going to be okay? He doesn't want to answer because he doesn't know the answer. He just wants everyone to leave him alone. All he wants is to brood. He wants to brood, run, then brood some more.
The way January Jansen slid into Jacob's life, it was like she's always been there.
Jacob Black hated dealing with people with problems—even just listening to their problems—because once he deals with them, he has to deal with their problems too. Jacob's mind is like a sanctuary; allowing someone to tell him their problems was like letting them move a little bit of themselves inside him, and the first time hadn't gone well.
Jacob's always worried that he'll never let anyone again. He didn't mind being alone, but he didn't like it either. So when January danced into his life, it was perfect. The hole in his chest is filled with cotton and a distinctively warm substance. Jacob knows that it might not necessarily be real, that it might just slip through his fingertips, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything when January's with him.
Jacob Black is lying spread-eagle smackdab in the middle of January's backyard. The grass is soft beneath his bare back and there's a ladybug crawling on his stomach. It tickles, but he doesn't pay it much attention. Usually, if he were brooding-Jacob, he might've. But he's with Janie, and it somehow seems okay to have a bug swarming on his skin.
January is sitting behind the top of his head, long legs crossed Indian-style. She's weaving a wreath made out of daisies for him. Her elfin features are childishly curious as she peers at him with her wide, owl gray eyes. In Jacob's vision, her face is upside-down. She observes in her crisp chime, "You haven't said two words since we sat down."
He shrugs, a content smile twisting at his lips. "I don't want to ruin it."
Janie beams. Jacob realizes that she's wearing the same lavender cardigan she wore on the day they met and a long flowing blue skirt. She didn't bother with stockings, which makes him grin like a lewd teenage boy whenever her skirt rides up. Her raven black tress is mussed and messy, spilling over her round shoulders, capped with a floppy straw hat.
After a moment of silence, with Jacob's chest burning pleasantly, she went back to her weaving. He goes back to staring at the ladybug that's steadily paving way up his ribcage.
"All done." She announces just as he's about to fall asleep. She sloppily forces the circlet, which has been made just a few sizes too small, over his unkempt shag then leans back on propped arms. The way it's digging into his forehead told him that he should be irritated but in this instance, he can't find it in him to care. So he grabs Janie's face and pulls it towards his with a loud, riotous laugh.
It's kind of weird, kissing January upside-down. But it's also warm and intimate with her heady scent swimming around him, his eyelashes fluttering against her neck. It makes him lightheaded in a funny, thrilling way that's completely tolerable.
His hand is at the base of her skull, threading through the ebony waves. Hers are awkwardly cradling his jaw, she tries to shift into a more comfortable position, but whenever she moved, her nose would bump clumsily against his chin and she would pause. She murmurs against his lips, "Peter Parker."
He snorts, his head inadvertently lolling to the side. It's just a normal day down in La Push. The sun is performing a vanishing act, so the sky is a cloudy charcoal gray. A gray just a few shades darker than Janie's eyes. From her backyard, he can see the ocean, the roaring waves folding and curling until they reduced to nothing more than foam as it finally hits the shore. There are two familiar forms standing on the beach. Tall, looming, and red-skinned.
Jacob squints his sunken eyes, attempting to focus but failing miserably with January's lips so close to his throat as she studied the ladybug on his sternum. Then he jolts up so quickly, Janie hollered in surprise and fell back onto the grass. His mouth is filled with cotton. The familiar rush of scorching heat flooded his veins. His chest ached with something fierce. He rubs it, well aware that his arms are trembling.
The ladybug fell.
"Jay-cub?" January's silvery irises are wide, blinking up at him with bewilderment. "Are you alright?"
He swallows, inhaling deeply. Jerkily, he reaches up to scrub the back of his neck. His entire body was on fire. That exploding, phasing kind of fire. He tries to levitate it by relieving the panic but his heart is racing much too quick. "No." He tells her distractedly, then paces away, instructing firmly, "Stay here."
He leaves January Jansen sitting there in the grass, her hat slightly askew, lips red, brows puckered in confusion.
He all but runs to the shoreline, breathing heavily. His back is burning and he knows that Janie must be watching. He demands gruffly, "What are you doing here?"
Paul is shaking from head to toe like a tuning fork. He snaps back, "What? Do you own the beach or something?" Jared places a restraining grip on Paul's shoulder. Paul shrugs it off, "Who is she?"
Jacob grows defensive. "Nobody." He protests.
Jared blinks, observant eyes on January, then shifting to Jacob. He suddenly grows self-conscious. He must look like a joke, bare-foot and bare-chested with Janie's stupid wreath gawkily situated on his head. Jared asks cautiously, speaking slowly and deliberately, "Are you...seeing someone, Jacob?"
Jacob blinks. He hasn't figured this thing out with January yet. He glances back at her. She's moved to the very edge of the fence, waiting. He sighs, "No." It was the truth.
"Then what? You just make a point to make out with random girls?" Paul attempts to lunge forward, maybe to break Jacob's collarbone or something but Jared pushed him back on the chest.
Jared hisses, although Jacob's not sure why he's whispering, "Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell us? Does—" Jared falters, "Does Sam know?"
Jacob blinks again. It seems to be all he's capable of doing at this point. He'll just answer all their questions and maybe they'll leave him and Janie alone. He doesn't really mind getting into a fight. Everybody knows that he'll just kick Paul's ass, but he doesn't really want to do this in front of her. He confesses, "I didn't tell anyone."
Jared is silent. Paul is hoping to set him on fire with his glare. Jared admits, "I'm surprised you hid it for this long. Especially with the phasing." Yes, he's worked real hard to keep it that way. Jared inhales deeply, "I won't tell Sam." Paul roars and complains, outraged. Jared raises his voice in order to override Paul's and Jacob can almost hear the conditional 'but' in his tone. He continues, "There's going to be a bonfire this weekend. It's Claire's birthday." Oh, right. Jacob had planned on not attending, just like the year before, and the year before that. "You should come." Jared's suggestion didn't really sound like a suggestion at all. "Bring her with you."
Jacob swallows. There's nothing he can do at this point. In the back of his mind, he wonders if maybe he can kidnap Janie and they can elope somewhere, but it seems a little too early in the relationship for that. Jared's dark eyes are flashing and Paul looks so damn smug. He knows better than to cross the both of them.
He nods once.
He trudges back to January, an annoyed scowl pulling at his mouth, his brows knitting in an angry furrow, the hard lines of his face returning. He rests one arm on the fence he put up for her; a twinge of fondness pulls at his heart.
The way January Jansen slid into Jacob's life, it was like she's always been there.
She waits patiently. It was one of those things he loved about her. How she never pushed. She never needed an explanation. If he has one, she accepts it. If he doesn't, or if he simply doesn't want to tell her, she drops it. She never wants more than what he can give her.
"I have to take you out on a date." He informs her blankly.
He only realized that he sounded rude when January replies smoothly, "I'm sorry." January's apologies are never simple. They didn't mean she was sorry about her actions. She means, 'I'm sorry you feel that way'.
He waves it away dismissively, "No. It's fine. I just...I just didn't want you to meet my friends." After a beat, he adds as an afterthought, "They're jerks." He studies Janie. She's peering down at her tangled fingers. He becomes nervous at that. "I-it's a bonfire. There's going to be food and...it's um, my friend's niece's birthday." He struggles to make it sound normal but it's been too long. He swallows the thick lump in his throat and envelops her smaller hands in his. "I'd...I'd like you to be there. With me."
There. That wasn't so hard, was it? Whatever happens, he'll just tell Jared that he tried.
"What should I wear?" January inquires casually, a single brow raised.
He releases the breath he didn't know he was holding. He laughs. He tangles his fingers in her trailing tress once more. He kisses her temple, her eyes, the corner of her mouth. He's elated but he's not sure why. Then he pulls back, suddenly aware that Janie will no longer be just his anymore. That once she goes to the bonfire, she's part of the Pack's and he'll have to start sharing his problems with her. He clenches his jaw, examines her with sunken shadowy eyes, just a tint wistful.
January Jansen tilts her head, "What are you thinking about?" She grins, "If that's not too bold of me to ask."
Jacob Black figures there's no harm in indulging her. Just this one time. He runs the back of his hand across the sharp plane of her cheekbone, scrutinizing the rolling waves on the beach. It was easier to focus on that than the dusky gray in Janie's gaze.
"I was just thinking about how...nothing lasts. And what a shame that is."
In a move that stunned Jacob, January shifts closer and wounds her arms around his waist. She rests her head lazily against his side, her cheek still feels warm against his feverish side. Hesitantly, unsure of his motion's for the first time in a long time, Jacob lets his arm drape loosely on her shoulder. She's much too short for the action to seem natural plus, this was a position Jacob has never been placed in before. He's not familiar with the concept of 'cuddling' but he's willing to venture a guess and say that this is pretty close to it. It feels ungraceful and not at all romantic but it's pleasant enough that he didn't mind it and reassuring enough that it makes him chuckle.
Jacob had almost given up on speaking entirely until Janie whispers, something he would've missed if he had even blinked. She tells him knowingly with a smile, "Some things last."
The way January Jansen slid into Jacob's life, it was like she's always been there.
Yes, January had slipped into his life like she could see all the spaces where Jacob needed someone and all the places he didn't, and she had seamlessly, silently, oozed into all the dark, aching cracks, filling them up, just a little, making him a little more whole.
And, in the process, she'd done what Bella had never managed to do even with all her trying, all her effort; January had slipped right into his soul.
End Note:
Didn't I promise all you guys a longer chapter? I think that this chapter is actually one of the most advanced thing I've written probably in my entire life. All right, maybe that's an exaggeration, but it's definitely a piece that I'm extremely proud of. Writing in Peter's point of view in the beginning of the chapter is something I debated with myself for a long time of rather or not it's the right decision because I'm always iffy on the whole switching POV thing because it's just so hard to make it JUST right so that it seems natural and seamless. And I really wanted to stay on Jacob's POV because I want the entire story to be seen from his eyes but...the Peter thing just felt right to write about. Because I realized that we're so enveloped in this cocooned, magical Janie/Jacob world that we're loosing sight of reality a bit and Peter sort of brings that all into focus.
It also marks a new conflict, actually this chapter introduces several conflicts, into the story. So we're really kicking it into high gear now. We're going to have the Pack engaged in here, most probably some vampire action, as well as an outsider like Peter trying to stick his nose in here. So no doubt, that's going to annoy our Jacob to the ends of the world.
Question of the day: What do you think about Peter now that you've gotten a glimpse into his life? Whose point of view do you like better? And of course, your favorite moments accompanied by your favorite lines?
Feedback, criticism, and encouragement is always loved and desired and I thank you so much for sticking out this dry spell with me. I can guarantee you that I'm back to writing almost everyday and that the updates should be flowing in pretty regularly now thanks to my PMs with my lover, Morning-Sunset, she's helped me through all the tricky spots so shoutout to her.
Hope you all enjoy this chapter. Lovezzzz, Kitty.
