twenty-five.

(Leah)

As soon as she sees the Blacks' tiny red house, she is immediately hit with a sense of homecoming. It has always felt this way, akin to the relief and happiness of returning from a journey no matter where she has been or for how long; and she is suddenly tired, desiring nothing more than to get inside so she can be wrapped up in familiar comfort.

Time spent between this house and her own had been almost equally divided during childhood. Then Sarah died. Leah turned fourteen not long after, and her parents decided that she'd become responsible enough to start looking after herself and Seth for a few hours after school until they finished work. They gave her a house key and a cell phone and everything, had even upped her weekly allowance for babysitting her brother, but she and Seth had continued to follow the twins and Jacob home most days anyway. And it may have been months until they were able to walk through the door without expecting to see Sarah there waiting for them, but she'd raised them well enough to know the importance of sticking together.

Then they'd gotten older. Leah had gotten older. She'd been fifteen when Sam had joined the picture, so it was almost inevitable that she allowed her responsibilities and friendships to take a backseat.

Then he graduated. Then the twins graduated — they were boarding a plane for Hawaii before the ink was dry on their diplomas.

Only Rachel returned, and she ran off to college as quickly as she could before the reservation claimed her again. And then Sam left, too, so Leah quit the idea of college. What was the point, with them all gone anyway?

All gone, except her. Jacob and Seth never could fill the shoes left behind.

Until now, perhaps.

Leah parks the Rabbit and gets out, comfortable enough to let herself into the Blacks' house without knocking when she reaches their door. After all, there's little reason to start waiting for someone to give her permission now.

It creaks open with ease. The trust which Billy has in his people to be able leave his door on the latch is absolute, unshakeable. Harry is — was — much the same, and he'd be disappointed to know that his only daughter suddenly feels the need to slide the deadbolts over every chance she gets. As pointless as the action is against the supernatural, both murdering vampires and intruding werewolves alike, anyway. God knows what else is out there.

"I've just had Charlie on the phone," the Chief's gravelly voice calls as soon as he hears the door. "What the hell were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that?"

Billy leans around the open doorway just off the kitchen. He looks . . . not angry, she thinks, no. More annoyed. Exasperated, even. But that clears quickly as soon as he sees her, and he breaks into a grin. "Leah!"

She raises an eyebrow, perfected after a life of being on the receiving end of it. She can't remember the last time Billy greeted her so enthusiastically, and she knows exactly what his game is.

"Not interrupting something, am I?"

"Just Jake being Jake," he says. The nonchalant shrug he gives is the same as his son's and his wide smile turns into a smirk. "I don't think he'll be too much longer, if you want to wait."

She's undeterred. "What did he do?"

They stare at each other, and for a moment she thinks he's not going to tell her. But then he laughs, shaking his head like there's a joke she has missed. "Sounds like he gave Bella her motorbike back. Just about topped off Charlie's month, where that girl of his is concerned. Don't think she'll be seein' the light of day for a while."

She steps aside to make room so Billy can roll past her and then follows him into the living room. "Motorbike? Bella?"

Billy still seems amused. "Charlie hates them. But I'd bet Jake knew that."

Charlie's a cop — of course he hates them. Except Leah has never thought of Jacob as particularly spiteful. And she doesn't think that he is stupid, either; he can't have been oblivious to how he was being used.

"So . . . he wanted to get her into trouble?"

She can't deny that there's a tiny part of her that is pleased. Maybe Jacob has finally snapped. She thought that it would have happened a while ago — when Bella ran to Italy, maybe, and welcomed her vampire back — but then Leah has never pretended to understand their relationship. It was bad enough watching Jake fawn over her at Christmas, and it had only gotten worse a month after that when their families had gotten together for dinner — just around the time that the other girl had begun to latch onto him like she would depend on life support. Leah had spent most of the time on the phone with Rachel so that she didn't have to look at all the heart eyes.

"Don't know. Probably." Billy shrugs again. "Last I knew, he was in the garage and then suddenly he was tearing off. Just assumed he was off to find you, or something."

Leah pretends not to hear that last part. She has more questions than she's willing to voice, more than Billy likely knows the answer to. God knows how his son's mind works. Every time she thinks she's just about getting used to it, he does something like this.

"How long ago did Charlie call?" she asks instead.

Billy sets himself up in his usual seat. "'Bout five minutes before you walked in."

She nods, more to herself, resolve clearing. "I'll wait outside for him, then."

"Sure, sure. He'll like that."

"Don't think I haven't seen the mess in here, old man," she tosses over her shoulder as she walks away and hears the television turn on. "I'll be back."

"Counting on it." He sounds pleased. A second later, he calls, "Oh, and Leah, sweetie?"

She turns back, hand on the door.

Billy beams from the couch, expression alight with mischief and something else. "Welcome to the family."

The way he says it sounds like he's welcoming her home. And he's so goddamn happy with himself that Leah has the sudden urge to scoff — at him, at his presumption of inevitability, but also at herself for wanting to quirk her lips in spite of it all. Because Billy has been as good as a second father; he knows her, knows exactly how she feels about his house and his family.

Settling instead for a roll of her eyes before she leaves, she makes sure that the door shuts with a satisfying snap behind her. But it's Billy's laughter she hears.

Leah finally allows herself the tiniest of smiles as she sets off towards the garage.

If Jacob is going to be anywhere, it's right there. And it must be destiny, kismet, fate, or something — but honestly, at this point she wouldn't be surprised if it's the spirits meddling with her; they've done a fair amount of that already — because he comes striding out of the woods almost as soon as she reaches the huge, wide wooden doors.

He scowls at the ground as he walks, radiating with enough fury and unhappiness that she can feel it from this distance. It's tugging at her, the imprint — there is no other explanation she has for this overwhelming need to rush over and erase those lines from his face.

She doesn't give in to it. Shock keeps her rooted. Jacob is oblivious to the world around him, oblivious to her standing there and gawking at him. At his naked body.

He stops in his tracks, only halfway near before she's finished cataloguing all the muscles and bare skin. It's odd, the sense of possession which engulfs her. She's never felt it as fiercely as this before, and it takes a long while — longer than she'd like, longer than is strictly normal, anyway — to feel sickened by herself. It's not that many days ago she was declaring Jacob did not own her.

'You're mine,' he'd said.

Mine, she thinks, looking at him still. What a disgusting hypocrite she is.

They stare at each other for half a minute longer. He doesn't seem as embarrassed as she is, doesn't move to cover himself up or bolt in the other direction. He's proud enough to keep his shoulders up.

When her traitorous eyes dare look lower than his chest again, Jacob breaks the silence and starts walking towards her again. "Inside," he says, his voice giving nothing away, and he gestures for her to go on ahead.

Leah springs into action. And she most definitely does not trip over her feet a little bit in her haste, thank you very much.

The garage is deeper than it appears. In all her years, this is the one place on the Blacks' land which she's never ventured. She remembers thinking not too long ago that it would go up in flames if she did. But so far, Jacob's sanctuary is still standing.

As soon as he follows, he grabs a pair of blue cut-offs from a pile kept underneath his workbench and pulls them on quickly. They're ill-fitting; he is forced to leave the top button undone, and Leah has to turn her concentration elsewhere. She wanders over to a black motorbike leant against the farthest wall, hidden behind the old Ford which she recognises as Billy's and has been jacked up on its side.

"You keep clothes in here?"

"Emergencies," he replies evenly, and Leah wonders if he's a bit pissed off with her. If she can feel his warring emotions, can he feel hers? The ownership she'd felt? He probably hasn't forgotten her telling him off for the same thing.

She ghosts her fingers over the seat of the polished bike, its leather cracked and discoloured, worn from use. She's jumped from possession to embarrassment to apprehensiveness in the space of two minutes. It's . . . disconcerting, to say the least. The fact that she can't look at him now after staring so openly is downright ridiculous.

"I wouldn't call this an emergency." (She sounds exactly as stupid as she feels. Since when did she let herself be thrown off-track by a boy?) "More like . . . caught in the act. Is this your bike, then?"

"Uh — yeah," he answers, confused by the turn of conversation.

"What colour was Bella's?" she asks innocently, eyes still averted. It's easier than looking into the intensity she knows she will find growing on Jacob's face, just as it always does.

There's a stretch of silence. Then, "Charlie ratted on me already, didn't he?"

"Mm-hm." Leah starts tracing over the shiny black paint. "What made you do it?"

Sounding wary, Jacob asks, "Are you annoyed?"

"No. Just morbidly curious."

"Morbidly . . . ? You know you don't have to worry about her, right? Because I told you—"

"Oh, I'm not." (Not much, anyway.) "But Billy said Charlie was real mad. Said she'd probably be locked up for good, after what you did."

"Well, that was sorta the point. I thought she might not be allowed to be around her bloodsuckers so much, then," he says, unable to disguise the bitterness in his voice. "Might make her realise there's more to life than dying to be one of them, but I guess — well, let's just say it was probably a pointless exercise in the . . ." He trails off. "Please look at me. You're kinda freaking me out here, honey."

Leah turns around, finally coming face-to-face with exactly what she knew she'd see. Up close Jacob looks ragged, like he's not had any sleep in days even though she knows he's not been patrolling, and he is so clearly pissed off with the world — with Bella. But Leah can still see that look underneath it all. She can still see how he burns.

She leans against the bike, perching on the edge of the wide seat. A picture of calm. It's a far cry from how she really feels, a wonder how her hands are as steady as they are.

Jacob waits, watching. It's not as if he doesn't know why she is here. She doesn't really need to carry on pretending otherwise.

"How does this work, then?" she asks, still quiet and composed. "Is there something I need to do, something I need to say . . . ? I don't know the formalities."

"You don't have to do anything."

"I do," she answers in that same tone. Cautious but deceptively self-possessed, because they're not just talking about formalities now.

He holds her eyes, his own full of quiet but desperate longing. Unblinking. "Do you want to?"

She doesn't answer. She knows she's driving him insane — she's been driving herself insane, these past three days, wondering just what in the hell she thought she hoped to achieve by creating so much distance between them when all she really wanted was to see him.

It was the right thing to do, though, walking away. Staying away. She is too proud to give in so easily. And she knows that every doubt she's had, every time she has second-guessed herself has been because of the imprint. She doesn't understand the workings of it any better, the whys and the hows, but she's closer to understanding her own feelings. All she has to do is remember herself, the person she'd been before Harry passed.

She blows a long breath. "Can we get out of here?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere." She pulls his keys from her jacket pocket, and his hand snaps up to catch the leather cord out of the air quicker than lightning. "Away from the Rez."

If he's surprised, he doesn't show it. "Sure," he says, hand curling around metal. "I'll take you wherever you want. Although . . ." He looks down at himself, at his too-small shorts. "You mind if I get some pants that fit first?"

Her attention flickers to the strong, distracting planes of his chest. "And a shirt?"

He smiles as if he knows, both pleased with himself and forever hopeful. "Whatever you want."

They reach the end of the one-ten before they speak again. Fifteen minutes. Not that she's counting.

Leah had sat in the car whilst he changed. He had been starting the engine only three minutes later — not that she'd been counting that, either — and headed towards the highway without further question as to what they were doing or where they might be going. She thinks he might have been pleased upon noticing the full tank of gas she'd returned the Rabbit with, but she hadn't been able to tell.

(Anyone with good manners would have done it . . . although she hopes he doesn't think she had planned this out — that she, too, is only using him, when the real truth is that she has absolutely no idea what she's doing.)

"Left or right?"

"Right," she says. Left is Forks. It's a no-brainer.

They speed north before the highway veers east, taking them closer to Port Angeles. In spite of the quiet tension and what has obviously been a stressful morning for him — if losing his clothes is anything to go by — Jacob is very clearly in his element. Calm, content to do just this, because nothing beats being able to drive something he has put so much of his heart and soul into building. It's his labour of love. Everyone who has listened to him over the past couple of years knows as much.

He is wearing fraying cut-offs and a grey t-shirt that clings, radiating heat and confidence as he drives. Leah feels awkward in her zipped rifle green parka by comparison — much like she did when hiking with Embry, but at least she had the good sense to put her boots on instead of her crappy sneakers this time.

Jacob notices. He always does. Or maybe he can read her mind like he can his brothers'.

Shit, she hopes not.

He frowns. "Are you cold?"

Realising that she has been tugging on her sleeve, she pointedly folds her ridiculously warm hands in her lap. "No. Apparently I'm like you now. I took my temperature yesterday," she explains before he can ask, more for distraction than anything else, "and the damn thing said one-oh-two. I did it four times. Can you believe it? I should be laid up in bed with a fever." She is on the verge babbling but cannot stop. "Then I remembered what you said about everything feeling cold to you now. Except the pack — and me. Anyway, good thing I did because I almost went to the clinic. How would I have explained it?"

"Yeah," he mumbles apologetically. Clearly he is bothered by this, but why she doesn't know. "Mine's dropped. Happened to the others, too. Things just start kinda . . . balancing out, I guess."

"Great," she retorts dryly. "Am I going to start sprouting fur, too?"

Jacob relaxes somewhat at the wisecrack. "That would be cool. You'd have us whipped into shape in no time. The Council would have a fit."

"Sexist," she grumbles, recalling that Embry had said something similar about Old Quil. "So they think we're only good for imprinting and — what, exactly?"

"Well," Jacob starts hesitantly, "they — the Council, I mean—"

"The men," Leah interjects pointedly.

Jacob pulls a face. "Whatever. They believe it's about, you know . . ." His cheeks tinge with darker colour, and he pointedly keeps his focus on the road. "Strengthening the Quileute line. For the future."

She scoffs in her disgust. "I was right. I said it was about breeding, didn't I?"

"You also said it was the most disgusting thing you'd ever heard," he reminds her underneath his breath, pained. But still she hears every word.

"Yes, and I was right about that, too," she says, unrepentant. Her temper is rising. "But if you're under the impression that I'll be allowing myself to be defined as some kind of Black baby maker, forever pregnant and barefoot and stuck in your kitchen, then you've got another thing coming."

"I said the Council thinks that. I don't."

"Fine. What do you think, then?"

He considers it for a moment, deliberating carefully. "I think . . . I think it has nothing to do with genetics. The previous pack didn't imprint on anyone, but we're still good enough, aren't we? We still do our job. Although, I suppose . . . maybe people would say it is in our case. You might not phase, but you have the right genes; you're Uley and Ateara both, I'm a Black . . ." Jacob takes a deep breath, shaking his head. "But if it really worked that way, then Sam would never have imprinted on a Makah girl," he concludes baldly, and Leah has the suspicion that he may be testing the waters a little bit. Testing her reactions and glancing out of the corner of his eye for the results.

She just shrugs. Whatever Jacob is looking for, he is not going to find it. "She's a little bit Quileute."

"Not enough, by those kind of standards. If imprinting is to make our line strong, then it doesn't make really much sense."

"It does to me," she says. "Think about it. If you carry on with the theory that it's genetics, that only Quileute boys should imprint on Quileute girls, then you could argue there's just not enough of us — we're all a little bit related somewhere. And maybe Ephraim and his pack didn't imprint simply because they didn't look beyond their front doorstep. I don't imagine they went anywhere farther than Hoquiam in those times, and that's only because it's where the Cullens went first. Right?"

Jacob looks at her dead on then, and she thinks that he is a little bit impressed and — dare she think it — proud. "Someone has been brushing up on their history."

She smiles sweetly, proud in her own right. "Mom's a Councilwoman now, don't you know."

"I heard." He returns her smile with genuine feeling. "Good on Sue. Maybe she'll be the one to change my old man's outdated beliefs, huh?"

"She's a working woman. I'm hopeful her expectations of me are far higher than conforming to such ridiculous and antiquated gender roles," Leah declares, her tone dancing a thin line between contempt and arrogance. And it might have been entirely for show, but Jacob laughs so hard he has to lean forward against the steering wheel. His throaty sound rings in her ears.

"Maybe we should put you on the Council," he jests, still chuckling.

"I don't think they'd like that," she replies, but her expression is smug as she looks out of the window. The thick forest is like a wall either side of them, tall and domineering. But it's home. And for all her sudden desire to escape her beloved Reservation for a while, she loves Washington too — even in the rain. "Are we going to Port Angeles?"

"No idea." Jacob leans back in his seat, traces of laughter still on his face. "Where do you want to go? It's a bit late, but we could carry on to Seattle, I guess."

"But that's like another three hours of driving." But maybe the driving is his point. "Do you even like the city?"

"Not really," he admits, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Too crowded. You?"

"Hate it," she agrees earnestly, and he seems pleased. "Take the one-thirteen instead, just up here. I know a place we can go."

A/N: Next update is not *too* far away. I had to split the chapters before it became another monster.

Also, please have a look at the Quileute Nation's Move to Higher Ground campaign if you haven't already. (FF's ToS is a bit dodgy relating to advertising. But for this, I don't care.)