The voices came from far away.
"—bones back in place. They won't heal before that."
"He needs drugs, Sam. Stop being such an arsehole. He'll be in so much pain."
"They won't make a difference. In this state, he'll burn through them in a flash."
"We could still try! — I need to — Please!"
"—call someone else. You don't have to do this."
"He's my kid."
"Exactly."
"Don't get smart with me Samuel Uley. You know that — Not even if — I can do this."
"I wonder if you should, that's all."
"—I can't! I can't be here! I can't stand the screams, make them go away!"
"Kim, the bones need to- for him to heal — you know that."
"I can't , I can't — he's my — and if he doesn't —"
"He'll live. Jared will live, Kim."
"—need a shower. Need to eat something. Need to — you know that."
"He's in and out. I won't let him alone. What if he — and I'm not — you do know that, right?"
"He's in pain. I know."
"I can see his fucking bones, Sam. So many of them."
"—and he'll heal."
"He has to."
"—two, three. Now!"
Pain exploded in Paul's midsize.
After that, there was pain everywhere. So much goddamn pain, for what felt like an eternity, until Paul couldn't stand it anymore and finally succumbed to the darkness calling his name.
Paul was used to pain.
Since he could remember, pain had been a constant companion in his life — perhaps more than any other he had ever had. Paul lived, breathed, and he hurt. That's how it was, and he had long stopped asking why, instead choosing to embrace it for the ally it could be once you bypassed the initial repulse.
Unlike so many things in life, pain was something Paul could understand. There's no confusion, no complicated emotions that crawled under his skin all of a sudden, stealing his breath and taking over his mind. No, pain was simple.
You take, and you give.
Once you knew the rules, pain became your friend. That premise was something Paul believed in with his whole being, which was probably why it took him by surprise when he woke up and the pain blindsided him in its intensity.
He couldn't open his eyes, he couldn't talk, he couldn't move, and he for sure couldn't feel his limbs in any way or form. He could only groan, or maybe whimper, and wonder what the hell had happened to him.
He cannot remember. His body cannot forget.
"It hurts, hun?" Someone spoke to his right, calling Paul's attention despite its low volume. "I gotta say, it's nice to see you showing some healthy reactions to pain." There's a pause. "Although perhaps I'm not the best person to judge."
Paul wished the person would explain something instead of giving him this unsolicited bit of personal opinion.
Christ, what the hell happened to him? Why did he feel so goddamn disconnected from his body?
Was he dying?
"I'm gla— forget it. You probably don't care about that right now. It's fine," The person spoke again, and Paul wondered if the voice really felt familiar or if he was just high on adrenaline and misery. "Sam said I should calm you down if you woke up — he thinks you might come to a little disoriented."
Yes, Sam was fucking right, it is a little disorienting to wake up wishing to die to escape the pain. Thank you for nothing, you asshole stranger.
"I'm not sure how to do that, though. I've never been good at bedside talk, you know? I'm usually on the other side — on your side — and I hate small talk. So, yeah, sorry about that. If it helps, you're alright. You'll be alright, at least."
Paul tried to explain just how not alright he was, but the only sound that passed his lips was another pitiful groan.
"They had to break many of your bones to, you know, set them right," The person carried on — a woman, Paul noticed for the first time. A young woman. "And there are not many safe ways to keep you under, so your dosages are probably way off. That's why you're in pain." They pause again, and there's a noise from their general direction. "I'm sorry, Paul. I'm so sorry you're like this."
There's true, genuine regret coloring their words. Whoever it was, they clearly cared about Paul enough to sit by his bed and feel sorry for his pain — which most likely was caused by his own brand of stupidity.
Well, now he felt bad for calling them an asshole, even though it had only been inside the cages of his own mind and the person was none the wiser.
Still.
"You'll be alright. You'll recover. There's no permanent damage — at least they don't think so. We'll have to wait until you wake up to see… I know you'll go back to sleep. I know you won't remember this. I know… I just… hope you can, I don't know, sense that I'm here. That I'm here for yo—"
The woman was still speaking when Paul succumbed to the darkness calling his name. And it was a shame, because her voice had sounded so clear, so bright even as the pain threatened to swallow him whole, and Paul desperately wished to know why.
There had to be a reason.
The next time Paul woke up, his eyes shot wide open before he could even process his sudden awakening. One second he's fast asleep, and suddenly he's awake, desperately looking around the place, taking the scene in.
He's in his room, and he's not alone. That's as far as he got before someone gasped on his right and called his attention.
Bella was sitting on a chair, close enough to his bed that he could reach out to touch her if wanted to, but she jumped up as soon as their eyes met. Clearly, he had frightened her.
"You're awake!" She pointed out, fisting her hands repeatedly on the sides of her body. Her eyes ran up and down his body as she spoke, and she seemed to analyse his current state. "Are you—I mean, can you talk? Are you alright?"
Paul tried to sit up, only to quickly realise that his body ached all over. He got as far as to raise his head a little from his pillow before he gave up on the entire project. Best to stay where he was, for now.
"Here," Bella said, grabbing a cup filled with ice and picking a piece to put in front of his mouth. Paul accepted the melting piece of ice, immediately noticing how thirsty he was. "This will help."
"What happened?" Paul babbled around the ice in his mouth, thankful when his voice came out strong despite his otherwise pitiful situation.
Bella winced, hands tightening around the cup until her knuckles turned white. Whiter, in her case. "You don't remember?" She asked, pained for some strange reason.
That was the moment Paul realised his imprint looked awful. Beautiful, as always, of course, but still looking as though she hadn't showered in days. Her hair was greasy and messy, tied in a bun at the top of her head; there were stains all over her clothes — a weird mix of blood, coffee, and food; but her face… her face looked the worst.
Bella was beyond exhausted.
"I remember Jared kicking my ass — if that's what you're asking," Paul said, eying the deep bags under her eyes. When was the last time she slept? How long had she been sitting on that uncomfortable chair watching him sleep?
She looked away. "Yeah. There's not much after that," she explained in a weird voice. "You passed out. Sam came. You've been waking up and going back to sleep for a few days."
Paul bit down hard on the remaining ice sitting in between his teeth. "Days? That can't be! I'm usually up in minutes!"
The words seemed to annoy Bella for some strange reason, and she frowned so deeply it made Paul wonder if he had said something wrong.
"I'm sure," she said in a tight voice. "The mighty Paul. The great werewolf. The tamer of idiots, and fighter of stupid causes. I'm sure you wake up just fine."
"Wow. That's harsh. What's with the passive-aggressiveness?"
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "You could've died. You've been in that bed for five days. They had to— You know what? This isn't like your usual deal, okay? You worried a lot of people."
Shit.
Five days? That's a first for him.
Paul could hear what she wasn't saying — it didn't take a genius to read in between those lines. He had worried her.
"I'm sorry for making you worry," Paul said. Told her. "You shouldn't have — I screwed up, I deserve this."
It was the wrong thing to say. It became obvious as soon as the words left his mouth, because Bella's head turned to him in a sharp move and her eyes narrowed so much Paul could hardly see them.
"You don't get to choose who worries about you, or when. You almost died right in front of me. Don't tell me I don't get to worry. I'll worry as much as I fucking please." She barked the words at him, all but shoving the glass filled with cubes of ice into his hands before storming out of the room.
Still, Bella softly closed the door behind herself, instead of slamming the door as Paul half expected her to do, making almost no noise as she left the room. In the distance, Paul could hear her walking down the stairs, across the living room, and out of his house.
After that, Sam was the first person to visit him.
Perhaps he heard the conversation with Bella, or perhaps he had been waiting outside for a chance to talk, who knows. What Paul did know was that it took him less than five minutes to walk inside Paul's room without even a single knock to announce his arrival.
Not that Paul needed the knock.
It was still the polite thing to do, goddammit. Sam could at least pretend to give a shit about whether Paul wanted to see him or not, instead of walking inside as though he owned the place and Paul's attention too, while he was at it.
Quickly deciding that it wasn't a behavior worth encouraging, Paul shoved a few ice cubes into his mouth all at once, wincing when his whole mouth felt uncomfortably cold and sticky straight away.
"You're awake," Sam said, stating the obvious in a much irritating way. "That's good. How are you feeling?"
Paul gave him a look that he hoped conveyed exactly how he was doing without words needing to be said. After all, his mouth was busy at the moment. Sam could entertain himself if he wanted to intrude so much.
"You're glaring. I'm taking that as a good sign," Sam continued after a while. He raised a brow and did that thing with his face where he made you feel like an unruly child being unnecessarily difficult. Paul was very familiar with that face. "Do you want to explain to me what happened?"
It clearly wasn't a request.
Ugh, Paul hated the veiled orders. The string being half pulled. The threat waiting for him behind the simple question.
If his body didn't hurt as badly as it did, and if he didn't want to fill in the gaps as much as he did, Paul wouldn't have caved in so quickly. He tended to make things difficult for Sam first, drawing the conversation out, allowing the awkwardness to stretch.
As it was, Paul simply spat the ice back into the cup. "Which part?"
"From the beginning would be fine."
"Jared needed to vent, I was already here with Bella," Paul explained, knowing secrets were pointless. "Kim's having a bloody child, apparently. Who knew Jared was man enough to fuck her until a baby popped?"
Sam stared at him evenly. "Is that all?"
"Pretty much. I mean, I told Bella to wait upstairs. We broke a lot of shit; I remember that. Then Jared thoughts about Kim... and blackness."
Sam didn't look amused by his levity.
Actually, he looked very tired. The same air of exhaustion that had clung to his imprint was visible around his alpha, making him seem a few years older — a pappa wolf worried about his pups, that's what Emily called that particular look.
"Paul, we need to talk," Sam began, rubbing his forehead with two fingers. "I imagine Bella told you nothing?"
Paul made a face. "She was upset," he admitted, knowing Sam would get it. He was, after all, the master at upsetting his imprint — he knew how bad the early stages could be.
"I'll bet. Let's do this, then," Sam said, leaning against the wall to his right. "You and Jared lost it. Both of you, alright? I don't know why you didn't stop it, Paul. I just don't get it. There's no way you couldn't tell that Jared was completely out of control — why would you encourage him?"
"I tried to. Of course I could tell, Sam, but it's Jared. What did you want me to do? Send him away?" Paul protested, but even as he spoke he realised how weak his excuses were. He did know better, or at least he had believed himself to be above letting things escalate to the point they had, only his current situation told a very different story.
Jared had been out of control. He had been upset, and scared, and absolutely out of his mind, and Paul should've done a better job at talking him down. At subduing him until his brother lost some of his steam.
Only he hadn't.
Paul had tried, it was true. Only it probably didn't count as trying when he had said two words and then allowed Jared to keep swinging at him anyway, and Sam most likely knew how ridiculous his attempt had been judging by the look on his face.
"No, you wouldn't do that, would you?" Sam said, and for some reason, it sounded too much like a dig at his morals. "I guess it doesn't matter now. We can't change the past. I don't think you realise how close you were to dying, though. Do you remember that? Jared going for your jugular? Your jaw being completely shattered? If I hadn't arrived when I did, Jared would've killed you."
Even as Sam spoke, Paul shook his head. That couldn't be true. Jared wasn't the type of guy to kill a person, especially not Paul.
Sam just didn't get it.
"He wouldn't. C'mon, man, it's Jared. You know him."
"He would," Sam corrected, and there's a hint of pity in his eyes. "He almost did. Jared absolutely would've killed you if I hadn't ordered him down. I saw it, Bella saw it. You were in no condition to fight back, Paul."
"Shut up, man. Yeah, we were bad but that's not—"
"You were bad," Sam corrected once again. "Jared was mostly fine. Some broken bones and some things out of place, yeah, but he's fine. You weren't. Not even close. This wasn't a fight — he used you as a punching bag, and you allowed him."
Jared was fine? That wasn't how Paul remembered it. Why was everyone telling him shit that made no sense with the memories he had? It wasn't possible that he had knocked his head hard enough to give him hallucinations, was it?
"I beat the shit out of him," Paul said robotically, trying to shift the narrative back into safe grounds. He had been the one fighting, the once going against Jared, for fuck's sake, so he could damn well tell Sam what had happened that day.
Sam nodded. "You did. As you always do, sure. You were holding back, though. I can tell by just looking at Jared, so don't give me that look. You always hold back when you go against him — as you should, man. Jared should've been holding back too… He didn't, though. My theory is that his emotions got too mixed up with your own, and it made it difficult for him to snap out of his bloodthirst."
And he was giving Paul a weird pointed look, silently telling him exactly what sort of thoughts he imagined had been going through Paul's head during the fight, and it irked Paul beyond reason. It wasn't the first time Sam implied that.
"I don't enjoy pain, Uley. Fuck off."
"Could've fooled me. Could've fooled everyone, really. 'Cause no sane person would stand still while someone else beat the shit out of them, so unless you have a good enough reason to tell me, I'm going to assume you liked it when Jared hurt you."
"I've told you a million times, for God's sake. Why are you busting my ass here? You know what we do — you never had a problem with it before. So, I got hurt this time, why are you acting as if the world is about to end?"
Sam's reaction to his outburst wasn't to get angry or frustrated, as Paul had expected, instead, his expression suddenly turned sad. "Because you could've died," he said, enunciating each word carefully, putting emphasis on the last word. "You almost died, Paul. You're pack — my pack. And I almost lost you. How am I supposed to react?"
And just like that, it became too much.
Far too personal and sentimental, and Paul still tried as hard as possible to evade deeper conversations, so he winced and ignored the question.
"What were you doing here, anyway? You weren't shifted."
"Bella called me."
What?
"Bella?" He repeated, incredulous.
Sam nodded. "She did. Pretty much as soon as you both started to get rough, I imagine. She was frightened and very scared for you, so she called me and asked if this type of thing was normal." He paused, giving him a pointed look. "She's smart. Quick. I think she noticed something was wrong from the get-go. Saved your life, to be honest."
"I didn't hear her calling—"
"Surprising, hun? There was something happening that the great Paul Lahote didn't notice? How unlikely."
The words were a knife to his chest.
Paul's throat tightened inside him, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. He inhaled, trying to force the air to go inside his lungs, knowing he needed to breathe and to shove oxygen into his stupid brain, but his body refused to cooperate.
"Bella was scared?" He demanded, only it sounded closer to a whimper than a demand. So fucking weak.
"She was terrified," Sam said, twisting the knife deeper and deeper with each word. "Stayed here with you the whole time. Refused to go home, refused to let anyone else take care of you. She changed your bandages and your clothes, talked to you when you woke up for a few minutes, called your job and got your shifts covered… pretty much took care of everything."
His job. Paul hadn't even thought about his job since he had woken up, much less about his classes and his students. He would've probably been fired if Bella hadn't called them.
And he had allowed her to leave.
Hadn't even said anything to her, really, other than a few stupid sentences that now made no sense whatsoever.
Why hadn't he asked her how she was? Why hadn't he thanked her for being there? Why was he such a pile of shit with his soulmate — the person he was supposed to be able to please without even trying?
"She has—I mean, what about school?"
"She called in sick. Missed quite a few days in a row. She did her homework here, in your room, as you slept. Got into quite a big fight with Charlie about it, too, as I understand."
"You should've sent her away. Told her to go to school. She shouldn't have lost so many days — not so close to graduation," Paul mumbled, completely lost. He didn't even know what he was saying.
"Good luck telling Bella Swan what she has to do," Sam said, and for the first time, he looked almost amused, as if her stubbornness entertained him somehow. "I wasn't about to try. Jacob wasn't as wise — let's just say she told him in a lot of details where to shove his concern."
Bella told Jacob to shove it? Bella? His Bella? The girl who saw Jacob as a little kid she still had to protect?
"None of this makes any goddamn sense," he finally admitted, sucking on a lone piece of ice and wondering if someone had laced it with some kind of super-drug.
"It makes perfect sense to me," Sam contradicted from his place, still leaning against the wall, sounding far too sure of himself. "Maybe you just haven't been paying enough attention to your surroundings, Paul."
Then why had Paul believed he had been doing great for the first time in his god-forsaken life?
"You stupid boy."
Those were the first words out of Ana's mouth when she saw him awake. Perhaps it hadn't been the first time she said it — maybe she had visited many times in his sleep only to tell him how stupid he had been. It seemed like something Ana would've done.
Or maybe not, but Paul figured he probably deserved it this time. Maybe slightly more than all the other times he had also deserved it. He had, after all, destroyed her entire living room and her son.
He had no doubts which one of those she considered to be the worst offense.
"I deserve that," Paul acknowledged, doing his best to keep his expression neutral. He had no idea what her reaction might be — he was sure she still had much to say — and the last thing he wanted was for her to perceive him as being defensive.
She was right; he was beyond wrong.
They both knew that, if nothing else. Paul wouldn't defend himself, because there was nothing to defend, not this time, and Ana deserved better than his usual bullshit, so he allowed the silence to stretch after his words.
Ana had never been one for quiet starring battle, but then Paul had had never been once to commit attempted murder at her home. Fight? Yes. Whatever the hell had happened a few days ago? Never.
And so it went, for several long moments, until Paul's patience started to wear thin and his need to say something, anything, began to overtake his sense until he could hardly contain himself. Silence wasn't his strong suit — this was torture.
Just when he was about to give up, Ana's expression changed. Her tight muscles relaxed and her mouth slacked and her eyes started to water.
"You stupid damn boy," she repeated, taking one, two, three long steps until she could come up to him and throw herself into his arms.
Paul caught her by reflex, arms coming to brace her before he could even make the conscious decision to do so. He would always catch her.
"You made me so worried," Ana sobbed on his neck, wrapping her arms around his middle. She was half seated on the bed and half lying on top of Paul, which was honestly a very uncomfortable position for him. Her weight was straining his injuries, and he had to use a lot of his strength to hold her lest she dragged him down.
Paul said nothing. Instead, he held her as she cried, feeling like the shittiest human walking on the face of the earth for being the one to make her sad. Ana never deserved this and knowing that only served to fill Paul with guilt.
"You shouldn't have worried about me, woman," Paul said, even though what he wanted to say was that he was sorry. That he was a piece of shit. That he had broken many promises he had made to her, and that was unforgivable. That she deserved better from the person she gave everything to.
Only the words got lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth, and the only thing to come out were those stupid and insulting words, in an even stupider and insulting tone — a mix of grumbling and whining. It was quite pathetic, and Paul winced internally at his own shittiness.
"Don't say that. Don't ever say that!" Ana argued, holding him even tighter. She then released him and leaned back to look him dead in the eyes, tears still running down her cheeks "You hear me, Paul Lahote, and you hear me well. I have worried for you since the day I met you, and I'll worry for you until the day I die. I didn't push you out of my body, and Taha knows I respect your mother a whole damn lot, but you are my kid. You'll always be my boy, no matter what."
Paul shook his head, flabbergasted. "I'm not your kid."
Ana tilted her chin up. "You are very much my child, Paul. I have the papers to prove. I took you in and raised you as I did Jared. You have both been my boys, and I won't have you saying otherwise."
She had never said that before. Never once, and she chose now to claim him as her own? After the shitshow that happened on her property?
"You don't mean that," Paul corrected gently, thinking it was probably the emotions from the shock that were making her act that way.
Ana didn't like that, though. She raised her hands and cradled his head with the sort of care one would expect from a worshiper that had been handed a piece of the divine, or perhaps a mother holding a very frail baby. And despite Paul being none of those, Ana still held him for the longest of moments, keeping his gaze captive as she did so.
"I mean nothing as much as I mean this, Paul. Trust me on this, please. I don't need you to look at me like that — I know you don't wanna hear this. But, well, I need to say. You are mine child and I'll see you as my child for the rest of my days," she said strongly, as if trying to make him understand some complicated piece of math. "I have always respected your need for distance, but don't think for a single moment that I don't love you."
"Then why did you never say that before?" Paul demanded, needing to know. He didn't choose to say that, and neither did he actually believe he had the nerve to demand answers after all the shit he had done. And still, despite what better sense might have led him to believe, he demanded.
Ana blinked. "I did," she responded, a new wave of tears forming on the corner of her eyes. "I did, my precious boy. So many times when you were young. You were so hurt, so angry, so betrayed and alone, though, so you never believed a word I said. You screamed a whole lot back then, remember?"
Paul didn't. Had he screamed at Ana? How could he not remember that?
"You always told me I wasn't your momma," she continued, rubbing her thumb against his cheek. "And I always respected your space. The memories you had. The horrible memories… no child should have to go through what you had. It was a shame on all of us, on the tribe. We let that happen right under our nose, and you suffered because of that. So I allowed you to grieve as you needed. But I said it, baby. I said it."
"I don't remember any of that," Paul admitted in a weak voice, feeling very much like a seven-year-old again, so goddamn unsure and vulnerable. His body ached, and his cheek burned at the exact place Ana was touching him, and his eyes felt so damn dry, and there's a place in his heart that feels about to explode.
He's too old for this. Too old to be held, to be comforted, to be told he was a child. Paul had overgrown those needs so many years ago, before he could ever really remember needing them in the first place. His mother had died, and a chunk of Paul had died alongside her. It was too late to dig up ancient feelings and memories, and yet Ana was sitting on his bed doing exactly that, which made no sense.
Not when he had been ready for screams, and violence, and anger, and disappointment, and sadness, and worst of all, a deep regret for having ever trusted him in the first place.
"You were so young," Ana said. "So very young. I'm sure there's a lot you don't remember — and that's alright. I'm the adult; I remember. It was my responsibility to take care of you, and I always did my best. From the day I picked you up from that dirty police station, I did my best to be as much of a mother to you as you would allow me to." She paused, blinked away some tears, opened and closed her mouth a few times. "I know that you believe I love Jared more than I love you, as though it matters to me that he has my blood, but that's not true. I love you both just the same."
When he said nothing, she added, "I'm so sorry he hurt you, baby. So very sorry. It's okay if you are sad and confused. It alright."
Paul lasted perhaps two whole seconds before the first drop of tear managed to escape from his eye.
And if he then proceeded to cry like a little fucking baby while Ana held him in her arms, well, that was nobody's business. She wouldn't tell anyone, and Christ, Paul needed this.
Author's Note: Happy Easter, you all! I'm back!
