Author's Note: Guess who's back with a chapter that has almost 9k words? That's right, this unpredictable author, right here. God, it must be a wild ride to read my stuff.
Paul lost track of time.
The last hour somehow seemed no different from the current one, and he was sure the next one would be just more of the same, and perhaps that's why they all blended together so easily as he rested against the now-familiar tree. Time passed, that much he was certain of, but nothing beyond that mattered, at the moment.
Emily sat next to him in silence.
At one point, she grabbed his hand and held it in between hers. Since then, she had yet to let go and Paul had yet to protest, so they stayed that way: connected.
The rain never gave it a rest. Not that Paul had expected it to, of course, but it still impressed him — the amazing ability of the world to keep pouring down endless amounts of rain for hours on end without a second of rest.
It rained on, and they stayed where they were, leaning into each other to remain upright while doing their best to blink away the drops of water stuck to their eyelashes. Or maybe that was just him, and Emily's dulled senses saved her from the discomfort of feeling everything touching her body.
Who knew.
By then, they were both drenched from head to toe, completely soaked and sitting on puddles of water. Paul couldn't care less, and had he been alone, he probably would've stayed there indefinitely, but Emily had started to shiver a few seconds ago, and that was enough to snap him out of his funk.
It was one thing to waste away in that wretched weather — another thing entirely to allow Emily to catch a cold or worse because he was too busy being pathetic.
"Get up," he said, surprised that his voice still worked after such a big stretch of silence. "We're going back."
"I'm okay," Emily protested weakly. "We can stay here."
"Sure you are. Now get up." And as he spoke, Paul was already moving. Getting up and pulling her up by the hand, refusing to allow her to stay there for another minute. Enough was enough, it was time to leave.
"You don't have to go just because I'm—" she started, even as she climbed in his back dutifully once he positioned them correctly. Paul appreciated her resilience, he did, but it wasn't necessary anymore.
"Save it, superwoman," Paul mumbled, interrupting her. "This is enough. Let's get you home, alright?"
Emily sighed. "Alright," she agreed, tightening her legs around him and holding his shoulders with her cold hands. She was shivering harder, he noticed. "If you say so."
With those words, Paul started running in the direction of the reservation. It was time to go back — he had wallowed enough, and Emily needed to warm up. Even being pressed up against his burning skin wouldn't help if he didn't get them away from the rain, so Paul did his best to hold her steady and ran faster.
At some point, she dropped her head on his shoulder to use his neck as a hiding spot from the rain, releasing a quiet sigh of fatigue mixed with relief as she did so — a barely-there sound that she most likely thought he wouldn't be able to hear.
Paul did hear it, though, and it was enough to assure him that he had done the right thing by dragging her out of that damn wet forest. Emily was only human, and no amount of positive emotions were enough to keep them going in such weather.
He had been an idiot — an even bigger idiot — to allow her to stay for as long as she had.
Finally, the trees disappeared behind them, and a tiny, familiar, red house appeared in their places, promising them shelter against the elements.
Before they even got close, the door burst open and the guys ran outside. They received the pair with open arms, and dry clothes, and hot showers, and enough food to feed an army. It made Paul wonder if he still had any tears left to cry and whether that might be enough to make him find out.
Thankfully, it wasn't. And he didn't.
But still.
Being around his pack again — even if just a part of it — was no small thing.
Paul had missed this. The boys who shared his mind, the people the spirits had chosen to be his pack until the day they died.
Jared wasn't there, but Paul refused to focus on that. He had already spent hours thinking about his brother. There would be time later to go back to the issue, and how it wouldn't go away until he did something about it, yes, but now he would soak up the presence of his pack and ignore all the rest.
Even Jared could wait until after breakfast.
Sam also wasn't there. He was probably patrolling with Jared, watching over Bella, making sure the redheaded didn't strike while they ate muffins.
Paul wished he hadn't noticed.
Wished he hadn't noticed the empty seats, and his own inability to be the person planning the safety of his imprint.
He did notice. Obviously.
And it soured his mood enough that the once tasty muffin turned to ashes on his tongue.
He blinked and forced himself to think about something else, to focus on the present and not on the million details he wished he could change about the past. His pack was there, surrounding him for the first time in days — it would be a shame to waste time getting stuck inside his mind.
So much had changed, and yet there's so much that's still the same.
Quil was still disgusting.
Jacob was still frowny.
Embry was still unbothered by his two stupid best friends.
It's good.
So damn good, for once.
"So, dude, how's stuff? What about your job?" Embry asked, and Paul appreciated the light conversation. He could tell they were itching to ask about what happened, and yet they didn't, despite having plenty of opportunities to do so, for which they had his sincere gratitude.
"It's good," Paul said, going with it. "Bella said I had been in a bike accident, but downplayed the story to make my quick recovery plausible. I asked Ana to get me some fake hospital papers and sent them to the gym. I'll be going back next week."
"I don't get how you never got fired," Quil joked, reclining in his chair. "Seriously, dude, your schedule sucks."
Paul shrugged, even though he privately agreed with the sentiment. In the beginning, he had been sure they would've fired him after his first no-show day. "That's not how it works with fighting. People want to learn from the best, and they'll pay a whole lot of money to get a teacher who can throw them around without breaking a sweat."
"Isn't that kind of sad?" Jacob asked, frowning ever so slightly. Always frowning these days, Paul realized. When was the last time he asked Jacob how he was dealing with the imprint?
Embry nodded in agreement. "Especially because they kind of can't learn that from you, yeah."
"I mean, I sort of get it," Paul admitted, returning to the conversation but keeping a closer eye on the micro-expressions going around. "If I were in their place, I wouldn't want some weak-ass idiot to teach me."
"How sad it is that there are idiots around willing to pay money to see Paul?" Quil asked, mouthing the words around a huge bite of food. At least he seemed normal enough. Good.
"Maybe the women go there to ogle his abs," Emily suggested, wiggling her eyebrows at him. It was weak, and she was clearly exhausted, but he could tell she desperately wanted to be a part of the conversation.
So Paul smiled, shaking his head. It was odd, because he remembered a time — before his imprint and everything that had happened since then — when that would've sounded great. "I don't teach women."
Many eyebrows' rose.
"None?"
"Nope. I mean, Muay Thai isn't a popular fighting style among women as it is, and I teach pretty advanced classes, so yeah. No chicks."
"You know what I always wondered?" Embry said. "Don't fighters have that bursted ear, you know? Ugly and bloated? Don't people see you and wonder about that?"
Paul nodded. "Yeah, most guys get them. It's because of the amount of time you spend rubbing against the ground — it gets pretty bad for most people. But not everyone has those — some people just don't. But sure, a lot of my students ask me about it."
"I'm sure Bella appreciates your supernatural healing," Jake said, with a surprising lack of bitterness in his voice. The situation just kept getting stranger and stranger. "Those guys get ugly as fuck."
"Yeah, I'm sure Bella would rather date a dangerous beast than a man with a fucked-up ear," Paul mumbled, and unlike Jacob, his voice was filled with all sorts of bitterness. "She traded up, for sure."
Quil snorted. "You're such a cry-baby. A beast — yeah, sure."
"We're not exactly puppies, Quil," Paul said, and goddammit, his voice went low and far too serious, and there's no way the others couldn't hear the underlying sharpness behind his words.
Before the others can begin to dissect that sentence, however, there's a faint, unmistakable sound outside, and Paul's on his feet in a flash, the rest of his breakfast abandoned on his plate.
It's Sam outside, and no matter how wonderful it was to spend time with the others, he's really the person Paul needed to see the most, and so, without another word, he turned and left. Too impatient to wait for his alpha to arrive; too scared to have the conversation in hearing range of the pack.
So he ran.
Once more, Paul ran through the rain. This time he only stopped when he saw his alpha standing with his arms crossed, leaning against a tree, clearly already waiting for him, and it stirred something unpleasant in Paul's gut.
The picture Sam painted as he stood there, with trees and wilderness surrounding him, looked very different from the one Paul imagined his had looked only a few hours before.
Sam was very much in control of himself; Paul wished he could say the same.
Paul looked at Sam and prayed a crack would form in the ground beneath his feet and swallow him whole before he had to say the words stuck in his throat. Being crushed to death sounded less painful than uttering his own failings out loud, in the open, for someone else to hear and judge.
Still, the ground refused to move, and Paul refused to fall prey to his weakness once again, so he fisted his hands as tightly as he could and forced his mouth to work, and his tongue to wrap around the painful confession.
"Bella," he started, and saying her name was enough to send an electrical discharge across his body and the anguish was enough to rob him of his breath. So he stopped. Inhaled deeply before starting again. "Where did she go, because I felt her—"
But Sam cut him off.
"She went home," he said, with none of the disgust Paul had expected to hear. "She had classes, so she had to go." He paused and seemed to considerer something for a moment. "You know, Paul, I do think that you underestimate Bella. A lot. She isn't as fragile as you seem to think she is."
Only Sam hadn't heard the awful things Paul had been thinking about his mate. The shitty stuff he had the audacity to say out loud.
Sam didn't know that Paul had threatened to kill a human. And not just any human — an imprint. His own imprint.
Sam didn't know that Paul ran. That he shifted in front of his mate, and then ran away, like some petty criminal, like… well, like the fucking bloodsucker.
Sam couldn't know any of that stuff because Paul knew, with absolute certainty, that Bella hadn't told him. She wouldn't have, of course. Not Bella. Not his independent mate, who would rather bottle up all of her emotions before pointing a finger towards a guilty person.
She wouldn't have.
Even if she should have.
Even if Paul wished she had. Then at least Sam would already be aware, and Paul wouldn't have to stand there and wonder how the fuck he should begin to explain that there was a real possibility that his soulmate wouldn't ever wish to speak to him again.
And that she would be right to do so.
Only Sam had no clue, so he smiled a bit. The slightest upward curve to his mouth. "She's right — you have turned into a worrier. I didn't think I would see this day."
It would be funny if it wasn't so depressing.
"Is she okay?" He asked. He had to. The concern was eating at his insides.
"She left the reservation exactly as she arrived here, Paul," Sam said, a touch too cryptic for Paul's tastes.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that she was no better and no worse than when she got here. That's what it means."
"So she was fine?"
"I don't know, Paul. Was she fine yesterday?"
"What the fuck does that mean?"
Sam's eyebrow rose. "Where has your head been, Paul? Honestly?" He asked, sounding every bit the concerned dad. "I'm starting to really worry about you. Why have you been avoiding the pack?"
The unmitigated blow hit him straight in the solar plexus, and Paul had to take a step back to accommodate the hit. "I'm not avoiding anyone."
"You're not? That's funny. How come no one has seen you in more a week, then?"
"Well, I couldn't shift, Sam," Paul said, annoyed. "I still live in the same fucking house I always have. How come none of you bothered to show up?"
"I ordered the boys to stay away," Sam admitted freely, as though the words weren't a whip to the back.
"Why?" Paul demanded. He couldn't help but feel betrayed. He's hurt and recovering and Sam decided to stop his pack from seeing him? What kind of crap was that?
"You never answered anyone's calls," Sam explained, calm as ever. If Paul's a fire pit going out of control, then Sam's a perfect ice cube, frozen solid. "You didn't answer texts. Not mine, not Emily's... You basically ignored anyone who wasn't Bella. I figured that was your way of asking for space."
It's only at that moment that Paul realized he hadn't even looked at his phone in days. "I. That wasn't what I—"
"Also, the door was locked," Sam carried on as if he hadn't spoken.
No way. The door was never locked.
"That's not possible. I didn't lock the door."
Sam didn't even blink. "Someone did. And it seemed like a big sign for us to stay away," he said, still so damn calm. "After what happened, I figured you deserved as much time as you needed to sort things out. You knew where to find us — if you wanted to, that's it."
The fact that Sam wasn't wrong bothered Paul more than he could express. He didn't want another weight to shoulder, but it seemed like once again he was the asshole in the situation. Maybe the pattern was more consistent than he had thought it was.
"But I didn't," he said weakly, unable to say more. "I didn't lock the door."
And for some unfathomable reason, it was important to him that Sam knew that he hadn't locked the damn door. That he hadn't wanted to make the others think he was shutting them out.
"That's alright," Sam said, always so unfazed, with an answer at the tip of his tongue. Paul's a man enough to admit it's a blow to his already bruised ego. "I'm not upset, Paul. You deserve to heal in whichever way you think is best."
"I can barely feel the pain now," Paul informed, mechanically. He wondered whether he should be happier about his healing process, then wondered if he had ever felt happy for healing after an injury. Wondered what that said about him.
"I'm glad," Sam said. "I wasn't talking about your injuries, though."
Oh, that.
Of course.
Everyone wanted to talk about feelings these days. It shouldn't have surprised him that Sam would want to know how his mental health was, and yet it still did. As it always did, Paul was taken by surprise with how much others cared.
Had that always been the case and he had simply been too busy swimming in denial to see it?
Had people been checking on each other to see how they were behind his back and Paul had never even noticed it? Was he so fucking blind that he had never cared enough to stop and ask if anyone needed something more of him than money, sex, and muscles?
The notion that he had been living in a bubble, completely unaware of an entire part of people's lives, surrounded by the rest of his tribe while they carried on their lives without his participation put an endless weight on top of his chest, pressing down on his lungs.
"What's with the obsession with my emotions, all of a sudden?" Paul wondered, the words coming out weaker than he wished, and it was a testament to his confusion that he couldn't even be bothered to care. "If it's so damn important, why did no one ask that before?"
"We did," Sam said, confirming Paul's worst assumptions. "You just never listened. So we learned to speak with actions; to look at you and see what you couldn't tell us."
As his alpha spoke, flashbacks popped behind his lids.
Fights with Sam, even though he had never been a fighter; nights spent at the bar, downing shots of tequila without a care for the next day or the next hour; trees he punched until they snapped and died; aggressive jokes with the rest of the pack, and how no one besides him really laughed at them; endless conversations that had died whenever he walked into the room.
Years of people tiptoeing around his issues while he bulldozed through life, stomping over the fragile parts of coexistence that had always seemed so fucking boring for him. So optional.
It was enough to make anyone feel like the biggest asshole to grace the earth.
"You should've knocked some sense into me," Paul said. "You should've— I mean, you should've done—"
"Should've punched you until you listened?" Sam asked, raising his brow again, and this time his meaning was clear. "Should've sat you down and forced you to listen to our opinions?"
Paul heard clearly what his alpha wasn't saying.
It wouldn't have worked; He wouldn't have cared.
If they had tried to force him, Paul would've resented them forever for it. He would've shut down and pushed them away, doing the same shit he always did whenever others tried to get personal with him.
It wasn't Sam's fault.
Which meant it could only be his own fault.
"Holy shit."
Paul lasted about two seconds before he emptied the entire contents of his stomach on the grass next to him.
Somehow, the muffins tasted even worse coming up than they had going down.
Perfect.
Paul's breaking many laws.
He's going too fast, he didn't have a shirt on, or a helmet even, and he was dancing all around the lanes as though the lines painted on the concrete were optional. The bike hummed under his legs and the wind slapped him across the face.
For once, it wasn't raining. Paul decided to take that as a sign that he's doing exactly what he ought to be doing at the moment, and forgave himself for pulling this shit when he should be back home, pretending to still be recuperating from a bike accident.
He pushed his bike to the limit, going over every safety rule while hoping that the miles disappearing behind him were enough to make him forget the last months of his life.
This was good.
This he could do effortlessly, and he had no worries about failing because unlike the other shit happening in his life, this Paul could control with his eyes closed. Riding his bike took no effort at all. It was as easy as breathing, which was basically all that Paul trusted himself to be able to do properly these days.
Maybe he was an awful friend, and an aggressive son, and a fuck-show of a boyfriend, and the worst possible influence on people surrounding him. Yeah, maybe he was. But a bad rider Paul was not, and that had to be enough for now.
At least until he could figure out how to be a better fucking person.
Until then, Paul could drive aimlessly around — with no destination in mind, and going absolutely nowhere no matter how many hours he rode, and fuck, that's more than alright in his mind.
Paul sighed.
He looked at where he was, noticing his surroundings for the first time in a long while, and it quickly became clear that his supposed lack of destination had been just another lie in his long list of self-sabotages.
It wasn't the first time he was doing this, and yet he was doing it all wrong.
In the end, it didn't surprise him that he ended up at her house — Bella had never once left his mind. And it didn't surprise him that after hours of randomly going around, he ended up there. It seemed obvious that he would end up there, now that he thought about it.
He couldn't see it yet; he wasn't that stupid. He was parked a few blocks away but it was close enough that he could smell her all around. Thank goodness. He could listen to her — if he focused hard enough. He could hear her: walking around her room, touching things, moving things around.
He could almost picture the scenes in his mind.
He wondered if she would be afraid of him, if she would flinch. It was hard to choose which one would be worse: if she did flinch at the sight of him, which would probably mean that she was afraid of him and the possibility of him hurting her; or if she didn't, and maybe that would be because she's far too used to having supernatural creatures putting her at risk.
It's painful to even consider the possibilities.
Had she been anyone else, Paul would've done his usual break-up routine. He would've called, or texted, or maybe even written a poorly-worded letter and dropped it at her door. Something distant and less hurtful that would probably spare them both of a pile of hurt.
Bella wasn't just anyone, however. And Paul could hardly call it quits with her — at least no more than he could cut his soul in half and wander around with only a chunk of his own self. So he had to deal with the mess he made, despite how much it would suck.
There's no choice here. Bella's not someone he could afford to stay away from, even while he sorted his mind out, and frankly, she deserved better than another disappearing act from him. In all honesty, she would most likely drag him back by the ear if he dared to try some shit with her.
And that was good.
Paul needed some accountability in his life, and knowing Bella counted on him to stay true to his word was as good motivation as any, and it served to get his ass moving.
He had no clue on what he would say to her or whether the words would factor in her decision to forgive him or not — all he knew was that he had a problem and the only way to fix it was to do some pretty heavy groveling at Bella's feet and hope that she would somehow find it in herself to understand his side.
And if she didn't… well, it was only his life on the balance.
Paul had faced worse odds before.
So he walked the rest of the way and made sure to knock on the front door. He wouldn't use the window — if she wanted didn't want to see his face, it was her fucking right, and Paul refused to take it away from her.
It came as a relief when she instantly opened the door, without even pausing to consider whether she wanted or not to do this at her house and not someplace more crowded. Bella just opened her door, and Paul was reminded once again of just how beautiful she was.
He stood there, like a fucking idiot, gaping at her, trying to find the right words to express just how badly he had fucked-up, and she was just… Christ, so goddamn perfect.
If he could, Paul would touch her all the time. Glue his hands to her body and never allow them to stray further than five inches away from each other.
"I'm sorry," he blurted out, without a clue on what he would say after that. He understood his words from before were unacceptable, and that he had been a jerk to her with absolutely no reason whatsoever, and that she already had so much trauma with relationships, and that he was supposed to be the perfect person to her…
And yet he had hurt her.
Had said words to her that could never be unsaid.
Had lashed out in his anger to the last person he should've ever done so — even if only because Bella had shown an inhumane amount of patience with him since the beginning of their relationship.
So, yeah, Paul should have a whole speech ready. It was the least he could do after being an asshole and disappearing into the woods — doing the one thing she had ever asked him not to do.
The truth, though, was that Paul didn't have a speech. He had nothing. Simply because every time he tried to think of something to say, it sounded so pathetically small, so insignificant next to what he knew she deserved… and the words escaped him.
Bella stared for a moment. Paul felt almost shy in face of her scrutiny — she always saw so damn much when it came to him.
"You don't need to apologize to me," she finally said, not a sliver of fear in her chocolate eyes. Not a single change in her heartbeat.
"What do you mean?" Paul asked, dumbfounded. She couldn't be for real. "Of course I do!"
"No, you don't. I could tell you would shift from the start," she explained. "I told you — I've read the books. And once you know what to look for, it's pretty easy to spot what's happening in front of you. You hadn't shifted since the fight, Paul, and all of a sudden some crazy anger takes over? I knew it."
The words side-tracked him, and his weak apology crumbled in his hands.
"And you decided to stay?" Paul asked instead. What had she been thinking? "I could've hurt you! Killed you! Why didn't you run? Do you have no sense of self-preservation?"
"I stepped away." Bella shrugged. "By the time you shifted, I wasn't even close to you, Paul. I was fine. As I said, it wasn't scary at all once I understood why you were acting so odd. In a way, I was so relieved that for once in my life I wasn't taken by surprise by the supernatural."
And she seemed quite pleased with herself.
"Still. It wasn't safe. I could've hurt you so badly, Bella. What if I had been out of my mind once I shifted, hun? You think about that?"
"The anger propels the shift. It gets the cycle going; that's how it works. You know this, Paul. I was never in any danger from it," she insisted, but her eyes went soft when they met his. "I get it, okay? But this was nothing like what happened to Emily, alright? You are not Sam."
"And that's why you should've run," Paul said darkly.
"I was fine."
Paul shook his head, trying to clear it. "It doesn't matter. That's not the point. I still shouldn't have said the stuff I said, and you know that. It wasn't… I should've... "
"Paul," she said, cutting him off. She waited until their eyes met to continue. "I'm not mad. And I'm also not saying that to make you feel good — trust me on this, please. I just… don't care. From what I've read, this is normal. You would've found any reason to be mad, regardless of who you were with, and the process makes everything seems so… hot? I don't know. Worse, I guess. I was provoking it a bit at the end there."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Kind of like helping a kid pull a tooth quicker, or whatever. I wasn't really paying attention to what you were saying to me. I certainly don't resent you for it."
"But I called you a bitch."
"Alright, and?"
"I said I was going to hurt you, Bella."
"You know what, Paul," Bella said, seriously. "I've learned to trust people's actions way more than their words. Yeah, you said a lot of shit, and yet you never even came close to hurting me — what does that tell you? You were completely overtaken by the moment, and yet you didn't. I don't think you could."
"And you were willing to risk your life based on that trust?"
"Yeah, I was. And I would do it all over again tomorrow — if I had to. Gladly."
"I don't think you understand how much stronger than you I am."
"I've seen enough," Bella rebuffed, not budging an inch. "I've seen enough to know exactly how easy it would've been for you to crush me like a bug. But you didn't. That's the point. I could, theoretically, start a fire and burn down every single tree in Forks if I wanted to. I could. Doesn't mean I will. Doesn't mean I want to."
"That would take a crazy amount of effort on your part. Hurting you would be easier than breathing for me," he explained, even as his wolf trashed inside him, contradicting his words. Hurting Bella was an impossibility. "Easier than stepping on an ant."
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, you are so very strong. I get it. Honestly, you only ever listen to like, half of what I say. The point is that everyone has the capability to do harm — if they wish to — and what defines them is whether they decide to restrain themselves or not. And you do, all the damn time. You don't think I see that?"
God, she was so unpredictable.
Paul remembered a time when he thought he would be able to fight the bond — that this magical tie between them wouldn't be enough to change him.
"So you're just letting me off the hook here?" Paul asked, standing on her porch, wondering if he would ever feel in control of his life again. "Just like that?"
"No," Bella said, and Paul's heart sunk. He should've known it wouldn't be so damn easy. "That's assuming you did something wrong and I'm forgiving you without reason. And I'm not. You have nothing to be sorry for. I was never angry. The only concern I had was for you, Paul. You left and I didn't know where you were going."
Paul suddenly had a realization.
"You called Sam."
"Emily," she corrected gently. "I called Emily. I knew she wanted to see you, and I knew Sam would take her to where you were, so I called her a few minutes after you left."
It was all so confusing. "Why not ask one of the boys to take you to me?"
"Many reasons. I know Sam can keep secrets from the rest of the pack, so I knew you would have your privacy — if you needed it. I knew Emily wanted to talk to you alone. I knew I had been the one to trigger your shift, so I didn't know if you wanted to see me or if it would even be good for you," she said, then paused. "Mostly because I wanted you to know that you have other people who care about you, you know? Don't think for one moment that I didn't notice you pushing the pack away after what happened with Jared."
Paul wanted to deny, but the words would've been a terrible lie, and Bella deserved more than a liar.
"Was I wrong?" she asked, but Paul could tell she already knew the answer to her own question.
How come Paul so often forgot that the bond went both ways? That Bella was his soulmate just as much as he was hers. That she was the person the spirits chose for him. The perfect person for him.
She wasn't wrong. Bella had never been wrong about him, not once. She understood how he worked without a single word being exchanged.
She just… got him. Understood him even with him blocking her at every step of the way.
"When are you ever wrong, Bella?" Paul said, defeated.
"I'm plenty wrong; don't worry," she said, pushing her hair away from her face. "You'll see it."
He disagreed. "No. I don't think so. You're pretty amazing."
"I try," she confessed, blushing a little.
"I see that," he said, and he meant it. Bella tried so hard to help the people she loved, and Paul saw it all. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, knucklehead," she joked, winking at him.
Paul snorted. "You're impossible."
"Only because you keep expecting me to fly off the handle each time things don't go exactly as you planned it," Bella explained, the smile sliding off her face. "Honestly, it's like you keep hoping I'll fail. That I'll call it quits, and fuck off."
"It wouldn't be a failure to be pissed off after what I did," Paul corrected, still beyond perplexed by Bella's unfailing ability to shift the blame from others to herself in the blink of an eye. It was as if she wanted to be responsible for every single thing that happened.
She had the gall to agree. "So you are expecting me to call it quits."
"Is it bad that I'm scared to lose you?" He asked. Sometimes he wondered if she even knew how much space she occupied in his mind, or how badly he was afraid of ending up being just another person on the long list of fuck-ups who hurt her.
"No," Bella allowed, "but it also tells me that you have absolutely no faith in me."
"I have all the faith in the world in you, Bella. Please. It's not the same thing. I just… I guess I just think that sometimes you'd be better off without having to suffer at my side."
"And that's precisely the mindset that made them leave," Bella said, her voice cracking somewhat with sadness, and Paul didn't need an explanation to understand who she mean by that.
Still, he had no clue on how to respond to that: first, because he disliked being compared to the bloodsuckers; and second, because he was always afraid of saying anything about the Cullens to Bella, fearful of what her reaction might be to some of his strong words.
Despite what they had done, and how much Paul despised them for it, Bella still cared for the leeches, and depending on the day, resented anyone who tried to badmouth them around her.
It was a difficult situation.
Thankfully, she didn't wait for an answer, and instead, was already gearing up to change topics before Paul could say something that would incriminate him further.
"By the way, I went to see a therapist," Bella said in a single breath, not stopping to see his reaction. "I called when you were… after the fight, well. I realized that I needed to talk to someone about everything — someone who wasn't involved, you know? For a little, I don't know, perspective, I guess."
Paul wondered if she imagined he would judge her for seeking help. Maybe that's why she looked so nervous to tell him something as important as this.
"That's wonderful, Bella," he said, making sure to inject as much approval as he could in his voice. He needed her to understand that this was all he ever wanted for her. "You want to talk about how it went?"
She blinked. "Good? I don't really know, to be honest. I'm not sure what I was supposed to feel in there, and it was only my first time going, so who knows." She paused. "But it wasn't bad. I was… I was relieved when I left. It was the right choice, going there."
"Of course," Paul agreed. "If anyone deserves help, that's you."
At his words, she grimaced. "I wish you wouldn't put it like that," she said. "No one deserves help — that would imply that some people don't deserve it, and that's just not true. Everyone who needs help should get it."
"That's reasonable," he agreed.
Bella paused, then raised her eyes to meet his. "Do you think… I mean. Look, I'm just gonna say it, alright? Don't be mad," she began, a little frown forming on her perfect face. "Would you like me to give you their phone?"
"What?"
"It's a clinic," she said, shrugging. "There are other therapists there. I just thought that maybe it would be good for you to see someone. I know you're struggling with, well, the whole Jared thing."
Jared.
Yes, one could say Paul was struggling to deal with the current situation between him and his brother.
His immediate reaction, however, was to deny it.
"Nah," he said, waving away her concern. "I'm good."
"Are you?"
Paul thought about Sam. He thought about his pack. He thought about all the stuff he had realized about himself in the last twenty-four hours.
Was he good?
"Well, no," he admitted. "But no one is a hundred percent good all the time, Bella. I'm having a tough time with things lately, but it will get better once everything settles into place."
She gave him a strange look. "What exactly will settle into place? 'Cause from where I'm at, nothing seems to be settling, like, at all. And avoiding the issue won't exactly help."
"I'm not avoiding anything." And he wasn't. For once, Paul was deeply aware of each piece out of place in his once perfectly arranged puzzle of life. "I just don't need some chick messing with my head, digging for shit, you know?"
"No, Paul, I don't know," Bella said, her mouth straight and displeased. "Some chick? Digging? What's this? Nickelodeon? I said therapy, not a cartoon. You can't be pleased I'm going and then dismiss the whole thing with your next breath."
"I can't be happy for you without thinking I need it too?"
"You can; that's right. But don't you think you're protesting a little too much for someone who supposedly doesn't even need help? What's the harm in going? Worst case scenario: you don't like it. No harm done."
"Not true," Paul said, shaking his head. "I've been to therapy, Bella. After my mother died, I had to sit through endless sessions of therapy. Government rules, and all that. Trust me, not the funniest thing in the world to sit with a random stranger who constantly wants you to relieve the most traumatic event in your life, over and over again, until they are satisfied you can calmly discuss it."
"Oh my God," Bella said, frowning deeply. "That's awful. Why did you never talk to me about this before?"
"Because it was awful. Not exactly my fondest memory."
"Still. That doesn't mean you have to keep it to yourself. Neither does it mean that all therapy is the same, you know? You're an adult now — you can talk about whatever you want."
"That's not how it works," he said. "You'll see — once you go there enough. They smell a little fear, a bad memory, something you don't want to talk about, and it's all they care about. Sooner or later, you'll find that it comes up every session, even if you never planned on talking about it."
She considered it. "I guess it is their job to help you deal with trauma."
"Tell me that again when she asks you to talk about the bloodsucker," he mumbled under his breath, frustrated with the whole conversation.
"That's okay," she said, surprising him. "We spoke about him already. Apparently, the first session is supposed to touch on all the big points you want to deal with, and well, Edward is a pretty big part of why I went there. So, yeah, we spoke about him."
"Since when do you say his name without even a blink?" Paul asked, shocked that he had missed this new development.
"Since Friday, actually," she admitted, chuckling a bit. "Leila — my therapist — asked so many questions… well, by the time our hour was up, I guess I was desensitized to it. I'm trying to keep the ball rolling, so to speak."
"Good for you, Bella," Paul said, genuinely happy for her. "That's great."
"It is, isn't it? I'm pretty proud of myself," she admitted. "Even if it's ridiculous — it's still hard."
"I don't think it's ridiculous. Not at all."
"Of course you don't."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're great with me. You never make me feel shitty about being… you know."
"No one who cares about you would make you feel shitty about being in pain," Paul said.
"Sometimes people don't realize they are making others feel bad," Bella said, a bit sad. "Not everyone has a mystical bond to connect them to me."
"The bond doesn't tell me what to say, Bella," he explained, stepping closer. Inside her house, finally. "I wish it did. Christ, it would make things so much easier on my end. I'm constantly afraid that I'll say some stupid shit to you."
When he got close enough, she reached forward and grabbed his hand. "You're doing pretty great, I would say."
And that's all. They stood there, soaking each other's presence for a long while, without saying another word, and it was amazing.
Paul could stand there for an eternity, looking into Bella's chocolate eyes and getting lost counting each curved lash framing them.
"Where's Charlie?" he finally asked, after an eternity. He had noticed the sheriff's absence before, but only now did it register that the man should already be home.
"Working," Bella said, bitting down on her bottom lip. Paul could smell a hint of sadness coming from her. "I think he took a lot of time off to take care of me after Edward left. He's working night shifts a lot, these days."
"And you're feeling guilty about it," Paul summarized, already knowing he's right. She practically oozes remorse.
She nodded, not even trying to pretend otherwise. "I mean, yeah. He's not a kid anymore, you know? He needs to rest. I don't want to see him running himself ragged just for my sake."
"He's your father, Bella. For fuck's sake. If there's anyone who wants to take care of you, that's him. Leave the man be — he won't die because of a night shift."
"He might," she said darkly, letting go of his hand. "He's a cop."
"At Forks," Paul pointed out.
Which, yeah, fuck, was a pretty great argument. She sighed, and her shoulders dropped, but she clearly agreed with his point.
"Some pretty shady stuff happened here, actually."
"Well, the dangerous beasts kind of left town, babe," Paul said, as kindly as he could. It wasn't a jab, and it was supposed to calm her down, so he allowed none of his usual spite against the bloodsuckers to bleed through.
It worked, 'cause she huffed a small laugh and finally relaxed more. "That's true enough," she admitted, shaking her head. "Ugh, whatever. I don't wanna think about this stuff. Look, I was about to eat dinner, you want some?"
"Always," Paul agreed, far too quickly. "Babe, the day I say no to food, please call the elders 'cause there's someone inhabiting my body and it ain't me."
Bella laughed, already moving to the kitchen and opening the fridge. "I swear that the pack alone is responsible for half the revenue of the local supermarkets. You guys eat all the time; it's crazy."
"It's fast metabolism — that's what it is. You're mocking us 'cause you're not the one who's hungry all the damn time. It's a pain in the ass."
"I mean, I guess. I got to admit, though: I don't feel much compassion towards any of you. It's not fair, the way you all get perfect bodies overnight and never have to work for any of it," she said, grabbing a bunch of shit from the fridge and putting it on the counter. "How come I don't get abs for free?"
"You don't need abs. And it wouldn't be fair if you got any more preferential treatment from the spirits. Don't be greedy — they already gave you plenty to work with."
Bella turned her head so fast she almost knocked it against the door. "What does that mean?"
"Bella! Watch your head!" Paul cried out. God, she really did need round-the-clock supervision. It's a wonder she never killed herself while baking.
"Forget my head, Paul!" Bella protested, impatient. "What did you mean by that? Preferential treatment?"
It seemed rather obvious, but alright.
"I mean, you're already painfully hot," he explained, trying to use his hands to gesture all over her body. "You know. Any further improvement would be cheating, honestly."
To his surprise, she blushed all the way to the roots of her head, and instead of answering, she remained frozen in place, one hand holding the fridge open and the other on her waist.
She opened and closed her mouth a few times before mumbling, "You think I'm painfully hot?"
There's only one possible answer to that. "Who doesn't?"
"No one's ever called me hot before," she confessed, blinking and shaking the surprise away. She went back to the food, despite the bright redness still tinging her face.
"I doubt that," Paul said, moving closer. He pressed against her until she was sandwiched between him and the counter, until he could feel her whole body pressing against his. "I sincerely doubt that."
She released a rush of air through her mouth, and her heart started to beat just a tiny bit faster. "I'm not lying."
And she wasn't; he could tell.
"That's a shame," he said, pressing a kiss against the column of her neck. Right behind the ear, where her scent was almost overpowering. "We should fix that."
She hummed in agreement, tilting her head to give him more access. "We should."
"You, Isabella Swan," Paul whispered into her ear, using her full name on purpose. Yes, she preferred the nickname, but he was trying to make a point here, "are the hottest woman I have ever seen in my life."
"I'm not very sure I believe you," she breathed out, and although Paul could hear the playfulness in her tone, he could also tell there's an underlying note of truth to the sentence that convinced him she wasn't quite believing his words.
"You absolutely are," he reaffirmed, wrapping one arm around her waist. In this position, he was more than a little curved, so he made sure to squeeze her tight against his chest, so they could touch more. And if that happened to press her against his cock, well… he never claimed to be a saint.
The house was empty, and Paul planned to take full advantage of that.
His hand moved up, pressing against her stomach until he could cup one of her perfect breasts. "These," he said, making sure to rub the pad of his thumb over the nipple, "are perfect. You have the most amazing pair of breasts I have seen. Have I told you that when you wear that black turtleneck every single guy struggles to keep their eyes up?"
"What? Really?" she asked, suddenly turning her head to the side to try and catch his eyes. "Since when?
"Oi, keep still," he said, half-joking and half-serious. They could be making out and she wanted to hear about the turtleneck? What sort of priorities were those? Honestly. "That wasn't the point of the conversation."
"Well, it is now," Bella said, wiggling out of his arms and giving him an impatient look. "Do people really look at—" she looked down at her titties, which sadly had left his grasp. "I never thought I had great boobs."
"That's a hate crime," Paul said with all the conviction in the world. "That's straight to jail for you."
She barked a laugh in surprise, eyes shining in delight. "Oh, shut up!"
"I mean it!" Paul protested, throwing his hands up. "That's an offense against humanity, Bella! An affront to connoisseurs of titties across the globe! First-degree murder of taste!"
"Stop that!"
"You don't believe me? I'll call Mike Newton. That pasty-ass kid probably prays every night for your boobs or some lame shit like that. Give me the phone!"
"Ugh, why would you say that! That's so gross. And rude, Paul. He's just a kid."
"He's weird, it's what he is. The nerve of that boy… thinking he has a shot with a woman like you. Please. That's not self-esteem, babe, that's just plain delusion."
"Are you done?"
"I don't know, Bella. I just don't know. I could go on forever. In fact, give me a mic, and I'll improvise a whole soliloquy about the wonders of your big—"
"Annnnnd, now you've ruined it. You did it. And just because of that, you get to chop the onions."
