Twilight. Stuffing A La Mode.

Early posting - for the J/B Holiday Cheer Ficathon, for fifthofdecember, sponsored by sortofbeautiful.

There is plot. There is dialogue. There are Thanksgiving festivities.
You have been warned.


stuffing a la mode
post-eclipse twilight.
jacob/bella. 862 words. g.

The dishwasher’s broken again. She scuffs the door with her toe, Edward laughs, fork twirling between his fingers.

“You got any more supernatural magic to fix it?”

Eyebrows raised, a huff of discouragement. Forty-eight hours to carved meat and carbohydrates.

Edward winks, almost reading her mind, You’re not getting any older.

(Well, he’s got a point.)

-

Turkey smells waft through the kitchen, weaving around heavy trays and beckoning the potatoes and gravy from the countertop. She’s locked to a chair, smiling stiffly, feet tucked under the wooden supports to avoid hitting a certain boy’s rather large shoes.

He’s not smiling. She’s not smiling.

Charlie grins wide, happy thanksgiving.

-

Rewind the tape, please. Skip to the exposition.

-

Charlie reminds her several times, the Blacks are coming for dinner, be good and it’s the Blacks and dinner and good that confuse her and twist uncomfortably in her stomach.

The ring on her finger was no excuse to skip tradition - history. Water under the bridge, she mutters and doesn’t really mean it, lies that grew tired of hide and seek. The protests mean nothing and Edward smiles sadly, we’ve got the rest of eternity.

It’s not eternity she’s worried about, it’s that fourth Thursday of the month. Edward laughs and it’s a little like foreshadowing (cue the music) only he doesn’t utter it won’t be so bad - that kink in his eyebrow means the same thing.

The devil on her shoulder (shaggy, wet nose) demands retribution: she asks if he’ll be hunting turkey.

His smirk evokes a shiver, even as a faded reminder at dinner with her fork halfway to her mouth and three speared green beans awaiting the end.
“Cold, Bella?” A question, a suggestion. His heat keeps the plates hot, the silverware warm, and her cheeks flushed at the idea of sleeping bags, bodies, and sun that burns.

She survives dinner without an emotional disaster. Physically, however, she trips twice, breaks one wine glass, and chokes on a bone. He doesn’t look at her until she’s gasping for air – then he’s lunging across the table and lifting her out of her chair. She can’t say, I’m fine, quite enough for all the boys, staring wide-eyed and worried, hairs bristled in the way she can only call canine.

She flinches when Jake touches her arm. It’s enough. In an instant, he’s back in his chair, exiled to the land of silent conversation and strained silence. It’s a familiar place they’ve mapped far too many times before (the mayor greets them on a first-name basis).

-

His pocket is heavy. There’s a rumpled piece of paper that goes something like this.


So the question is, when you lose your soul, what part of you do you get to keep?

The part that drinks double shots at two am? The part that cries every time Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant kiss in the private park in Notting Hill? Or do you just become something else – a zombie of souls that eats others to survive, a kind of half-life that doesn’t end or breathe or pause?

You exist, I suppose, you can say that much.

So maybe the real question is – is that enough?


He’s not really expecting an answer.

-

Dish duty is assigned to the Swans, citing that the Blacks did them last year and the entire exchange is too familiar, too familial.

(The scuff mark shines on the useless appliance. She blames it later, for awkward exchanges and too small of sinks.)

She grabs a rag and picks up a dish but she’s stopped by a hand, let me help you. She won’t think of the double meaning, won’t think of the saving of false love.

Her voice is surprisingly steady, I’m fine, but he shrugs, picking up a bowl anyway and dipping it into the growing stew of soapy water. She’s up to her elbows. Somehow his wrists stay dry.

There’s no light conversation, no heavy one either. No talk of obsession or love or things the clock has long since flown by. No apologies here except a brief glance when she splashes his sleeve. For a moment he’s Jake, as he glares just to mock her, look what you’ve done. She grabs his slippery bowl,

“Sorry, clumsy.” Brief upturned corners,

“And you thought drying the dishes for me would make it better.”

There’s awkward staring for a moment, then an easy sigh and the glass walls shudder in relief, uncracked. Trapped in the kitchen with her hands becoming prunes, she lets a smile pass between them, is infatuation the right word when it’s been this long?

She thinks about saying something, fill the silence with more than just the occasional smack of water against hands and cups but quicker than she blinks he’s finished and turning away.

She’s seen his back a lot lately. This doesn’t mean she’s forgotten the front. Could ever forget.

“Bye, Bells.”

(ask me how do I feel)

(ask me now that we’re cozy and clinging)

-

Edward asks later, cold fingers slipping through her own, a murmur of how was dinner?

A disaster. A relief. An ending.

Just fine, the smile sliding at the corners, all wet glue and paper charades.