Chapter Text
One might think your troubles started with turning into a large, shaggy wolf - and, in a way, that is what set all this into motion. But you're strangely okay with being a werewolf. Next up might be Bella Swan being hunted by that crazy vampire, but really, no big deal. It's a bit of work to keep her safe, but nothing can get through the solid wall of wolf that makes up your pack. Not even your seriously agonizing crush on Bella is that big of a deal.
It all started with the dog.
You're sitting at Emily's dining-room table with Bella-freaking-Swan lounging happily by your side. She's not quite your girlfriend, but no one else seemed to notice that, despite sharing your mind every time you put on your fur. And really, what does it matter? She's your best friend, after all. You'd do anything for her, even if that means just waiting while she pines for her bloodsucking ex.
So you don't get to make out with her. Whatever. In the meantime, you enjoy the self-satisfied smirk that crosses her face as she wins another round of poker - you're not sure if it's her fear of losing or her new-found skill at deception, but she's been on a roll all night.
"You're a witch," Paul mutters as he pulls off another sock and flings it across the table. Bella picks it up between her thumb and index finger, clearly a little disgusted.
"You're bad at poker," she says simply as she pulls it onto her left foot - over Embry and Jared's socks.
You're glad you folded this round. You're not yet down to your skivvies, as Paul is, but you hadn't been wearing many clothes in the first place, when this game had started. That was the benefit of getting dealt bad hands, you suppose. At least it kept you playing safe.
"Maybe you should throw in the towel before you end up naked," you suggest, throwing your arm around Bella's bare shoulders. She's down to tank top and Quil's over-sized shorts, plus the strange collection of socks on her feet. Faring better than all but Leah, whose steely resolve seemed to force its will on the cards. Also, you're pretty sure she's cheating, but definitely not prepared to call her out on it.
"I think we all better call it a night," Sam says from his place in the corner of the room. "Emily went to bed hours ago, and I'm tired of playing ref."
"Not that you're doing a great job, anyway," Bella mutters under her breath, shooting Leah a resentful look. The normally moody girl responds only with a smile, a mark of how far they'd come in their friendship. When Leah'd first changed, she'd been almost as temperamental as Paul. Now, she was just sullen - especially when Sam was around. But little by little, that was disappearing, and you're getting to know the real Leah.
She's pretty cool, all things considered. Almost as cool as Bella. Almost.
The party dissipates - everyone trades back their clothing - and you drag Bella outside yelling birthday wishes to Embry over your shoulder. Bella sighs a happy sigh, and the two of you walk hand-in-hand down the lane, enjoying the unseasonable warmth of the night. Well, she is, at least. You're enjoying thoughts of her sneaking into your bed late a night, complaining of the same nightmares she always has. Nothing ever happens, but a guy can dream. And you dream, often, of things going farther than a bit of cuddling and a peck on the cheek. That's why you wake up long before her - always - and treat yourself to a cold shower.
"I can't wait until this whole Victoria thing is over," she sighs, though there's little worry behind the words. "I'll get to sleep in a bed every night."
Your heartbeat picks up a little bit. "You do, you know," you remind her, cheeks heating just a little bit.
"I know, but I don't start out there. I try and suffer through the couch, first," she reminds you.
"Well - don't," you suggest. She shoots you a look out of the corner of her eye, and you're not quick enough to catch it. But it feels strange to hold her hand, now, and you drop it as soon as you find an excuse - opening the front door, for example. "Night, Bells," you say, not meeting her eye. She murmurs her own well-wishes and heads to the bathroom, probably to take her nightly shower - she tries to save the hot water for you in the morning, not knowing that you like yours icy. Well, like is a strong word.
It's late. Late enough that Dad is already snoring in his own room, and late enough that your room is cast in deep shadow. Your eyes see right through it, being well-adapted for the dark, but you still stub your toe on the dresser. A sleepy swear breaks the silence as you lurch toward your bed, curling up on top of the covers rather than lying underneath. Your body temperature is high enough that it doesn't matter in the dead of winter, and the warm spring air is drifting through your open window, already lulling you to sleep. You're nearly there when a commotion outside makes your eyes snap open.
There it is again. Another distant clash, a loud clang. You sit up and scrub at your eyes, not too worried about it. Probably just a raccoon getting into the garbage again. Nothing alarming, but something you'd better go and put a stop to, if you don't want a mess to clean up tomorrow.
So you amble past the bathroom, where Bella is only just turning off the water, and past your dad's door, behind which he is still snoring rather loudly. The front door shuts with a creak and a soft snap behind you, and you try to ignore the unpleasant prickling of the gravel underneath your feet as you make your way down the drive. Sure enough, you see something dark and shadowy rooting around in the up-turned garbage can. Problem is, that shadow's way too big to be a raccoon.
"Hey! Get out of here!" you hiss, not one to be put off by a stray. And you know it's a stray. No one lets their dog run around smelling that rank and wild, after all. And you know it's a dog, because, duh, if you can smell that it's stray you can definitely smell that it's a dog. A female dog, no less, who seems to be approaching her prime, even if she's a little undernourished.
Your new-and-improved nose is one of the cooler things about being a werewolf. Another cool thing is that most animals have a natural wariness of you, so you don't have to worry about bears or raccoons or stray dogs anymore. Nothing sane is going to attack you, and nothing insane is going to be able to take you down.
This dog, though. She doesn't seem all that impressed. She stops her digging and backs out of your trash can, tail wagging in a friendly kind of way as she lets out a plaintive whine. Sorry about that, she seems to be saying, her lithe, shaggy body held close to the ground in supplication. A girl's gotta eat, though.
"Alright, doggy, you're forgiven," you chuckle, secretly a little pleased with her fearlessness. It's cool not to have to worry about being attacked by bears, but you'd liked dogs before all this. It's nice to know they're not all gonna run if they catch your scent. So at first, you don't mind when she slinks a little closer with a questioning yap. Almost like - But I'm still hungry. Help me out? And you're about to do it, too. About to open your home and refrigerator to this friendly, fearless mutt.
And then you get caught in her eyes. Yes, caught. Thoroughly entangled. There's a short second where everything blurs as your life rearranges itself, and this dog fills that gaps that you'd never even realized you had. That space Bella had cleared out for herself and then left vacant, waiting? Filled. The deep, deep rift your sisters left in their wake? Filled. The grave your mother dug in your heart the day she died? Filled. The gaping wound that had been gouged into your psyche during your first transformation? Filled. Overflowing with the knowledge that this dog is the reason you've suffered through so much, the reason you skin turns to fur, the reason you breathe.
This dog.
"Holy shit," you mutter, stumbling back. The dog tilts her head to the side, tail still wagging halfheartedly as she watches you sink to your knees. You get a vague impression of concern and amusement, but no words to go with it, this time. It's all just your imagination, anyway, because this is a dog. You'd been able to smell that from the beginning, and it doesn't change now that you've imprinted on her.
Dear god. You've imprinted. On her. On a dog.
Your life is over.