Chapter Text
The sky was overcast. Surprise, surprise. It was Forks. They'd been at Chief Swan's house since 9AM working on the shed that his kid wanted. He'd seen her from a distance while working but hadn't actually spoken with her yet. Usually Jared was with them, and being the nicer of the two, Sam usually made him do all the client interactions. Sam, evidently, was afraid Paul didn't know how to be a normal person and thought he'd spaz out on a client. Pussy. He was more reasonable than that. He'd only do it if they deserved it.
Paul scoffed at himself, then pulled his earbuds out and shoved them into the pocket of his cutoffs before opening the ice chest and grabbing a sports drink. It was red, the only acceptable flavor. Swan had taste. He made a mental note to buy a new pair of ear buds after he got paid. Of all the perks and downfalls that came with being a shifter, he hadn't expected to add 'every pair of earbuds has a buzz so irritating it almost makes him phase' to the con list. It was obnoxious, like most things about being a wolf. If he made a Top Ten list, it would look like this:
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Can't tell anyone, so now they think he's on drugs
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Can't control his anger, so everyone thinks he's on drugs
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Having to abandon lifelong friends (so now everyone thinks he's on drugs)
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looking like he's joined a cult (you get the point)
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No privacy
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Bullshit pack mind
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Buzzing earbuds
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Missing so much school
(he was probably going to have dropped out anyways, so maybe that shouldn't make the list. But at least that would have been his choice, damn it) -
Down to two pairs of shorts
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Everything smells and sounds so much all the time
He emptied the bottle in just a few gulps and tossed it into the plastic grocery bag that had been tied around the handle of the ice chest for that specific purpose. There weren't many snacks left. Jared had just about cleared out all the chocolate chip cookies when he was there a couple hours ago. Little bitch. Paul was going to make him regret that later. He grabbed one of the turkey sandwiches and added some mustard to it before eating it in like two bites. He'd have to amend the list later. The increased appetite was almost as much of a bitch as Jared was. Paul reached for a second sandwich and followed the same procedure.
Sam interrupted his contemplation of a third sandwich.
"Paul! Did you just come to eat, or are you going to help me set this beam?" Sam hollered. Or, well. Said slightly above normal speaking volume, because once again, werewolf senses
Paul sighed, closed the cooler, and returned to work. He was still starving. He'd come straight from patrol and hadn't had time to stop for breakfast. He hated overnight patrol. Paul appreciated that Sam largely tried to keep him and Jared off of the overnight patrols, but the options were overnight patrol and going to school exhausted or a full night of sleep and overnight patrol. There were only three of them and a lot of land to cover. If they let him, Sam would try and do it all, and then he would break, mentally or physically. So, as much as Paul hated all of this, begrudgingly, he didn't hate Sam. Sam was in the same boat he was; he just boarded the ship a little sooner.
"Paul!" Sam called again.
He blinked and shook his head, realizing he'd been standing in the same spot, staring at a dirt smudge on the lid of the well-worn cooler. He was pretty sure it was the one that Chief Swan used to pack his fish in. It smelled like someone had scrubbed the prints off their fingers with lemon-scented cleaner—and fish. Paul appreciated the effort.
"Commin'. Sorry. Tired." His voice was more gruff than he'd expected.
Wiping the sandwich crumbs from his hands, he loped over to Sam. They worked in tandem for several more hours, the sun rising higher and higher. Not that they could see it. Or feel it. The layer of clouds that separated them from the sun was thick. It added a drowsy feel to the day, which did not help Paul's already existent exhaustion. He found himself yawing more frequently as the day crawled along. Eventually, they turned into the obnoxiously large yawns that make your eyes water and jaw feel like it's going to crack in half. Sam sighed and slipped his hammer into his toolbelt. He still had several feet of nails to put in before they were done. Paul squinted at him, still holding the plank.
"Let's call it. You're too tired to keep working. You need sleep, and I've got to relieve Jared in an hour or two anyways. We're ahead of schedule. It won't hurt anything."
Paul dropped the plank where he stood and stretched, his stiff muscles pulling and his back popping dramatically. He shook out his tension in a fashion one could call dog-like—if they wanted a fist in their face.
"You go tell them we're done; I'll start packing up."
Paul nodded at him, not that Sam could see it from where he was bent over grabbing tubs and boxes of nails and stuff. Paul jogged (a slow-ish human speed) to the door and rapped on it a few times. He could hear the footsteps as someone walked down the stairs and to the door. Obviously the chief's kid. Her steps were lighter than the chief's, and she always stumbled at least a little. Paul idly wondered if that was something to be concerned about, then wondered why the fuck he cared. He yawned. The wait was annoying. He was half tempted to just open the door and shout into the house that they were leaving. Sam would kick his ass if he did that, though. Then make him take back-to-back night patrols as punishment, and he would like to not do that, thank you.
He smelled her before he saw her, which in retrospect, when he pictured this moment as he sprinted through the trees, was creepy as hell. Her scent was sweet, but not in the burning, cloying way the leeches were. Just a nice little bit, like tea sweetened with honey. She smelled like lemongrass tea with honey, and maybe strawberries? Something bright and sunny and ill-fitting for her surroundings. Like someone had caught a sunbeam in a jar to try and brighten up the dull gray of Forks. Forget Sam, he was going to kick his own ass. What the fuck in the Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Mary Oliver shit was that? Sunbeam in a jar? Did he get a fucking brain injury he'd forgotten about? Maybe he was lying out cold somewhere in the woods. Hopefully he was. That was the most out-of-character bullshit he'd ever thought in his life. He almost felt like he needed to think about protein, and muscle cars, and hunting or something to balance it out. Erase the embarrassment.
The door creaked open; he should oil that. Or tell Sam to. That would be less weird. Why did he care if their door was squeaky? His own door was squeaky AND dragged on the ground. There was a groove worn in the shitty laminate flooring where it had passed over the years. Every time he saw it, he thought about fixing it but never did. He shook the stray thought away and opened his mouth to tell her they were leaving while looking over to her from where he'd been staring down the door hing.
Everything froze.
Seconds and minutes and hours passed all at once. Years and singular moments folding into each other, flowing like a river, trickling like a stream, waves crashing against cliffsides and pulling him under. He was warmed from the inside out, like the sunbeam had escaped the jar and made a home in his chest. Like his very soul had been a frozen wasteland and spring had finally come. First a single seedling breaking through the barren ground as snow receded, then an explosion of life. Leaves and flower buds, creeping vines, lichen and moss, and every part of an ecosystem falling perfectly in place. The wolves hunting the deer, urging them to move from place to place. Ensuring that saplings and tree roots grew on the riverbanks, holding them locked in place, keeping them from receding. Making sure there is shade for the fish, keeping the water cool and the current slow. Making sure the fish repopulate and feed the beavers so that the beavers make their dams. Enriching the earth so that more might grow. Every part of nature working together as it should so that life succeeds.
He experienced a range of emotion in seconds. Joy, contentment, realization, shock, horror. The full spectrum. The "fucked by the spirits" special, if you will. Add a large fry, please.
Paul opened his mouth to speak. And then closed it. Rinse repeat until his brain reentered his body from whatever poetry convention it had evidently taken PTO for. He said—something. They were words, for sure. He definitely said words. Which ones? No clue. You could have offered him ten thousand dollars, and he couldn't tell you. He could have told her they were done for the day; he could have told her he was a dancing banana wearing a tutu and riding an elephant. He had no fucking clue. What he did know is that he high-tailed it to the truck and started planning how to fake his death and run away to Cuba. Did they extradite? He didn't know. He'd figure it out after he packed a bag.
He sat in the passenger seat, his breathing coming a bit too fast to be normal or probably healthy. His heart was beating a mile a minute; he could feel it in his throat. Was this a panic attack? His ears were ringing. That for sure wasn't normal.
Shit.
Fuck.
Shitfuck.
He'd just imprinted.
He imprinted on Chief of Police Charlie Swan's daughter.
He knew the man had to own guns. Probably multiple.
Paul knew. Knew. The moment something happened between them and Chief Swan heard Paul's name, he was going to flip. The chief had seen Paul in negative situations one (thousand) too many times. Had called him to pick up his dad more than once when he was drunk and disorderly. Had pulled Paul off of other boys he'd bloodied. That, of course, was before he phased.
That didn't matter, though. It's not like he could knock on the door with flowers and say, "Hi, Sir, I'm here for your daughter. The spirits gave her to me, but don't worry, I don't beat up people in parking lots anymore. I turn into a giant wolf now and am way too busy to get into fights with people who don't also turn into giant wolves or non-people who eat people. My dad is still a drunk, though, so see you next Thursday after he spends his paycheck at the bar!"
He started laughing, unhinged and maniacal. What the fuck was with that thought process? It's not like she was going to want his worthless ass anyway. It was a non-issue. He'd just continue on like nothing had changed, because nothing had changed. He was Paul Lahote. Known hot-headed, assumed womanizer, beat-you-bloody-if-you-look-at-him-wrong Paul Lahote. With as much time as the Swans spent on the rez, there was no way she hadn't heard of his reputation. Or his dad's reputation. It was a non-issue.
Sam said nothing as he got in the truck. The vehicle shook as he slammed the door and turned the key in the ignition. They pulled away from the curb, and the further they got, the more desperate Paul began to feel. The more desolate. Like all the life that had just grown up inside of him had withered away in that very same instant. Like he was mourning something. Tears began filling his eyes. He blinked them away. He wasn't going to cry over this. No one in his whole goddamned life had wanted Paul. Not his mom, not his dad. Sam and Jared didn't even like him. They were stuck with him. The friends he'd been forced to leave behind were probably relieved to be rid of him. She wasn't going to want him. It was fine. It was the norm. Today was just a day ending in 'Y'. In why. Why the fuck did the spirits think he was a joke? His life was a joke? That they could do whatever they wanted and it didn't matter because he was just Paul?
"Stop," his voice cracked as he whispered the word.
The caution lights clicked on, and Sam pulled over. Paul opened the door to the truck and bolted into the woods. Shredded denim fluttered through the air like confetti. Confetti and Paul had something in common. They were both what was left on the ground when the party was over and everyone else moved on.