Meaningful Artifacts [Edward/Jacob]

eleven.

Jacob's gotten older. As much as his physical appearance hasn't changed, he's not fifteen anymore. He doesn't have that anger and drive and hope. He takes things at face value and doesn't wait for the person who has absolutely no interest in him to suddenly change their mind. He'd at least learned that from practically pleading with Bella to choose him.

Many things about him have changed, but that gut-wrenching feeling never seems to go away. It never seems to hurt any less. He still feels like a fucking fool for chasing someone, who didn't want him, to the ends of the Earth. A simple crush, what he told himself was a simple crush, seemed to spiral out of control so easily. He'd thought in his juvenile, little mind that if he just showed her that he was the better option, she'd choose him. As much as he's moved on, he can still feel the sting of rejection. Enough to where he moved differently, didn't trust as often. Hell, he hadn't loved, hadn't entertained anyone since.

To know that he's being used for something as arbitrary as stealing some old junk from a museum, was enough to wake him up from whatever fantasy world he'd been living in. He'd somehow thought that he could try to trust him. It doesn't matter whether he'd imprinted or not, he wasn't doing it again.

He quietly wanders back into the office, ignoring Mike's curious stare as he waits for his daily update. Jacob makes himself comfortable, yanking a blanket he'd left hanging on the back of his chair into his lap and gluing his eyes to one of the screens.

Mike blabbers the entire ride home. Jacob knew he should've called Quil or Embry or even Seth to come pick him up, but he didn't feel like talking to anyone. They'd want to know what happened. They'd want to help somehow.  So, he sighs and resigns himself to listening to Mike rattle off whatever gossip he'd picked up from snooping around the museum today. It feels like his house is in a different state. He eventually slides out of the truck, ignoring the sound of Mike's door also slamming shut, and hurriedly makes his way into the house and up the stairs.

"I don't know. I talked to Angela and she said it had something to do with Edward."

He can hear Mike spewing his business in the kitchen and Jacob's not even remotely surprised when he can hear footsteps approaching his room. They stop at the door and quietly listen as if they expect him to be sobbing hysterically. Honestly, maybe he would've been if he was fifteen and incredibly lost. Instead, he's just quietly waiting for his mind to stop replaying his mistakes so that he can fall asleep.

He wakes up a couple of hours later to the sound of someone timidly knocking on his door. He doesn't say anything, but the door slowly opens anyway as whoever it is peers in on him. He can tell it's Quil before he even opens his mouth, from his scent to the sound of his feet hitting the hardwood floor. 

"Jake?"

As much as he'd told Quil, as many secrets as he's divulged over the years, he still finds himself reluctant to say anything. What was there to say? Nothing had happened between them besides Jacob almost being foolish enough to give anyone from that family a second chance. He just needed to curl in on himself and lick his wounds for a bit.

"There's food downstairs..." Quil mutters into the darkness, eyes squinting to find Jacob in the pile of blankets on the bed.

He stands there for a couple more minutes, holding his breath as he waits for some kind of response, even if it's just a grunt. Jacob tugs the covers under his chin and wraps them tighter around himself before squeezing his eyes shut.

The door eventually closes, all light vanishing, and Jacob's able to go back to silently brooding.

He gets ready on autopilot the next morning, ignoring the concerned gazes from seemingly everyone as he gets ready for work. He can already see Leah working up a speech to explain to him why he didn't have to go in if he wasn't feeling it. He doesn't give her the chance, quickly heading for the door and climbing in next to Newton, who already has his sympathetic expression in place.