#jaliceweek20

[tragicallywicked]

JALICE WEEK 2020 ↳ day one: vampire/human @jalicenetwork

Two souls never meet by simple accident.

READ IT ON AO3

[flowerslut]

DAY TWO: SOULMATES Rated: K+ for mentions of death. Words: 3,701

When you’re born with a dead soulmate, what more can you do?

THE CORPSE’S BRIDE

Disposing of newborns was far from Jasper’s favorite thing to do. He’d been forced to improvise as the years dragged on, using distraction, lies, and manipulation to lure the doomed vampires to their final resting place. Anything to keep their emotions from striking him harder than physical blows could.

He was finishing up cleaning out their lot—this year’s newborns had been a disappointing crew, not strong or skilled enough to help them gain back their eastern lands—when the strange feeling first took hold of him.

He’d been mid-sentence when he paused, turning to look around at the dark plains, their abandoned shack way off on the horizon.

The newborn he was to dispose of, a mild-mannered man who shook during battle yet had somehow avoided defeat all the same, turned as well, his eyes fearfully raking across the area as well, no doubt terrified that something he couldn’t see had caused the Major to stop and react.

Jasper brushed the feeling away as he turned back toward the man, lifting a disarming hand to give an almost-friendly smack against his shoulder, sending forth a wave of indifference as he led them forward. He couldn’t lead the man too far forward or he’d undoubtedly smell the venom that was seeping into the ground several hundred yards away, and he’d understand where the rest of their new crew had gone.

But it was in that instant, as he was patting Niko’s shoulder, that Jasper saw it, bright against his pale, scarred skin. He froze again, and any air of comfort he’d been carefully cultivating vanished into thin air as shock set in fully.

Niko reacted the same as Jasper, jumping slightly to twist out of the way of Jasper’s frozen arm, his frightened eyes looking from Jasper’s face to his wrist, and seeing the sight immediately.

A gasp shattered the silence, and for the first time since they’d changed him the previous winter, Niko stopped shaking. Instead, wonder filled the man and he stepped closer to examine Jasper’s wrist.

“A soul mark,” he whispered, red eyes wide as he leaned closer—but not too close, he knew better—to look at the tiny red heart that almost looked to be glowing. The man smiled then, still wracked with shock, and turned toward Jasper, “you have a soulmate! I—”

Jasper ripped his head off then, trying to act as quickly as he could to prevent the doomed man from speaking any further. As fast as he could manage he grabbed the remains and brought them across the clearing, tossing the body onto the rest.

He didn’t realize he was now shaking until he realized he couldn’t light the match.

His eyes moved straight toward the tiny mark again.

There was no way he could hide it. And even if he did what his brain was currently considering, and if he ripped the portion of flesh away with his own teeth, Maria would know.

She always knew.

Maria, whose own tiny heart was now a tragic, black color. Her mate—her soulmate—long dead and gone.

Eventually he lit the match, ignited the pyre, and turned to make his way back to the shack at the edge of the horizon.

If anything, Maria would see it, witness his indifference, and be pleased. What better way to pledge your loyalty then to overlook a newly minted wrist, fresh with the promise of true love?

Stomping his way back to Maria, he inhaled deeply, mouth filling with venom as he realized they’d get to go into town and feed now.

What was supposed to be the allure of love when fresh blood tasted so sweet?

————————————

It wasn’t until years later—nearly two decades since the mark appeared on his wrist—that Maria finally commented on it.

They were going over strategy for an upcoming encounter when Maria made a sad noise, her tongue clicking with pity as amusement began to radiate from her.

“Ah, muy triste.”

Jasper ripped his mind off their carefully-drawn map to meet her eyes. He didn’t need to follow her gaze to know exactly what she was looking at.

“Tu amor,” she frowned dramatically, her lip jutting out in a way that made Jasper suddenly angry, “está muerta.”

His eyes fell upon his soul mark instantly, but the red mark was gone. In it’s place, one that was startlingly familiar. A mark he’d seen on Maria’s wrist as long as he’d known her. A tiny black heart; indicative of a dead soulmate.

His soulmate, wherever they were, was now dead.

He forced himself to not care, ignoring the way the universe seemed to shift around him in that instant, and continued planning out their next course of attack.

His soulmate hadn’t mattered to him during their life; he’d be damned if they mattered to him at all dead.

————————————

When Lillian Brandon grew pregnant with her first child, she’d been elated. She’d been married for barely six months when her body began to weaken as her stomach began to expand. It was a hard, unforgiving pregnancy, but Lillian kept her spirits high, too excited about the prospect of a child of her own to care. 

Edgar, her husband, wasn’t a warm man. If anything, ‘business’ man could go at the top of the list of words used to describe him. She was sure he had colleagues with words far more descriptive, and far more cruel. But throughout her pregnancy, he pulled back from work, making it so that she never went without so much as a sip of water.

Through the months her body was racked with illness, the pregnancy something her slight frame could just barely handle, and by October of 1901 she knew that it was nearly time.

Two days into the month Lillian’s health took a nosedive, and Mary-Alice Brandon was born into the world.

Born cold and unmoving, suspected to be stillborn, she didn’t cry when introduced to the world. Her eyes calm and open and seeing from her first few minutes. Mary-Alice had all ten fingers, all ten toes, and a tuft of barely-there black hair on the crown of her head.

One thing Mary-Alice didn’t have, was a red soul mark.

The whispers floated through the hospital despite Edgar’s swift demand that her tiny wrest be covered immediately. While other babies born with a soul mark were all the same—small, red, and heart-shaped on the inside of a wrist—Alice’s had been different.

Mary Alice Brandon had been stamped with a full black mark, indicating something that only older adults and those struck by tragedy knew: a dead soulmate.

After Lillian was stable enough to hold and feed her baby, she examined the girl’s tiny wrist, held the infant close, and cried with all of her might.

————————————

It wasn’t until the marks began to appear, that they knew something was wrong. Those with living soulmates enjoyed many features of having a person tied to them beyond what could be seen or felt. Some had dreams that were shared. Others enjoyed eerily similar tastes in food and aesthetics. Lillian Brandon had a cousin who could feel his soulmate’s pain as if it were his own; an experience that was as scary as it was rare.

Alice was four days old when the first mark appeared. 

Scar marks weren’t uncommon, but to gain them meant one thing: you had a soulmate, and they were being hurt.

Mary-Alice had been gifted with a dead soulmate from birth. When the first bright purple crescent moon splotch appeared on her tiny forearm, Lillian had almost fainted.

Edgar had been beside himself with frustration, demanding that local doctors and clergymen help fix his infant daughter, using sums of money to ensure the utmost discretion.

But the marks never remained for longer than a week at a time. And by the time the baby was several weeks old, she’d already had a rainbow of marks appear across her limbs, and fade within days.

When Mary-Alice was four months old, the first mark appeared on her face and Edgar swore to Lillian that no child of his would be caught around town with a black heart and a mottled face.

————————————

Lillian theorized heavily for many years, trying to make sense of the marks that appeared and disappeared on her daughter’s skin, despite the proof of her true-love already lost.

It wasn’t until Mary-Alice was a girl, attending school with as much cover as they could get away with under the Mississippi sun, when they grew alarmed.

“He’s out there Mama,” Mary-Alice had smiled up at her mother, her two front teeth missing. “It’s okay. I’m not sad. You shouldn’t be either.”

When Lillian had made Mary-Alice swear to never repeat those words to her father, the girl had frowned, nodded, and skipped away. Her hair was braided down her back, dancing as she moved, revealing a sour yellow mark against the back of her neck.

————————————

When Mary-Alice was eight a group of boys on the schoolyard cornered her. A pink mark that bisected her face in two had appeared in the middle of their arithmetic lessons, causing a bit of a scene and a hefty disruption.

Miss Palmer had dismissed their lessons early that day, unable to control the unruly class, some children jeering, others screaming at Mary-Alice, who refused to even look ashamed at the mark. And when the child refused to move herself to the back of the room to continue on with the school day, the frazzled teacher had sent them all out.

The comments and taunts were routine now, but she hated them all so severely for each insult hurled her way as they circled her, laughing and preventing her escape.

“Off to the graveyard Mary-Alice?”

“How many dead people do you kiss?”

“Enough to try and find your husband?”

“Is it true the morgue lets you check all the arms before they bury the bodies?”

“Aye, Mary-Alice! Old man Kemper’s been dead three weeks now! Maybe he can help you find your husband!”

“Maybe she’s a witch—she’ll show up in a few years with her undead husband still covered in dirt and worms.”

Then, the boy with the lightest hair grabbed her shoulder and turned toward his friends. Alice tensed under his touch. The boy, Wilhelm, always knew what to say to get under her skin, and to push things too far. “Hey, hey. Maybe she is. But maybe he’s deader than a doornail and always has been! That’s why Mary-Alice gets so upset. She knows he’s never comin’ to find her and that she’ll probably die lookin’ for him! There, there, Mary-Alice,” he turns toward her and frowns, patting her shoulder with fake sympathy.

The surrounding boys all began to frown and nod, some of them fake-crying as they called out “Oh, poor, poor Mary-Alice! A husband deader than a doornail! Long dead and gone and never coming ‘round for supper! A dead-man’s soulmate!”

Mary-Alice ripped herself out of her classmate’s grip, put her arms in front of her and charged, pushing her way through the boys who called after her even as she easily escaped their circle. “Be quiet! Be quiet! Be quiet!” She shrieked. 

As she ran back home, tears stinging her eyes, they laughed and laughed and laughed.

————————————

Edgar put an end to the girl’s schooling not long after.

It wasn’t until the third day of home-lessons, upon realizing that this was to be a permanent fixture in her life, that she threw a fit.

“It’s not fair,” she yelled at her father when he returned home from work that evening, stomping her foot, her fists curled at her sides. “He’s out there! I’m serious!”

“Enough, Mary-Alice!” her father had bellowed, but when he lifted his hand to physically silence her, the girl flinched backward, out of reach of her father’s arm. “I am tired of these ridiculous ideas! You need to move past this… this soulmate business!”

“But he is,” Mary-Alice pointed to the orange mark on her palm, “he is alive! See?”

“You are to stay home to continue your schooling,” he spoke the words with finality. “Until you can get these wild dreams out of your head and control your rantings, you will remain here.”

And that had been that.

Mary-Alice cried herself to sleep that night. And the next night. And the next.

————————————

Mary-Alice was fourteen when she first saw her father with his wrist uncovered.

Well. No. She was fourteen when she saw the vision of the moment in which she would discover her father’s uncovered wrist.

She would be helping Cynthia prepare for a walk around the block, tying the young girl’s bonnet under her chubby chin, when her father’s form would catch her eye. His back would be to them where he was standing by the door, adjusting the deep brown band he’d always kept fastened around his left wrist.

An act of clumsiness would cause the band to fall to the ground. And he was none the wiser to Mary-Alice’s attentive gaze as he leaned forward, fetching the band to reattach it to his limb.

But in the seconds it took for him to grab the band, Mary-Alice would see the tiny space where a heart should have been, but wasn’t.

It would stun her into silence and she’d force her gaze back down to her little sister, managing a weak smile at the sound of the young girl’s prodding.

Back in the present day, Mary-Alice was still fourteen. The bonnet she would tie around Cynthia’s chin had yet to be purchased. And Edgar Brandon’s wrist was still firmly covered at all times. In the back of her mind she realized that in her strange absence from the present—something that happened more and more often as she grew older—she’d dropped a glass of water, sending it shattering and wet across the kitchen floor, but she couldn’t bring herself to react.

Shock was quick to strike, but betrayal sank deep into her bones, forcing her feet to remain planted.

Her mother had never hid her own soul mark. The white heart indicated that not only did she have a soulmate, but she’d met them. Most couples with soul marks that were together had matching white hearts. She’d even once witnessed, at the market, a meeting of two people. She’d watched, stunned as the man’s red heart slowly turned to pink and then to white, the newly-acquainted couple hugging tightly as the realization struck them.

Now, she found herself stunned at an entirely new realization.

Her mother had a soulmate, whom Mary-Alice had assumed was her own father.

Her mother had a soulmate. And her father didn’t.

They weren’t soulmates.

————————————

The discovery that her parents weren’t soulmates marked a changing point for Mary-Alice. She realized her father would never understand what she was going through; perhaps he was even jealous, she theorized once.

It also marked a point in time where Mary-Alice’s visions weren’t just rare occurrences, but now nearly daily disruptions. She would walk into door frames and stumble down stairs. She burnt herself on the stove and her first reaction wasn’t to remove her hand but was ‘I wonder if he’ll have a mark here’.

She refused to believe that her soulmate was dead, despite what the heart on her wrist said. She didn’t have visions of him. Instead, in her dreams, vague feelings struck her, bringing her hope, comfort, and a feeling so warm and exhilarating she could only describe it as love. She had a vague idea of what he might look like. Tall, she thought. With honey-blonde hair.

He was peppered with scars. He had to be. The colorful marks she still regularly found herself sporting confirmed it. Maybe he’d been ill as a child, or an infant, and maybe the universe had been wrong to mark her heart as greyed instead of full of life. Maybe he lived in a horrible place, around horrible people who hurt him constantly. Maybe his heart was beating, just broken. Metaphorically dead instead of literally.

All Mary-Alice knew was that her soulmate was out there, and that she would one day find him.

————————————

The day they buried her mother, Mary-Alice’s mind was far away.

She couldn’t think about anything except for whoever had Lillian’s matching heart. It was surely as black as her own, now.

————————————

Her first night in the hospital, Mary-Alice laid on her cot, eyes swollen shut from crying, throat raw from the screaming she’d done over the past few days.

The nights morphed into days, and together they formed weeks, and then months.

The treatments grew stronger until Mary-Alice knew that she wouldn’t be herself soon enough.

During one of the last night’s she was lucid enough to recall who she was, she contemplated digging words into her skin. If her soulmate also received marks whenever Mary-Alice was injured, maybe she could send him a message.

That night with a sharpened fingernail she carved the words ‘HELP ME’ into her thigh.

The next day they increased the intensity of her treatment.

The following day she forgot who Mary-Alice was.

————————————

Wandering rainy streets wasn’t something Jasper enjoyed making a habit of. After all, humans stared far more when a person looked out of place.

He wiggled his toes uncomfortably in the shoes he’d recently acquired and ducked beneath the awning of a closed down marketplace. It was Sunday and the humans had all made their way back from their services to their homes. The occasional automobile would roll through the streets but besides that, the area was quite empty.

It was something that didn’t bode well for Jasper. He knew it was wiser to wait until the night to feed, but he was so thirsty that he knew he would have to seek out a hobo sooner than nightfall before his self-control gave way.

A young couple ran past him, their shoes splashing through the pooled water on the sidewalks as they laughed, enjoying being caught in the sudden rainstorm.

Their scent wafted toward him, causing Jasper to take two steps toward them, entirely unintentional. It was when his eyes caught sight of their hands, joined tightly and swinging as they moved, that he was able to pull himself together and grind his feet to a halt.

Two matching white hearts stared back at him, and Jasper felt his chest ache.

On a list of regrets so long Jasper didn’t realistically have the time to even pen such a thing, disregarding the presence of his soulmate had slowly worked its way directly to the top.

It wasn’t something he’d given any thought to when his soulmate had been alive. And it wasn’t until years after that they he gave them a singular thought.

The night Maria had changed four newborns just west of Corpus Christi, Peter’s red heart had turned black. Jasper had been frustrated at the man’s distress for hours, abandoning his partner to the outskirts of town just to escape his emotional state.

When he returned that night, Peter had covered his mark with a torn piece of cloth.

It wasn’t until almost a year later, when he was slated to send Charlotte, a tiny, weak recruit, off to the pyres when Peter interfered.

“Look,” the blonde man had forced his wrist into his line of sight, Jasper smacking it away instantly with a glare. “It’s her, Major. You can’t do it.”

It had taken Jasper a few seconds for the meaning of everything to sink fully into his brain. Soulmate. Peter had had a soulmate. And she had died. But really, she had been turned. And it was his job now to kill her.

“Go,” Jasper spat quickly, not giving himself enough time to think about what he was doing. All he knew was that if the pair didn’t take his advice in the next five seconds, his hand would be forced and he’d have to kill them both.

He didn’t see them again until years later when Peter came back, pleading with him to follow.

And with his red-turned-black-turned-white heart impossible to ignore, Jasper followed Peter, and didn’t look back

Except, of course, to think about his own soulmate.

Peter and Charlotte had been almost eagerly supportive. After all, if they could find one another in their strange little immortal afterlife, what was to say that Jasper wouldn’t find his soulmate? They dragged him from city to city for a few years, and at first Jasper wanted to believe them. Of course, the idea of seeking out others of their kind was an asinine one—Jasper was sick of killing—but discovering that the north knew peace was almost too good to be true sometimes.

He’d last seen them four years ago. He’d grown weary. And their undying belief that he’d still find his person eventually made him miserable. In addition to the terror that haunted him with every hunt, Jasper had been barely holding onto whatever was left of his sanity for a long time now.

During his solitude he thought hard about his human life, wracking his brain for any information he could recall about soulmates, but he found himself coming up short. He couldn’t remember his parents names and faces, let alone whether they’d been soulmates or not. The only thing he was sure of was that he’d been born without a soul mark, given one around the turn of the twentieth century, and then soon after it had blackened.

Lifting his eyes, neon lights across the street earned his attention. It was a diner. Tiny, not-very-occupied. And with a quick decision he realized he could hide out in there until it emptied a bit more—and when the rain let up, he was sure that it would—he could help himself to a meal, and move on from this town.

He took one step into the street, pushing all errant thoughts of soulmates and soul marks straight from his head.

It would do him no good to think of things so hopeless.

————————————

In a small diner in 1948, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Alice found Jasper, Jasper found hope, and two black hearts turned white.

[bonjour-rainycity]

Getting to Know You

Jalice Week 2020 Day 3: Cannon Gapfillers

Pairing: Jasper/Alice

Rating: K+

Summary: In the hours after their first meeting, Jasper and Alice get to know each other

Disclaimer: I’m not making any money from this nor do I own anything recognizable

Word Count: 1489

Warnings: Brief mentions of violence

Rain sputters against the window, causing the rickety old shutters to groan under its force. Despite the chill, the fireplace on the edge of the room remains unlit, the cold not affecting the two vampires occupying the room.

Alice perches on the edge of the bed, legs crossed delicately, gazing at her counterpart with fondness in her eyes. Jasper stands across the room, looking upon the small woman with hesitation and uncertainty.

They’ve been like this for twenty minutes, and Alice is about to break. Laughter pushes past her lips and she dissolves into giggles.

“You don’t have to stand so far away, you know. I don’t bite.” And although her tone is light, her words carry truth. With her visions to guide her, Alice stayed safely north, far away from the horrific vampire wars of the South. She never had to experience the carnage, the distrust, the terror.

Jasper did.

In fact, for the first many decades of his new life, it was all he knew.

So while she wishes he would collapse in her arms and allow himself to be held by her, she gives him his space. After all, only one of them has been in love with the other for the past twenty-eight years.

The blond vampire tucks his hands into his pockets, lifting his eyes to look into hers. There’s a measure of honesty there that catches her off guard. “I can tell.”

Alice scrunches her face in confusion. He has no reason to trust her words…so why would he accept them so easily, if not because he loves her too?

Her hope flares.

Jasper smiles hesitantly then, and it’s the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen. “I have a gift of my own. I can feel people’s emotions.”

Alice wonders if she should feel embarrassed. For anyone else, the subject of your affections discovering your unrequited love would be completely humiliating. But for her, it brings a sort of comfort and excitement. He knows she loves him, and he’s not running away.

A small smile spreads across Alice’s face. “Well, then, I guess you already know quite a bit about me.”

“Not as much as you know about me,” he counters, deciding momentarily to take a step in her direction, then choosing against making the movement. When he feels Alice’s disappointment, he can’t help but grin. “Sorry.”

But Alice just shrugs, retaining her usual positive nature. “You won’t stay over there much longer. I can wait.”

Again, a warm feeling spreads through him at her certainty. He takes a small step forward, very much enjoying her spike of happiness.

It’s been so long since he’s made someone happy.

Still beaming, Alice brings the conversation back to their previous topic. “So does it bother you that I know so much about you and you’ve only just met me?”

Jasper sees no point in lying. “Some. But if everything goes as you say it will—” at this, he can’t help but throw her a teasing look, “I’m guessing I’ll get to know you in time.”

Alice scoots further back onto the bed, her back hitting the wall. She pats the spot in front of her. “We have a lot of time right now.”

Jasper hesitates, mentally running through all the reasons he should not join Alice on the bed. But Alice rolls her eyes, foreseeing each of his arguments and refuting them in kind.

“The bed is not too small, you know I’m not going to hurt you, and there’s no one around to care about propriety.”

The last argument though, gives her pause. Her eyes soften, and she extends a hand out invitingly, the picture of vulnerability and openness. Her emotions betray no fear, like he would expect. Because really, she should be terrified of him.

“You’re not going to hurt me, Jasper. That’s not who you are.”

Like before, he feels her complete certainty. She believes this as fact. But how can she, he wonders, when the evidence of my violence is displayed so clearly all over my body?

But she remains steadfast in her belief of his goodness, and he vows right then and there to strive to meet those expectations. For all eternity.

With blank eyes, she sees his choice, then breaks free from her vision, radiating pure joy. Jasper gives in to her emotions, her presence, and his own desires, and walks slowly to sit with her on the bed.

Smiling smugly, Alice tilts her head to the side. “What do you want to know?”

Although he already has a guess, Jasper starts with the obvious—how she knew to find him—and she confirms his hunch, though adds a detail he wasn’t expecting.

“You were the first thing I saw,” she states simply. “When I woke up alone, I had no idea where I was, who I was, or what had happened to me. But I saw your face, and your smile, and felt security like I’d never felt before, and I knew one day, it would all be okay. And it was you, the exact scene of you that I saw earlier in the diner. Ruffled blue shirt, hair the color of honey, and different like me.” She pauses, looking down at her hands for a moment, indecision waging within her. Finally, the words escape her lips, so quiet that Jasper has to concentrate to hear. “It was you that helped me not be so afraid of myself, in the beginning. I thought, if such a good man is like me, then what’s there to be afraid of?”

Her confession floors Jasper, who swallows thickly. Her conclusion was wildly incorrect—how could a monster like him and a kind ray of sunshine like her ever be comparable—but the fact that she found comfort in him of all things…it stirs something in his heart he thought burned away long ago. The emotion is a little debilitating, and he quickly tries to steer the conversation to a safer topic.

“How did you escape The Volturi’s notice if you had no one to guide you? Newborns aren’t exactly known for their self-control…” At the reminder of his not-so-distant past, he holds back a flinch.

But Alice remains unbothered, continuing easily. “My visions. The thirst was definitely strong, overwhelming, even. But any time I decided to act on killing someone, a vision would warn me that it would lead to my death. I eventually figured out that I could avoid those results if I was discrete, so I learned to hunt farther from town and bury my food when I was done with it. Once I knew the rules, the thirst became a lot easier to navigate.”

She sees his next question, and smiles. “Yes, it’s the same reason I knew to stick to the northern part of the continent. I didn’t exactly know what was going on, but I knew my presence in the South would result in my death.”

The image of Alice, delicate, sweet Alice, caught up in the wars for territory causes him to clench his jaw against a snarl.

Then, the image of dismembering and burning Alice, as he would have done without question, causes him to hang his head in shame.

Alice places a gentle hand on his shoulder, and it takes everything in him not to flinch away. He doesn’t want to hurt her like that.

“What is it?”

Through his self-loathing, he forces himself to speak. After all, she has a right to know who she’s comforting. “I was imagining you fighting in the wars…and I know I would have killed you.” Again, he clenches his jaw, feeling crushed under his shame and despair.

Alice surprises him by shaking her head.  “If I had met you then, yes, you probably would’ve killed me. But if I didn’t have my visions,” she continues, louder now to speak over his anguished groan, “I would have been killed anyway. Or ran into you down the road and tried to kill you. Or never even met you at all. Or a thousand other outcomes.” When he refuses to look at her, she takes his chin, lifting it up so he has to confront her eyes. “Jasper, we are only together because of crazy, impossible, specific circumstances. In any other reality, we wouldn’t have found each other, but in this one, we have! Can’t we just celebrate our miracle?”

And when he looks at her, really looks at her, and allows her hope and happiness and certainty to wash over him, he can allow himself to relax. For once, he turns off the part of his brain that constantly cycles through the what-ifs and allows himself to be fully in the moment with this woman who, four hours ago, was a complete stranger.

So with a smile, he takes Alice’s hand in his. “I can do that.”

And they continue getting to know each other.

Be sure to check out my masterlist :)

[mtwalker]

@jalicenetwork

[allicekitty13]

A Garden On My Skin

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In a world where every scar produces a floral mark on the body of your soulmate in the same spot Alice Brandon tries to find the one who's caused her body to look like a garden.

Alice was strange; her skin was covered from head to toe on almost every surface of her body in flowers. Alice, like so many others, was blessed with a soulmate. Every beautiful flower on hey body represented a scar received by the individual to whom her heart was connected.

It started when she was a baby, at least that's what her mother had told her. At just five months old, the first flower appeared on Alice's shoulder. It was a reasonably common occurrence; her mother assumed her daughter's soulmate must have been in their terrible twos, causing trouble that ended in injury.

Alice was one when her mother woke up to find that a dahlia had surfaced on her daughter's leg overnight. Two flowers on a one-year-old was less common but not entirely unheard of. Lilian Brandon hoped that her daughter's soulmate would grow to be a bit more careful. 

By the time Alice was of school-age, however, Lilian was fretful. Her daughter now had six flowers; a number most people would accumulate over their lifetime, not in only five short years. She dressed her daughter in long sleeves and pants to cover as much as possible, leaving only the rosebuds that framed her left eyebrow exposed.

Lilian didn't mind her daughter's floral embellishments; it wasn't something that could be helped; instead choosing to teach Alice to appreciate the gift. Her husband looked at things differently. Edgar had always hated the flowers; the small lilac on Lillian's left knuckle had always been a source of tension between the two. Not everyone had a soulmate, and Edgar had no flowers while the local librarian had a small scar on his left knuckle. Lilian did not go to the library often. 

At sixteen, she was old enough to understand what the markings meant. Old enough to recognize that most people didn't have a soul mate, to fully know that people treated those with markings a bit differently. It was a societal standard to keep your marks concealed wherever possible, never to discuss them. Alice couldn't do that. There were lilies on her cheek, a rose above her eyebrow, a lilac on her neck. Her arms long since covered by so many overlapping flowers, it was hard to identify them all. 

She didn't allow herself to be bothered by the marks, the stares she got on the street, or how people in her town did not want anything to do with strange little Alice. She loved the garden on her skin, spending a lot of time alone thinking about what must be happening to this person. Why and how they must be getting hurt so very often. It seemed as though a new mark would appear every few months. She worried for them, were they safe, did they think about her. She often wished she could skip all the in-between and go find them.

She was sixteen when her life took a dark turn. One morning, she had woken up to find the police in her living room carrying the news of her mother's passing. I was a car crash, deemed an accident, but Alice couldn't quite bring herself to accept that. A week later, the library closed temporarily; the librarian had drowned. His death had people talking; the townsfolk gossiped about Lillian Brandon having an affair with the librarian, how the man had drowned himself out of grief when he had heard of her passing.

Alice had other suspicions; she had felt that her father had a hand in her mother's death from the get-go. He would put up a good show of playing the part of mourning husband with the police and the mourners who came to pay respects, yet acted as though nothing was wrong when it was just he and Alice alone in the house. 

She felt as though her suspicions had been confirmed the day after her mother's funeral. She witnessed her father handing a strange envelope to a shady stranger at the memorial service. A week later, he moved a woman named Anna-Marie into the home. They were engaged within the week, married within the month.

Alice hated her new step-mother, the way she would dote on her in public, playing the part of a loving parent. At home, Anna-Marie was distant, cold; she wanted nothing to do with Alice. Sadly it seemed neither did Edgar. The only solace she took was in the genuine care and adoration given to her younger sister. At least no matter what happened, Cynthia would be Ok.

Alice knew what was coming long before it actually did. She'd had her escape planned out for weeks. Alice would wait for Edgar and Anna-Marie to leave for town without her, then grab the pre-packed backpack hidden in her closet and run. She would go through the woods and search the country for her soulmate; surely, they would care about her. Surely wherever they were would be better than here. 

She had made it just far enough into the woods that no one in town would hear anything that may transpire deep in the woods. Whoever her father had hired to follow her wasn't very discrete. She'd heard the footsteps long ago, the crunching of leaves and occasional snapping of a twig. She'd tried to lose them but had been ultimately unsuccessful. She recognized the smell of gunpowder first, hearing the sound of the gunshot mere milliseconds later. Alice understood what had happened before registering the pain letting out a soft chuckle as she fell to the ground. She felt as though she lay there for an eternity silently crying as the life faded from her body before everything went black. Unconscious, Alice didn't notice the strange man who silently approached. Didn't feel as he bent over, sinking his fangs into her throat. However, she did notice when he unclenched his jaw from her neck, and the most intense pain she believed possible spread through her body like fire.

----

When Alice opened her eyes, she was alone in a small, dark, wooden shack. She looked around at the space from the bed she had been placed on, trying to figure out how she got here. The last thing Alice could remember was the bullet hitting her back, and then... so much pain. Now, her throat was burning; she needed water. No, not water... but what? 

Alice stood, needing to find something to relieve the pain she felt in her throat when a man entered the one-room shack; he held his hands out, indicating he was not there to harm her. He tossed an unconscious rabbit at her feet. She immediately understood what to do, picking it up to drink deeply; the blood coated her throat, ceasing the burning sensation temporarily. 

Alice would spend the next five years with this man, whom she learned to be named Carlisle. He explained how he'd found her bleeding to death in the woods and turned her into a vampire just before she had passed on saving her life. Carlisle taught her about vampiric customs, how they lived in secret, and how to hide in plain sight amongst humans. How he fed off of animals and how to hunt. 

As much as Alice enjoyed her time with Carlisle and eventually, his wife, Esme; she still wanted to find her soulmate, as new flowers continued to show up every day. So she bid the couple farewell, promising that she would return one day.

Three years later, she met Charlotte; Alice was working as a sketch artist in Philidelphia when she encountered the woman on a walk late at night. She had never seen another person with as many marks as she had and immediately approached the woman. Charlotte was kind, explaining how she and her soulmate Peter had been involved in vampire wars in the south. They had both been bitten numerous times during battle; consequently, they both had gardens just like Alice. 

She stayed with the pair for a month when she approached Charlotte with a question. Alice pulled down her sleeve to expose a long scar on her left shoulder blade. She wanted to know if Charlotte or Peter had ever seen anyone with a matching mark during their time in the south. Maybe just like the pair,  her soulmate had been involved, thus the reason for her floral prints. The couple shared a mutual look of realization; Peter nodded in affirmation before leaving abruptly.

Charlotte sat down with Alice, prepared to explain some things. She told her about a man named Jasper, a man who'd had his entire worldview shaken apart the day a rose vine appeared on his shoulderblade. Not only was Jasper involved in the wars, but he was also a significant player. Jasper was the right-hand man of the leader of one of the most powerful covens in the south, the very same coven from which Peter and Charlotte had escaped. Charlotte confided in Alice that he had been questioning his role in the disputes for decades, how Peter had gone back countless times, risking his life in attempts to convince Jasper to leave. It had taken that rose vine to change his mind, to make him realize just maybe there was something better out there for him. He had been looking for her ever since.

When Peter returned alone, Alice wished she could cry; she had wanted desperately to find this man ever since the day her father had brought Anna-Marie into their home. She wanted someone to honestly care for and understand her. When Peter told her Jasper was waiting at the train station, she'd never run so fast in her life in her haste to get there. 

He was waiting as promised; suddenly nervous, she hid behind a stone pillar just hidden from view, taking him in. He was a tall, stoic man; even from a distance, Alice could make out a rosebud on his neck in the exact same spot Carlisle had bitten her years ago. When he turned his head slightly, she was able to make out a pair of striking red eyes and an expression of apprehension. With a sudden surge of courage, she stepped out into full view, taking cautious steps toward the man who now stared at her. 

They stood there for a moment, each taking the other in neither speaking, both of them just existing in this long-awaited moment. The instant Alice looked into his eyes, she felt comfortable; he seemed so familiar as though she had known him her entire life. It was an instant, overwhelming connection, and in that moment, she knew that she would never leave his side.

"Hi, my name is Alice." She broke the silence, finally extending a hand.

[goldeneyedgirl]

jalice2020 day five

JaliceWeek2020 Day 5: Angel/Demon

Afterglow

Notes: This is the third version, because I thought the others were going to be ‘too long’ and then this became a behemoth. I’ve lost all sense of whether it’s actually worth posting, but it’s 6,300+ words and a whole day of work that I refuse to waste. These prompts are going up out of order because I feel like being contrary and am totally disorganised. 

And I found the idea of ‘demon’ fascinating because what else would a vampire be but a very specific form of ‘demon’? Plus there were so many (utterly amazing) fics about demon!Alice, I decided to flip the script. 

I am also totally running with the angel thing in a much longer fic, because I had so much world building, so much more history for both Alice and Jasper, and I was sorry that I couldn’t include it. 

There were three things of which she was certain.

The first was that her name was Alice.

The second was that she was born an angel.

And three, she was getting ready to die.

—

He finds her in an alley behind a diner, slumped against the brickwork, struggling to breathe. He sees her, and for a moment he doesn’t realise what he’s seeing - why would he? Who, in living memory, has laid eyes on an angel?

But he remembers the stories, told around a Monterrey bonfire, of the markings, the aura, the divinity of those nearly mythical creatures. Creatures born of hope and love and all those things that he left behind on that last ride. The older ones always had angel stories, of their astounding beauty and immense power; of wings that stretched out eight, ten, twelve feet of pure white energy that could cut through any substance known to creation. Of miracles and healings and forgiveness that filled all the hollow spaces inside. Of blood that can only be offered willingly, or it becomes fantastically and irreversibly poisonous.

He goes to her side, his hunt forgotten. Maybe it is the stories, that childish, lingering hope at the back of his mind that there is absolution for his actions, that he has not fallen so low he cannot rise up again.

Or maybe it is seeing a creature as broken as he feels, and the twist of pity-empathy in his gut won’t let him turn away from her. She is so small, so utterly… forgotten.

She was a great beauty, he can see that underneath her suffering; her skin has a grey cast, and her lips blue, her eyes underscored with dark bruises. She’s so thin, her skin stretched tight. The celestial markings still adorn her tiny arms, from wrist to elbow, a collage of flowers and stars and maps and symbols utterly meaningless to him, but faded like an old bruise.

Something utterly precious, just thrown away.

His red eyes meet hers, and she gasps, tries to make herself smaller. Some half-forgotten lesson tells her that red-eyes, demons, are the lowest evil and she must protect herself. But with what? She has lost her wings, has lost her magic, has lost much of her memory.

She has been discarded, and is worth nothing more than a demon’s gaze, his next meal. It would be better to go quickly than to linger with this heaviness in her bones and lungs and heart and mind. Whatever divinity is left in her blood, perhaps it can gift him with something - she doesn’t even know what a demon would wish for with angel’s blood, truly. But for a quick end, she would offer it willingly.

She gasps again as he lifts her, and cradles her close, his eyes studying her carefully as he settles her in his arms, making sure he causes her no pain, even as fresh bruises bloom on her skin.

“What…?” she croaks, as he sweeps out of the alley, away from his chosen meal, from the buzzing signs of the diner, and into the night.

“Rest, little one,” is all he says, as if he has a plan. “You’re safe.”

Those half-remembered warnings feel paper thin as she is cradled like treasure against his strong body, as he moves confidently through the streets. Even through her threadbare clothing, it is the first time she has been touched since she can remember, and it is… nice. It is nice and it is easy enough to close her eyes and let whatever is to happen next come upon her.

—

His room in the boarding house is small and worn, but fine enough for him to have a minuscule wash room of his own. The angel sleeps deeply, the sleep of the gravely ill, and he tucks her into the untouched bed in the corner, whilst he ventures into the yet unvisited common kitchen to find her food.

The landlady sweeps in, a well-lived woman - who has never trusted the red-eyed man - likes him a little more as she watches him make a right mess of toast and tea, and she quickly assembles a little tray. This isn’t the kind of establishment that cares what he does in the room he pays for, and she doesn’t really consider the possibilities when he asks for an extra towel and pillow.

The angel sleeps through the night and well into the next day, and he can feel the heat coming from her skin. He dribbles cooled tea between her lips, and curses the fact he has no memory of nursing from the army, of his human life. He refuses to request more help from the landlady, and finally he gives up all pretences and manages to gather the girl up and clamber into the narrow, stained little bathtub together, filled with cold water that he hopes will curb the fever.

She dreams of fire licking her limbs and red eyes staring into her soul and her lips are so dry and everything is all jumbled up and then she is staring at the very tall red-eyed monster cradling her in a bathtub full of cold water, and patting her face with a cloth and worry on his face.

Somehow she regains control of her limbs, enough to reach one shaking hand up to his cheek - it seems impossible that the most evil of creatures could be so handsome, could go to so much trouble for her. She wishes she could ask him a million questions, but she is so very tired, and it is easier to settle back against him and sleep as her fever rages.

—

They are together a week before she is lucid enough to ask questions and offer answers, for them to even learn the other’s name.

Alice.

Major Jasper Whitlock, ma’am.

A soldier, a killer, in his human life. That makes her sad for him, that humans choose to set themselves on a path that is paved in death and misery but there is nothing that can be done about that now. And for a soldier turned vampire, with all his terrible deeds indented on every inch of his arms and neck, with luminous red eyes and a hard stare, he is not.. bad.

In fact, he shows her the first kindness she can ever remember.

He brings her food, strange choices at first, but he soon learns - angels like sweet things, fruits and honey and candy; thin soups to build her strength up, well-sugared milky tea to help her sleep. He brings her some clothing - a proper night dress, and a blue day dress that is far too long, but it covers up the bruises on her stocking-less legs. He reads to her, cheap novels that have covers depicting in young ladies and flowers and cannot be vaguely interesting to him.

She knows he slips away to hunt, to drain humans of their life, but she sees the slump in his shoulders, the tired, pained look on his face upon his return and she wonders if those paper-thin lessons were wrong. That demons do have souls, souls that are weighed with every choice, every action, of their cursed existence. After all, a vampire is just a human gone astray, really. And for all of their flaws and follies, ignorance and arrogance, humans are essentially good, kind creatures. There is a reason they are so staunchly guarded by the angels, after all.

What if Major Whitlock is only a demon because the angels failed him?

When she is well enough to stand, to limp slowly around their tiny room, he offers to take her to church, and she wants to giggle, but he looks so serious and so determined to escort her there that she agrees; churches are for humans, and so is the religion found in them. But she thinks she understands - angels and churches and religions have been so tangled up together that it is some kind of logic, to take her there. He even brings her a hat and gloves and new shoes for the excursion, letting her limping stride set the pace, letting her lean on him as her lungs struggle to keep up.

His arm is gentle yet strong around her, and she leans closer to him, breathing in a scent of pine needles and rainwater.

—

The closest church is of moderate size and limited wealth - the parishioners are hardworking people with little money - and the pastor is an elderly man who has overseen the births, marriages, and deaths of those people, all of whom he can name on sight. It is a late night, counselling a young couple, and he ambles around the church, setting it right for the next morning.

He looks up when he hears voices, and sees the silhouette in the doorway - one tall and one small. For a moment, he mistakes them for an adult and child; perhaps siblings? Strangers or newcomers, certainly. They take a place in a back pew, the taller figure helping the smaller into her seat before settling beside her. It is then he approaches, to welcome them and offer them counsel, before he realises what he is seeing.

The red eyes of the male, firmly fixed on the diminutive girl. And he wants to banish the monster, this fiend from the sanctified ground on which they stand, of which he should not be able to enter. But the flickering candles throw light onto the girl, and the sight of her is a reward paid for with decades of his faith. It is a split second, a flicker of light and shadow, and he has Seen her. The ghost of wings that fold around her in filmy light, the slight glow of her skin, the wisp of lost golden markings, such beauty his mortal eyes has never seen. She looks up at her companion with affection in her eyes, and she takes his hand, and the pastor does nothing more than nod and bless them both in passing; whatever has brought the pair into his church is beyond that of mortal comprehension.

They stay a little while before the devil helps the angel stand, and the pastor watches as the girl limps from the church, leaning heavily on her corrupted companion and says a little prayer for them, one to see them both to whatever sanctuary they might be needing. And then he extinguishes the candles.

—

Time meanders on, and Alice grows stronger. Strong enough to walk unaided, though she still takes his arm every time they leave. Strong enough to teach herself to mend their few clothes, to prepare herself food, though he finds her with candy and fruit just as often as something properly nutritious.

Seeing her cheeks round with chocolate, blushing with embarrassment at getting caught, is the first time he’s properly laughed in decades.

She looks so well now, with faint colour in her cheeks; her eyes are a blue he could get lost in, a swirling galaxy of shifting light and colour - they are most inhuman thing about her right now. Her lips have lost the blue cast, are now a rose pink that makes her look very kissable, but thoughts like that are dangerous, and feel heavy in his chest. Her markings look like some kind of bruise-coloured tattoos that are slowly darkening. He hasn’t asked about them, about the meanings behind them, but when he holds her hand, he sometimes finds himself tracing the lines of the flowers, the stars, the symbols - he thinks he has them memorised.

But eventually, it is time to move on. His body count is rising, getting closer to noticeable, and the money is running out - they only have what he takes from his victims, and it has been slim pickings for a few weeks. He hates to have to admit why they have to leave, but she doesn’t flinch, just smiles and requests a bag for her things as if fleeing a city because of too many bloody disappearances is a perfectly normal reason to leave.

So they leave Philadelphia, hand in hand, with no particular destination in mind. And for a long time, that’s how they live - boarding houses in the city, forgotten farm houses in the country, cradled by long grass in forests where the night sky peeks through. Those are the nights she lies pressed up against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, as she traces constellations with her finger as she relaxes into sleep.

Those are the nights that are imprinted on his brain forever.

—

They find themselves in the back of Vermont in the fall; it’s been a few years since they left Philadelphia, wandering around the country. She looks beautiful to him that day, with a flower crown in her hair - the flowers drooping but not yet wilted - and her very worn out pink dress that is shredded below her knees and a filthy white shawl with more holes than lace. He clasps her hand tight in his as they meander through the forest; she hums a song under her breath, one that is sweet and soothing and intoxicating and he can never remember the tune until she sings it again.

He isn’t paying attention, when they settle on a camp site and she flits off to find something edible - fruits, herbs, flowers; she is surprisingly adaptable. And for all the legends and half-truths, she has no trouble or reluctance eating animal flesh, as long as she cooks it on a fire first, though she always cries when it has to be a rabbit.

They are upon them at once, a coven of five aged vampires, suspicious and on edge as they see his eyes, his scars, his cold glare at the interruption and his own failure to sense them.

At the strange, sickly amber of their eyes.

It’s a tense conversation of his intentions, his purpose on their lands, and his honeyed words are thinly veiled threats. He is grateful that Alice’s sweet scent (roses and linens and melting snow) is easily covered by his own, an illusive little quicksilver protected by her own sacred biology. He has them almost convinced them to, in laymen’s terms, fuck right off and leave him be when Alice returns.

“Jasper?”

The older woman gasps at the sight of her and the entire family go from suspicion to anger and disgust - the shawl slung low around her elbows (covering up her markings, good girl), the girlish, tattered dress, and flowers in her hair. The apples clutched in her pale hand, one with an obvious bite mark. Her blue eyes bright and skin flushed, and decades later he will remind them how damn unobservant they are that they thought she was his victim, lured into seclusion, when two bags sit by the tree, when everything about her was uncanny and inhuman enough to tell them the still-shocking truth. It was fall in the forest, and the flowers in her hair were still fresh, for god’s sake.

But in that moment, she is the innocent, a future meal of a monster, the sacrificial lamb.

“Sweetheart, come away from him,” the woman gestures to her, but Alice is no longer smiling, and if they looked closer, they’d see the storm rising in her eyes (he loves that about her, the way the blue of her eyes darkens and churns when she’s worried or afraid, and lightens and ripples with her joy. He could watch her eyes forever.) She drops the fruit, and moves closer to him, her hands reaching for the sleeve of his coat.

The coven move too fast, and the only reason they aren’t destroyed is because he is too aware of her; she is pushed aside in their efforts to manhandle her away from him, to drag him through to their side of the river. He lets the biggest one push him to his knees, his arms tight and awkward behind his back. There is a growl is rumbling in his chest, and he can smell it - her blood. It’s an odd, distinctive smell that is enough to make him freeze. It’s not a lot, maybe a scrape, but this coven… angel blood is somehow a walking, resistible temptation. They could drain her dry (and die horribly for the effort) but she’ll still be perfectly dead and that cannot be allowed to happen. He begins to struggle, but the big one holds him firm and shit. This is bad.

“Let him up, please.”

He can only move his head enough to see her standing, a small cut on her leg that will be gone in a day or two. She looks … displeased. He’s never seen that look on her face before.

“You’ll be okay now,” the redheaded boy tells her superiorly. “You should find your way back to town.”

“Let him up,” she retorts, just as arrogantly as the boy, as imperious as a queen, and there is a stillness, an edge to everything around them - no birds or breeze; even the running of the river seems rather muted.

“We’ll deal with him,” the big one says confidently, and that is the wrong thing to say.

“Let. Him. Go.”

It happens all at once, an echoing order that is not yelled but thunders in all their ears. They yell and gasp and are tossed away like paper dolls and he finally gets a look at his girl in all her glory.

She’d told him once, off-hand, that she’d never be fully healed again. That she accepted that she was Fallen and Shunned, and what she had managed to recover, she was grateful for.

Not recovered, his ass.

She was great and terrible and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, her arms thrown wide and the shawl gone, her markings glowing white, her eyes pools of white energy. And behind her, stretching four feet, easily, on either side were her long wings, crackling with pure light. Markings he hadn’t glimpsed before peeked out from the neckline of her dress, and her skin had a faint glow to it, the entire effect as if a star was entrapped inside her body.

It is his captor that bears the brunt of her wrath, gasping in pain as her gaze focuses on him, the rest of the coven disorientated as they pick themselves up.

The last of the group, the blonde woman who might have been mistaken as an angel herself, is at his side immediately, wanting to help but unsure how to as he howls at whatever Alice’s power is doing to him.

“Stop it!” the blonde vampire screams, “STOP IT.”

He manages to get back to her side, wanting to reach out and pull her to him, but he doesn’t know if he can touch her like this.

“Alice?” he says. “We’re okay.”

The energy recedes as quickly as it appeared, leaving her looking cranky but pale as she immediately tucks herself against him as the coven inspect their fallen member.

He is disorientated and startled but unharmed as he reassures the blonde woman, the rest of their gazes falling to the couple over the river. More than a girl in a pink dress and a man in an overcoat.

“I can’t read them anymore, Carlisle,” the redhead murmurs. “His is … too quiet, and hers is in a language that… I think she made up.”

Alice spits a sharp word at the boy, holding him so tight he knows she was - is - afraid.

The leader, this Carlisle, simply stares at them with an indescribable look on his face. Incredulousness and awe and confusion and amusement dance around them, and he shakes his head.

“In all my years, I have never…” he began, wiping his face with his hand, an indisputably human gesture. “I apologise, my family misunderstood.”

Alice grunts and still glares, and if Jasper knows anything, it is that she holds a fantastic grudge against that which wrongs her - the woman who called her a harlot in a town back in Minnesota; the perfectly spoilt fruit tart from a shady baker; the young man who tore her dress in Boston. If those things can keep her gaze dark and sour her mood, he doesn’t fancy being any one of these creatures.

“Carlisle?” the older woman asks curiously, and the big one is back on his feet and seems to be entirely unaffected by whatever Alice had done to him.

“What is she?” he asks with genuine curiosity, his arm around the blonde.

“I believe this young lady might be an angel.”

—

That’s how they meet the Cullens. Carlisle spends three days hovering around them with delighted, boyish excitement until Esme gently redirects his attention and energy. Esme, who is so kind to them both, even with his red eyes and scars (later, she will smile at him and tell him that she knew that no matter where he had come from, no one who treated Alice so gently could be anything other than a true gentleman). Edward is frustrated with them both, and mutters comments under his breath as Alice snipes back in a language no one else understands - which just agitates Edward more. She admits later, when they’re alone, that she hardly remembers learning the language and probably couldn’t hold a conversation in it but does in fact remember most of the good swears and insults, and he laughs loudly at the idea that angels are pure and good and selfless as she taunts the arrogant little vampire.

Rosalie hates them. Hates his red eyes and violence, hates Alice for hurting her mate. Emmett is more curious and entertained than offended, and shrugs off Rosalie’s rage - “Babe, you’d do the same to them for me.” He’s more interested to know if Alice can change the colour of her ‘lights’ at will - like a disco ball - and Alice congratulates him on asking the actual dumbest question in the history of creation and of course that means Alice and Emmett are friends now, even though he described her attack as being ‘boiled from the inside out’.

How does he feel about them? Well, they offer them a nice room with a bed for Alice and little bathroom, and Esme goes to find Alice food - Carlisle sending her with a ream of notes on angels and their preferred diet despite the girl’s insistence anything will do. They are respectful and genuine and he cannot fault their welcome into the house. There are clean clothes and books and amusements and every possible comfort except human blood.

That is a conversation he has alone with Carlisle, whilst Alice joyfully eats her way through a pile of candy roughly the same size as she is. It is a long conversation, a hard one. Of all the guilt and the pain and the regret; of every horror he has never spoken of to Alice, of every fear that lingers in his bones.

And when he finishes, he feels lighter.

Carlisle smiles benevolently, and explains the advantages of abstaining from human blood, of existing only on the blood of animals.

“It does, admittedly, take away some of our strength,” the older man warns but his mouth quirks into a smile. “Not that I think you have to worry about your safety with such a… formidable mate.”

Jasper is quick to correct him, ducking his head so that Carlisle might not see the longing in his eyes. They are not mates or lovers or sweethearts. As much as he admires her, a goddess in his eyes; as much as he restrains himself from noticing the slender curves hidden by her clothing, from letting his gaze linger too long, they are mere companions; the closest of friends but no more than that.

Carlisle chuckles outright at that. “I assume this isn’t your preference?” he says, with a grin that makes him look his age.

He scowls, refusing to take the bait.

“In all my years, I have met many people in many differing kinds of relationships,” Carlisle says, with that knowing look on his face that Jasper decides he hates. “And I can tell you without an ounce of doubt that no angel - or woman - would look at a vampire like that, would defend one so fiercely, without holding him close in her heart. I think, if you were to make a gesture, it would be warmly reciprocated.”

And for a moment, he is full of hope. Hope of a future where he could press a kiss to willing lips, could slide his hand over the curve of a waist. Could trace the markings hidden by her dress with his fingers, his mouth, learn them by heart.

But the truth is, he is a monster. The blood in his eyes, the scars on his skin, the violence in his movement… it is what he is. That he would not sully her with his touch, if she would even accept such a thing. And in truth, he could not bear to be dismissed from her side. He would walk her down the aisle to a worthy man, as long as he could remain in her orbit.

“No,” he shakes his head. "She is… and I am… it would not be fair.” She already Fell once, why drag her further down?

Carlisle studies him carefully, the regret rolling off him in waves. “If you’ll pardon me for prying, how on earth did you end up meeting Alice? I only know of one other who has met an angel; they are illusive creatures.”

Jasper looks up, a quirk of his lips at the memory. “I found her in Philadelphia. She was dying in an alley. I tried to help her.” And the story slowly comes up; the long wait for her fever to break, trying to build up her strength, their brief attendance at church that was more for him than for her; their little pilgrimage around the country. How she loves to watch the stars, to wear flowers in her hair, and sings like the angel she is. How any money they had went to food, and she found sweet irresistible - more than once she went barefoot rather than go without a slice of cake, a bag of strawberries. He ends up smiling by the end of the story, the warmth of the memories surrounding him.

Carlisle looks at him incredulously. “Jasper, you found a dying girl in Philadelphia, and you saved her life,” he says so gently. “You raised an angel from the dead out of pure selflessness and honour. And you sit here and tell me that you are deemed unworthy? I cannot believe it, myself.”

Jasper shakes his head and thinks of all that he has been told, about animal blood, and protecting human life. About all that he has seen and felt with that diminutive girl beside him.

“For her, I have to be better.”

—

They settle into the Cullen family with relative ease - Esme is a doting mother figure to Alice, whose quirks he found so charming are utterly foreign and confusing to the rest of the family. But Esme carries no frustration to find wilted flower crowns discarded through the house; to find Alice has eaten a week’s supply of food in one night; to find an ugly scorch mark on the couch when Edward provoked the girl far enough for her magic to get involved.

Carlisle is still fascinated, but is affectionate to the small girl who has so many questions about everything, everywhere. He cannot answer many of her questions about angels, but he has more than enough stories about his life to entertain her for hours.

Edward and Alice snipe at each other constantly, as she continues to conceal her thoughts, and somehow mute Jasper’s, from his probing. The thing is, they could be good friends if they wanted; he wonders if Alice still holds a grudge from his dismissal of her during that very first meeting. Emmett, however, thinks Alice is a fantastically weird addition to their family even if her powers remain unused. Her intuition is second to none, and she is strong enough to exist safely in the household, but mostly she is unremarkable. He likes ruffling her hair and asking dumb or embarrassing questions (“So when you have sex, Lite-Brite, do you go all glow-y?” he asks one day, just ambling into the room with that question on his brain, and Esme scolds him and he growls, and Alice turns faintly pink and admits she wouldn’t know. Emmett does feel bad when she reveals that, and buys her an enormous bag of fudge that means he’s automatically forgiven.)

Rosalie tolerates them - she likes how annoyed Edward gets with Alice, and that Alice is an eager student in the art of fashion and shopping, and has suitable awe for Rosalie’s beauty and attitude. But she resents Alice’s divinity, that somehow the universe judged this tiny girl to be a precious, sacred creation, and decided that Rosalie herself was worth less than humanity.

They treat him well enough - politely, respectfully, and that’s all he asks. Carlisle offers relatively good counsel on most subjects, but most specifically on hunting animals. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, and he fails more than he succeeds. He sees frustration in the faces of the Cullens every time he returns with red eyes, but he never sees Alice flinch or fluster. She greets him with that same special smile every time he walks into the room, her sheer presence a balm. And that unconditional affection, that is when the shame feels heaviest on his shoulders.

So he tries again.

And again.

And again.

And it gets easier. Or rather, he gets stronger. The gaps between red eyes get longer, and his eyes lighten slowly from red to orange to amber. But the burn in his throat remains, and he struggles constantly. But he reminds himself, the prize is worth it. She is worth every second of burn, every disgusting animal, every long night resisting the urge to hunt.

She will always be worth it.

—

After Vermont, there is Minnesota, then Montana, then… well, they begin to blend together. All are within abundant hunting grounds, all in beautiful homes, all provide comfort and luxury he could never have imagined providing her. She fits it like a glove; her beautiful clothes, the abundant library, the ease of every day life - it is a palace for a princess and he is so happy that she is happy.

It is the place where Carlisle insists he go to school with the others, tempting him with the possibility of college in the future. She cannot go; they have no ways of concealing the inhumanity of her, and she struggles to contain her powers sometimes, especially when distressed. Even one sad movie an have her shining like a discount glow stick. Carlisle does much research on the subject, to try and help train her, but his research is slow and they still don’t know much. One day, she’ll join them. She’s determined, even when she scorches another dress, another chair, another wall. One day.

She pounces on him every single afternoon, demanding to know about his day, about his classes, about what high school is like. For so long it was just her, then it was them, then it was the family - the idea of classmates and friends and peers is so foreign. He dutiful fills her in, though many of the details she demands are not things he has noted. She always touches him during these conversations, hanging over his shoulder, curled in his lap, tucked at his side.

And even when Rosalie and Edward tell her to stop bothering him, forcing him to relive the tedium, he encourages it. Because as dull as school is, recounting it to her as she clings like a little possum to his back, is his very favourite part of the day.

And somehow, maybe because of that, something changes between them. Their closeness holds something new - potential, maybe. But her eyes seem to really see him when he presses a gentle kiss to her forehead; her cheeks get a little pinker when he compliments a new dress; he finds himself reaching for her less, and finding her already there more often.

They still share a room - he has no need for his own, not with the communal library on the third floor - and he tries his hardest to give her privacy. But he’s caught her changing more than once, seen a glimpse of more markings on her pale-flawless-exquisite spine. He lingers too long in that view, berating himself for his perversion, but he cannot resist. He wonders where else the tattoos lie.

Carlisle looks at him with knowing eyes, and Esme beams every time she sees, or thinks she sees, something. But no, not yet. Not until he’s worthy of every hope, can grant every single one of her wishes and whims. Not until he can court her as she deserves.

It’ll happen, he’s determined. He will make himself worthy, reforge himself in any hell that he can find, if it makes him a better man for her.

Inevitably, he slips again, and they have to move, and he is furious with himself. Every time he thinks he might see the light at the end of the tunnel, he weakens. Two steps forward and one step back.

He spends the night on the couch, watching movies without seeing them, and trying not to notice the warmth of her skin as he endlessly traces the lily-star-celestial map that are her tattoos. She falls asleep against him, a heavenly weight, and he wishes for a lot of things, but mostly for sleep.

—

There were three things of which she was certain.

The first was that her name was Alice Cullen.

The second was that she was a fallen angel, which wasn’t such a bad thing to be.

And the third was that she was completely and irreversibly in love with one Major Jasper Whitlock. And she was tired of waiting.

—

He has taken her into the forest, the spring air crisp, and the plants blooming. She skips beside him, her fingers interlaced with his, and it’s a lovely day - the canopy of the forest concealing the glitter of his skin. It’s one of those lazy, peaceful days that he lives for.

She leaves him sitting by the river, as she gathers wild flowers and leaves, settling beside him as she makes her crown - nimble fingers twisting and weaving. The white and yellow blooms match her new dress. And then she is wrapped around his back, crowning him in leaves and tiny red and white berries.

“My prince,” she whispers in his ear, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss on his cheek. And she pulls away, just enough space for him to turn his head and align their lips and he’s many things, but he’s also a man deeply, deeply in love.

Their first kiss is a slightly awkward angle, but it is… it is his absolution, his greatest hope, his most perfect joy. For her, it is finding home, the last piece of an indecipherable puzzle finding its place, it is entirely new and yet as familiar to her as her own self.

After he pulls away, she twists herself into his lap, her eyes so wide and flickering blue and white, a pink flush to her cheeks. She looks so hopeful and loving that he cannot help but steal another kiss, another jewel to hoard in his dead heart as she sighs happily against him.

But the real world is still outside their private little glade, and finally he pulls away.

“We can’t,” he croaks, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Oh Alice, I can’t.”

“Why not?” her question is so innocent, he wants to wrap her in his arms and keep her here forever, where nothing will ever sully her.

“You’re an angel, darlin’. An honest to goodness angel. You deserve so much better,” he murmurs, half against her lips. “Not me. I’m a goddamned monster.”

Alice sighs again. “Oh Jasper, I wish you could see you as I do,” she says so sweetly. “The person who lifted me out of the trash, the person who healed me, the person who cared for me and protected me and loved me without question or expectation.”

She traces his face, her soft fingers running over his nose and lips and cheeks.

“I’ve waited so long for you to be worthy to yourself,” she continues. “Because you were more than worthy enough for me.”

The next kiss is deeper, passionate and he pulls her flush against him, feeling the buttons on her dress press against his chest, probably cracking them. Another one follows, and then another, until it all blurs together, and he’s slid his hand further up her leg than is truly proper, and her hands are tangled in his hair.

Her smile is the sweetest, a little shy, as she buries her face in his neck - drawing in his scent - and he notices the faint glow around her markings, almost like her powers are blushing.

“I’ve waited for you - for this - for so long,” she whispers to him, the words almost lost in the light breeze.

And he holds her close, holds her tight. “I never meant to keep you waiting.”

She looks him in the eye, gold meeting blue, and her smile is radiant, as beautiful as every story and every myth. “Well, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

And then she leans in for another kiss.

—

There were three things of which Jasper Hale was entirely certain.

One was that he was a vampire in love with an angel.

The second was that his angel loved him back, as completely as he loved her.

And the third was that they had the rest of eternity to be together, whatever the future might bring.

[itsnotpluggedin]

For Jalice Week 2020 Day 3 - Canon Gapfillers!  Not sure exactly what kind of fanworks this falls under  @jalicenetwork

[gashousegables]

Jalice Week 2020 Day 1

Cult-captive? More like cult-captivated

Human/Vampire

It was hunger that motivated Jasper to stick out his thumb on the side of the road. It was for show – humans were smart enough to remember every single hitch-hiking killer story when they saw his white hand and carefully lowered Stetson. What better time to strike than the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere?

So he was surprised when a car honked, and a beat-up van pulled over in front of him.

He would have simply stepped up and eaten the two people inside immediately – if not for their almost sublime contentment. The driver, a young man with long blond hair, does not react to how swiftly Jasper simply appears at his window, but beams, genuinely thrilled to look at him. “Are you going far, brother?” the man asks him eagerly.

Jasper tilts his head up, letting his black eyes bore into the man. His voice silky and lilting; “Wherever you’re headin’ is just fine.” Still, there is no expected fear, no apprehension, that every human before him had ever beheld at the sight. But Jasper can see the dilated pupils and understands. Whatever substance addled the man unfortunately dampened his survival instincts – more’s the pity for him. “Wonderful!” The man says, as Jasper flicks open the sliding door and climbs in among moldering crates of vegetables. They start off again, as Jasper settles down next to apples. “Oh, wonderful – you don’t seem shy of hard work and Our Father needs strong backs and ready hands,” the man says, all light satisfaction. Jasper does not answer, and does not need to – the man seems just fine limply manipulating the wheel.

They’re not alone in the vehicle – a woman sits beside the man, her head limp and bouncing against the window. She’s not dead, she even hums gently, her brown hair a curtain over her face. She lacks the same joy as the man – but her heartbeat is still very slow, almost sluggish. Jasper was different from most vampires in that smell was not one of the main senses he used. He was barely bothered by holding his breath for longer periods of time because it was not what he relied on. His empath abilities functioned more in a hunt than scent did. He tracked whatever feelings he could stand the most and ate accordingly.

But that didn’t mean his sense of smell was dulled, he just ignored it more often. Now, even for him, Jasper can smell something rancid on the woman – she’d urinated on herself. Frowning lightly, Jasper inhales deeper, crooking his face in her direction. Her piss wasn’t the only sour source of her smell – she was drugged too. Nothing as citrus-fresh as whatever the man had consumed.

“Don’t mind working for your supper?” the man glances back at Jasper with raised eyebrows. Jasper wonders if he could afford to – driving while in this state and not looking at the road. He decides that if the man throws them into a tree, Jasper would use the scant few seconds to eat them both. “A bit of tilling, bit of hauling?” The man prompts as Jasper watches him.

“Much obliged,” Jasper replies softly and the man faces forward again, still incredibly pleased.

Jasper watches as they pull past old, high and well-tended wooden fences.

Our Community Welcomes You

Jasper frowns at the metal sign. Past the gates he could hear the faint din of many people, and there was a large, long and tall building that showed only rows upon rows of windows, all barred.

The driver picks up the mounted radio on the dashboard; “Brother James here, got our crops, got our girl and picked up a traveller,” he says into the mic.

There’s a cursory affirmative that crackles back at them and the gate is dragged open by a man with a rifle on his back.

Suspicion rolls off the man, as the van rumbles past him. Jasper had locked eyes with him and that feeling increased. Certainly he had nothing extra in his veins. Jasper was glad of one clean meal, at least.

The man pulls up into a dirt lot with a piece of corrugated iron for a roof and turns off the van with a sigh.

“We’re home, brother!” Announces Brother James, who hops out of the car, faintly whistling.

Jasper releases the door, sliding it open and revealing the man with the rifle.

“Welcome, new brother,” the man grunts, eyes narrowed harshly. Jasper nods once, following the man who gestures with his gun for Jasper to walk in front of him.

Jasper can see the guards patrolling the fence. Well, two men with rifles walked in the dark, one further behind them and one just watching them now. Obviously they were to start from a certain point along the boundary and cross over.

The gate guard leads Jasper parallel to the house, along a path lit by marker lights stuck into the ground. It was mostly mud with stubborn patches of grass. Jasper could see a dilapidated playground over by the house and plenty of fields where they were heading.

The mud coated Jasper’s already filthy feet and Jasper hears the guard walking in the dark along the fence comment on it, through a radio.

“No shoes – rough living, brother?” The guard asks him. Jasper bobs his head slowly, walking along  as the fence guard heads towards the van.

The humming woman was limply dragged out of the van and being pulled up the driveway, towards the house.

When the fence guard reaches the van and Jasper and his escort reach a particularly dark part of the mud path, plenty of the marker lights were out. Jasper kicks out the one marker that was still glowing and turns to the man, grabbing him, sinking his teeth into the fleshy meat of the neck and drinks quickly. The man makes a wet wheeze, too quiet for anyone else to hear. But Jasper doesn’t mind a meal on the go and walks himself backwards slowly, while he keeps his meal elevated by a hand on the throat.

In five casual steps, Jasper’s done and pauses, staring at the limp corpse. He hesitates on where to put it – littering was apparently killing the planet and since Jasper certainly wasn’t dying anytime soon, he’d like to keep the earth as undying as he was. Then he figures since human’s decompose it really wasn’t so hard and tosses the dead man to the side.

One fully grown human was food enough, but Jasper thought perhaps another wouldn’t hurt. He backtracks to the guard by the van and eats him too. It’s less of a headache to stuff the man’s body on top of a crate of potatoes and just close the door on him.

Not it was only curiosity that motivated Jasper forward, trooping silently through the grounds. It was dark, he could hear from the house that there was no commotions or an alarmed din that would signify anyone saw the dead men. Jasper was free to roam.

He avoided the fields – nasty stuff, human food. Rotting in the ground just for humans to pluck it up, dust it off, and let it moulder some more before they ate it. He avoided the house, too, since the humans were in it.

But there was another group of cabins, a line of three, that Jasper couldn’t hear any people. Four boards of cheap plywood nailed together with one door and one window. Two of them were dark and one had yellow light glowing out of the pane.

He went over to them and the first one was … an office. It had a computer and a safe and a KEEP OUT sign on the door. He moved on.

The second cabin had the woman from the van, on a bare mattress, now chained to the floor. She was no longer humming, her eyes were closed, her pulse more sluggish than ever. Still drugged and now passed out. Jasper eyed the thick heavy shackle and the four locks on the door.

The third cabin had people. Jasper recognised Brother James’ voice and a high voice of a woman. Panic rolls off of someone on one side of the room, and close to the door, lust and mild annoyance oozes out of what smells like a rapidly sobering Brother James.

“He killed them, James! That thing you brought in killed Harris and Dole!” The woman’s voice cracks with fear and Jasper pauses. Well, who on earth could this little lady be speaking of?

“Go look – they’re dead. One’s stuffed in the produce van and the other’s by the fence!”

Now Jasper was really curious. No one else is anywhere near them, after all and Jasper saw nothing like cameras around the place.

“Now, now Mary – the poor man was in a t-shirt and jeans,” Brother James’ tone was not slow and soft to be placating – the sarcasm rang clearer than anything. “No shoes, stupid cowboy hat. Couldn’t hurt a fly.”

Jasper touches his hat and scowls, deciding to eat the shithead for that comment.

There’s a clanking sound and a faint rustle. “You’ve got the radio, fuckin’ check,” the woman’s tone was flat and angry.

There’s a plastic clicking sound. “Brother Dole – Mary misses you, over.” Brother James cooed – static sounded. “… Brother Dole, Mary’s all ready in bed for you now, over.” Brother James’ voice cracked on the last word – static sounded. Jasper strolled to the front door – he had half a mind to whistle. “… Brother Harris – come in, over.” James tried again – static sounded.

Jasper waits as the handle on the door rattles and James hisses out a string of curses. Jasper shoved his hands in his pockets.

“No! No!” The woman was screaming now, a chain rattled again. “He’s coming – fuckin’ give me that gun!”

James burst out of the door and into Jasper’s waiting mouth.

Jasper had time to look into the cabin while he swallowed, taking deep pulls while James jerked weakly, powerless under the strength of his jaws. The gun clatters to the floor, a little black one.

Jasper sees cherry-print curtains, pulled open. A poster of a kitten that said ‘God Loves You’. There’s stuttering breaths and fear.

When Jasper’s done, he just opens his mouth and lets James crumple to the floor, revealing a mattress on the floor and the little woman on it.

She is very little and full young. Pale and trembling. She’s staring at Jasper with grey eyes and her hands clapped over her mouth.

She’s wearing a stained pink shift with yellow lace around the neck. She’s chained by the ankle. There’s a colouring book and a pack of pencils by the mattress. As well as a Peter Rabbit plastic plate and a box of condoms.

Jasper steps into the room, over the corpse, and watches the woman cringe away from him.

She wasn’t really looking at him, Jasper realises her eyes weren’t grey – they had a cast. She was blind. Blinded – if the scares around her temples were any indication.

“Uh-um ….” the woman says, swaying her head backward. She freezes, and Jasper watches her. Her eyes dart about, and her emotions shift – fear from trepidation, anger, fury, happiness, contentment. Jasper is very confused – there’s no drugs in her system as far as he can tell. He couldn’t say what was prompting her mood. Her unseeing eyes land on him – something warm and deep in his chest sweeps over him. Jasper’s almost brought to his knees by it – it was so overwhelming he finds himself under its influence. He wonders if James’ blood was affecting him, but only distantly, as the warmth settles over his thoughts and he stops caring.

“Get me up, now,” the woman says, sticking her thin leg out and up, presenting the shackle on her ankle at him.

Jasper blinks slowly, walks to her and kneels down because he wants to be near her. She smiles, puts her hand on his shoulder and pets him clumsily. He tries to right himself, to fill the gaps. “How did you know I killed those men?” he asks her softly.

The woman taps her hairline. “I see here,” she taps the scarred corner of her eye, “not here … Father said I don’t need both types of sight,” she explains. Distant anger flickers damply within him when she’s made mildly sad by what she’s said. Jasper never wants her to be sad. She kicks out her leg to him again. “Rip it off – I know you will. Don’t do it in the way that snaps my ankle, ok?” she asks, as Jasper obligingly slides his fingers under the thick metal, “Gently,”

He pulls the lock apart off her leg, tossing it away. She sighs in relief and Jasper smiles, glad he’s satisfied her.

“Now what?”

“Pick me up.” Jasper gets to his feet then scoops her up. She’s short and she tucks her shoulders into his chin and her nose into the hollow of his throat. He cradles her like glass – he can’t remember what amount of pressure hurts a human, so he won’t risk it. She hums as though deep in thought. “… You’ll need to take me to … a river, I think?” she pulls away from his neck, her eyes scrunched up tight. He waits on her next words. “Far away, just run until morning.”

Jasper nods slowly, and does as he’s told. She tucks herself against him again, as he leaps over the fence and keeps running back down the road he was on before, and further. She bounces around in his arms but he’s not confident enough to cradle her any closer. She’s grasping his shoulders tight enough to prevent her from falling, though, so he’s satisfied. But he slows down, to something of a human pace. “What do I do after daybreak?” He asks her, because he knows he’ll do anything she asks of him.

She’s huffing slightly, but her cheeks are flushed and she smiles at him. Nothing but that warmth emanates from her and he’s almost drunk from it. “Make me up the same as you,” she explains with a nod, “Then I’ll come back and eat my Father. I’ll rip that entire place to the ground.” She stops smiling as she says that, something deeper welling in her that Jasper knew from the South. Determination and dedication. He knew that strong ripple best from Maria – and it had won her most of her territory.

But her words still confused him. “Why would I do that?” he asks her and he’s genuinely asking her. He didn’t know why he’s imprinted on her like an orphan duck – but he was drawn to her like nothing else and he’d never been this far out of his own control. At least, not without being worried about it. But it was the lack of worry he felt about his own lack of control that worried him.

She smiles again, “Because I know you, Jasper.” His name felt right, in her mouth. He found himself smiling just for hearing it.

“Do I know you?” he asks her, his voice a rumbling murmur.

“Not yet – call me Alice.”

[jasperapologist]

Happy Jalice week day two!

[tragicallywicked]

JALICE WEEK 2020 ↳ day six: reincarnation (together every era) @jalicenetwork

For a thousand lives she had loved the same man over and over again. Through happiness and loss, until their souls could be together again.

READ IT ON AO3

[flowerslut]

BONUS DAY: Quarantine Rated: T for language. Words: 9,064

A/N: My favorite prompt, “suddenly human” was somehow NOT chosen for Jalice week. So I took some liberties here by combining a shitload of prompts together. Brace yourselves.

WHUMPTOBER CROSSOVER—No. 13: OXYGEN MASK & No. 21: INFECTION

Alice and Jasper face immortality together.

I’LL JUST LAY HERE WITH YOU

Twenty-nine days ago they were celebrating.

Birthdays weren’t something they acknowledged often. After Bella had been with them for a decade, their newest vampire had firmly put her foot down. She’d barely tolerated them as a human, but as an immortal being she’d loathed the parties.

Thankfully, there was still Renesmee and her milestones to keep track of. Of course, she hadn’t changed much since her eighth birthday, but apparently even human-vampire hybrids weren’t immune to the desire for a Sweet Sixteen.

Jasper had never seen Alice so elated to have someone so willing to plan a celebration with her. And she and Rosalie had once spent three years planning one of Rose and Emmett’s more elaborate weddings.

It started with a vision.

Turning the knob on the stove, Jasper cut the heat, ignoring the way his throat burned at the aroma that was wafting through the kitchen. It had been embarrassing, having to listen to Carlisle and Bella give him step by step instructions on how to light the gas stove over the phone, but if Alice had witnessed him struggle in a passing vision, she neglected to mention it to him.

He checked his phone then, knowing that no messages awaited him, but still hoping for a notification nonetheless. Someone would be dropping off more supplies today, and he needed to know where exactly to go in order to receive them.

He couldn’t risk interacting with any of his family directly. Not until they figured out what was going on.

It started with a vision.

Jasper reached forward, grabbing the canister from the boiling water, and began to wipe it dry. He knew it was warm enough due to smell alone. He hadn’t once used the food thermometer they’d stuck in their last delivery. While Alice’s condition had worsened, it hadn’t gotten so bad that she’d be at risk of being burnt.

He eyed a bag on the kitchen table, and at the assortment of crazy straws poking against the plastic, and rolled his eyes as he exited the room. Leave it to Emmett to try to find something to joke about with the situation.

He’d been pissed at the bonus items during that particular delivery—surely Edward and Rosalie hadn’t known Emmett was sneaking some extras into the package—but it had made Alice crack a real, genuine smile.

And those were so hard to come by now.

It started with a vision.

Twenty nine days ago they’d been celebrating Renesmee’s birthday. That included balloons and streamers and cake and human food and humans and an assortment of emotion that, by the party’s conclusion, had given Jasper whiplash. The headache he had that day didn’t ebb until late that night. Alice had been too preoccupied with clean-up to notice.

And Jasper had been too preoccupied with his headache to notice when Alice’s emotions caused the climate of the house to take a nosedive.

Walking through room after room Jasper eventually reached the stairs and began to slowly climb, focusing hard on the low buzz of the equipment running upstairs. With every step his misery intensified until he was struggling to keep the emotion at bay. Whether it was a good thing or not, Alice was too out of it most days to be able to tell.

Still, he didn’t want to slip up and accidentally physically share his current emotions with her.

“Jazz?” He heard her voice call when he was halfway up the stairs. And when her panic struck him he cleared the rest of the staircase in an instant.

“I’m right here,” he spoke, the canister already resting on the nightstand as he reached out for her, hyperaware of all the wires as he maneuvered her into an embrace. “Just wanted to get you something to drink.” Pulling back he focused intently on her face. Her eyes hadn’t been golden in days, despite the regular meals he supplied her with. Instead, her eyes were slowly darkening, a brown amber color taking over.

Her sigh of relief sounded more like a rasp, and when her face scrunched up in pain, Jasper felt his entire being ache. Reaching forward he readjusted the oxygen tube on her face, resting his hand firmly against her cheek as he watched her squeeze her eyes tight and focus on taking a few long, even breaths.

She felt just slightly warmer than she had the day before. The temporal thermometer that lay within the nightstand was suddenly at the forefront of his mind. Another one of the tools Carlisle had armed him with in their first supply drop off. Jasper had refused to grab the device until someone (Rosalie) explicitly and unkindly asked him what her temperature was that day.

He didn’t want to think about how she was warming every day.

“Let’s sit you up,” Jasper spoke quietly as he moved, pulling her fragile body into a sitting position against the headboard, tucking the blankets snuggly around her as she blinked herself into awareness.

“How long was I out?” She rasped again, wincing as she shifted. Lifting a hand she scratched at her ear. The hair had grown infinitesimally over the past several weeks, but it was one of Alice’s biggest complaints. After living a hundred years with her hair the exact same, the instant it began to grow she’d panicked.

And Jasper had added another thing to the list of symptoms she was experiencing.

“Only a couple of hours,” he moved back toward the night stand, retrieving the canister. “This is the last of it,” he commented as she accepted the stainless steel canister with her bare hands. Barely a second later she was wincing, the container falling to the blankets that were lying across her lap.

Jasper had grabbed it and returned it to the table in an instant. “Alice!”

“I’m fine,” Alice hissed, holding her shaking hands to her chest “It’s not hot, I swear. Seriously,” then, she showed him her palms. They didn’t appear to look any different than usual, but still, Jasper was mortified. Maybe he should’ve been using the culinary thermometer after all… “Jasper. It’s fine,” she assured him between hurried breaths. “I’m not burnt or anything. It just really hurts to grip things today.” 

“I’m sorry,” he still apologized quietly, knowing how much she hated hearing the words from him. “I didn’t know.”

“Another symptom for Carlisle,” she half-smiled, and Jasper felt his heart clench at the sight. Those smiles never reached her eyes.

Twenty-nine days ago Alice had been putting stringed lights back into storage containers when the first vision struck. Jasper had been distracted, up in his study, re-reading one of his many comfort books to try and curb the pain in his skull.

Jasper never felt Alice’s initial shock. What he felt was Edward’s powerful fear, and acute mortification.

By the time Jasper was in the living room, Alice was screaming.

Picking the canister back up, Jasper moved to sit back on the bed besides Alice. But when she saw what he was about to do she lifted up a hand, placing it against his arm. “Jazz, no. It’s fine. Give me a few minutes and I can do it myself.”

“I can help,” he insisted, his words quiet as he prepared to hold his breath and twist the canister open.

The human blood was a new addition to her diet. One that Carlisle had suggested after her body had rejected animal blood for the second time. She’d been wholly unable to hunt since the beginning, but she’d still been able to drink from whatever animal Jasper could grab that day.

When her teeth began to, quite literally, lose their edge, their family had been forced to improvise. Jasper didn’t know how they’d attained the initial bags of animal blood, but he was thankful for their efforts. He’d ruined the carpet in the den attempting to exsanguinate a deer, and had only salvaged less than a pint for her. After that, Carlisle had figured something out.

The first time she’d been sick—the animal blood violently expelling itself from her tiny body from the way it came, and ruining the couch in his study—was the first night she slept. Jasper called Carlisle, hysterical and screaming, thinking that whatever was happening had finally killed her.

She’d woken up less than ten minutes later, disoriented but alive. That had been two weeks ago, and Jasper hadn’t left her side for more than ten minutes since, even for a supply pickup.

“You said it’s the last of it,” Alice spoke, her frown deepening when Jasper fully screwed the lid off the bottle, “does that mean it’s a supply day?”

He nodded as he pressed the edge of the container to her mouth and tipped it back, trying hard to look away as she gulped down the blood. His thirst had been killing him the past few days, but he knew that he’d rather starve than deprive Alice of even one drop of sustenance.

“Her body is trying to replenish itself,” Carlisle theorized to him just the day before over the phone, “try and pay attention to what blood type she favors. It might become useful information.”

Her eyes hadn’t changed to red the way he’d expected them to—the way he’d hoped—but instead, every day, they darkened slightly, more orange-ish brown than anything.

It was an almost-human color.

Twenty-nine days ago they’d been celebrating. And then Jasper was in the living room and Alice was shrieking, demanding that everyone get out and that no one come near her and that they get out now and leave.

“Alice,” Jasper had flickered to her side, terrified at the emotions coming from her. But she’d pushed him away so hard he put a dent in the wall, the wood and plaster crumbling beneath his back.

“No!” She’d sobbed, “Stay away! Edward! Get them out! Explain later! Go, now!”

But even Edward, who knew what she was thinking and who had seen what she’d seen, couldn’t bring his feet to move. “Alice, hold on a second.”

Jasper felt Alice’s emotions blank and then come back full-force; it was the tell-tale sign of another vision stealing her attention. And when Edward’s terror trumped Alice’s, Jasper found himself staring helplessly at the redhead.

“Go,” the boy turned toward the family and barked the orders, “everyone get out, now.”

“What is it?” Jasper demanded, his frustration mounting. He trusted Alice with his life, but he’d never felt a heartbreaking fear like this from her before. “What’s going on?”

“Jasper,” Edward yelled as Esme and Bella—who had come to see what the commotion was about—ran off with Renesmee. Emmett and Carlisle were on a hunt and wouldn’t be back for a few hours. “I’ll explain later, we have to go.”

But when Jasper tried to approach Alice again—he’d leave as long as she was by his side—she screamed at him, backing away like a frightened animal. 

“NO! Don’t come near me!”

“Jasper! Stop! Let’s go!”

“I’m not leaving until someone tells me what’s going on!” His heart broke as Alice looked at him with fear in her eyes. But as an empath, he knew she wasn’t afraid of him as much as she was afraid at what she’d seen.

 “Jazz, please, please, please don’t come near me,” Alice begged as he slowly approached anyways. And the closer he got to Alice the farther Edward inched toward the back doors, his terror permeating the room.

“Alice, please…”

“You have to go before it’s too late.”

“Jasper, stand back!”

“I’m not leaving you,” Jasper spoke directly to Alice, barely an arms-length away now. “Whatever is going on, I’m not leaving you here.” Whether the Volturi were coming for her, or whether some freak natural disaster was set to swallow their neighborhood whole, he didn’t care. He’d rather die than leave Alice to face whatever it was that she and Edward were so terrified of currently.

“I can’t let you,” she shook her head firmly, her expression full of devastation as she backed up against the far wall. “Jasper, please, I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Sick?”

And when thick, silver liquid began to stream down Alice’s face, venom pooling in her eyes, Jasper’s entire world shifted.

By the time Jasper reached forward, wiping the venom from her face and confirming that yes, this was real, and no, this was not good, Edward had vanished, running after their family into the dead of night.

“No,” Alice sobbed, shaking her head as Jasper gathered her up in his arms, “No, not you, too. I don’t want you to die, too.”

“Please hunt today,” Alice spoke after Jasper recapped the now-empty canister. “Please. When you go to get the next shipment. I can’t stand to see you like this.” Reaching out she rested her hand against his cheek, her thumb brushing the bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes as she gazed at him with love and concern.

Jasper shook his head. “Carlisle is sending some more animal blood with the next one, that way I don’t have to leave the house.”

“That’s not going to be enough to sustain you,” Alice frowned, pulling her hand back into her lap. Jasper didn’t miss the way she was lightly massaging her palm. Even the slight affections she showed him pained her now.

“I’ll make it work.”

“How are you supposed to take care of me if you can’t take care of yourself?” The words were gentle, but they struck Jasper like a physical blow.

“I’ll take care of you no matter what.”

Alice sighed, and then there was a pause. “I can’t see them.”

He stared at her blankly, waiting for her too elaborate. “Who?”

“Anyone. I can’t see Carlisle or Esme. Or Bella or,” her voice cracked, “or anyone. I’m even struggling to see you now.”

Jasper nodded calmly, not wanting any of his reactions to worry her further. He would have a moment to himself soon enough. “And your dreams?”

“They’re getting a little less fuzzy. But Jazz,” and her fear in that moment was very real, “if I can’t pull visions up the way I used to, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

And truthfully, he didn’t know what they were going to do either.

They didn’t know what was eating away at Alice or what sickness she was afflicted with. They don’t know what caused it or how it had struck her. The only thing they knew—and only because of Alice’s first few visions—was that there was a chance it was contagious, and it would very likely kill her.

He’d kissed her through her tears after the third day, when she finally confessed that she very likely had sentenced him to death just with her proximity alone.

But Jasper would walk through the fires of hell day in and day out if it meant he wouldn’t be leaving Alice to face this sickness alone. Whether he lived or died he didn’t care. And if Alice did die… well… he could only hope it was as contagious as they feared…

Leaning forward he pressed a kiss to the side of her head. Alice tilted her head up, lifting a hand to hold his face still so she could plant her own kiss firmly on his lips.

“I love you,” he spoke softly against her lips before kissing her again, “and even if the visions go, you’ll still have me.”

“I’m scared,” she whispered, and when Jasper focused back on her expression, he realized her eyes were closed tight again. Setting the empty canister on the bed-side table, Jasper was careful as he climbed into the bed to lie alongside her. He didn’t want to unplug a single wire.

The electrocardiogram wasn’t registering anything—as it shouldn’t; Alice’s heart had been still for a century now—but Carlisle wanted her hooked up to the device regardless.

“Just in case,” the other man had said over the phone as Jasper had sorted through that delivery. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but if she continues to display more symptoms like this, she may be human before the new year.”

Jasper pushed the memory from his mind as he pulled Alice close, allowing her to snuggle closely, still wrapped tightly in layers of blankets. Even with the thermostat on 80, Alice shivered day in and out.

The wetness that dampened the collar of his shirt made his heart ache.

They remained like that, lying next to one another as Alice’s oxygen concentrator hummed. Jasper hated how he just knew she was warmer. Not as warm as humans were, but even through the layers separating them he could feel the warmth of her body.

She wasn’t indestructible anymore, and Jasper didn’t know how to handle that. Even with her body pressed tight against his, he worried. What if one day he kissed her and hurt her? Or if he squeezed her hand to comfort her and broke her fingers?

He could finally feel some measure of empathy for Edward while he’d been dating Bella all those years ago. The fear of hurting her was prominent in his every move.

Her cardiovascular system was still in limbo, and even as her body warmed and her cheeks slowly filled with color after every meal, her heart was still not beating. Against all odds though, her lungs were operating normally. No longer could Alice simply sit, not thinking about how her lungs didn’t require oxygen unless she needed to speak. 

The day that symptom presented itself, she’d gasped for hours, uncomfortable and panicking. Jasper had been on the phone with Carlisle, desperate for guidance, and in hours they’d delivered the necessary equipment.

Hooking up the machine and wrapping the oxygen tube around his wife’s delicate face had made Jasper feel insane. As if this wasn’t real, and he was hallucinating this. 

It had felt like the beginning of the end.

Eventually, he pressed a kiss to her head and left the room with the promise to return quickly.

He answered his buzzing phone as he flitted down the stairs.

“I’m on my way.” He spoke without looking to see who it was.

“Carlisle wants you to bring the empty oxygen canisters.”

It was Edward. Jasper shook his head at the request. “I have no way of cleaning them. And even if I do sanitize them I don’t want to risk it.”

Whatever it was that was warming Alice and that he potentially carried, Jasper didn’t want it transferring to any of his family.

“Just bring them. We can leave them to sit for a couple of weeks and then one of us will bring them back.” Edward commented.

Jasper sighed, already half-way out the front door, before turning back to the kitchen. “I don’t have time for this,” he growled impatiently into the phone. The tanks were unnecessary now that Alice was on a concentrator. Jasper thought it was a stupid risk but he’d been low on patience for days now and wasn’t about to argue now.

Grabbing a single empty tank he turned back and was out the door in an instant.

“Where are you?” Jasper spoke into the receiver.

“At the end of the driveway.”

Jasper paused at that, his feet grinding to a halt in the grass. He was suddenly reminded of the last time he’d met up one of them at the end of the driveway, two and a half weeks prior. “You better be alone.” It was dangerous enough for him to interact with any of his family members even at a distance, but whenever they showed up in groups it ignited his anger.

As far as Carlisle was aware, everyone else was either asymptomatic or simply wasn’t sick like Alice. But Jasper wasn’t about to be the one that passed… this on to their family.

“I am,” Edward snapped back, as if Jasper’s words, and not just his ability, could inspire a quick jump to irritation. “I couldn’t exactly carry everything in this shipment. Forgive me for bringing a car.”

Jasper hung up the phone then and made off quickly toward the end of their long driveway. It was a quick run, but Jasper was looking forward to getting this exchange over with. Edward was already wasting precious seconds by requesting an old oxygen tank. He wasn’t about to waste anymore time arguing with the younger vampire.

He saw the car before he saw Edward. It was a deep green color with a matte finish. Jasper could tell just by looking at it that this must’ve been the pet project Rosalie had taken up after they’d left for their Baltimore house back further east.

“She needs anything to focus on that’s not this,” Emmett’s words, like always, lacked proper tact, but while Jasper had glared at his brother over the FaceTime call, Alice had nodded understandably.

A car like this would surely stick out like a sore thumb in Martinsburg.

When the car door opened, Edward’s voice rang out. “She’s already moved on to another one. This one is going in storage after this drop off.”

Jasper didn’t nod, but he did watch carefully as his brother began to quietly empty the contents of the trunk of the car onto the pavement. A few large crates, and some smaller paper bags. When Jasper inhaled deeply, he furrowed his brow in confusion.

“Food?”

Edward closed the trunk and turned back toward Jasper, his expression grim. “Carlisle thinks it might help.”

“Help how?” It didn’t even matter that Jasper didn’t know the first damn thing about making and preparing human food. And it was irrelevant that oftentimes just the smell of human food left Jasper in a foul mood. What mattered was that having to feed his wife human food felt like another insane task he’d been given, and he didn’t know how the fuck he was supposed to just nod and go along with it all.

“I’m sure you can guess.” Even though they were standing quite far apart—at least ten meters—Jasper could clearly see the frustrated furrow of Edward’s brow. Jasper knew he hadn’t been the most pleasant person to interact with over the past month—it was one of the reasons Rosalie elected to tinker in her garage instead of sit on calls or volunteer for supply drop-offs, and it was why Esme had done one, and only one.

But Jasper wasn’t looking to snap at anyone today. He simply wanted to get what he needed (although today’s delivery would take a couple of trips) and go back home to his ailing wife.

“Are her visions still wavering?”

Jasper forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat. Looking away from Edward, he instead stared at the grocery bags piled beside the crates. “They’re nearly gone. She can only see me while awake, and others when she sleeps.”

Edward nodded, and Jasper hated how he knew the boy was digging through his thoughts, collecting images of Alice’s deteriorating, weakening body, and hearing the very real doubts Jasper had currently. Jasper gestured to the tank he was holding. “What do you want me to do with this? I’m not giving it to you.”

“Just toss it over there,” he gestured vaguely to a patch of bushes beside the driveway. “I or Emmett or whoever will pick it up in a couple of weeks.”

Jasper tossed the heavy item to the side without a second glance, his eyes still trained on the supplies. “Is there…?”

“Human and animal blood, yes.” Edward tapped the crate in the front with a foot.

Jasper nodded, swallowing the venom that pooled in his mouth, knowing that he’d be able to drink soon. When surprise and curiosity pulsated off of the boy, Jasper finally met his eyes. “What?”

“You seem fine.” Edward observed with half of a shrug. “I mean, physically. There’s a chance this actually isn’t contagious—”

“Stop,” Now. Jasper would turn and go straight back to the house without another word if Edward kept it up. With his fury just hiding beneath the surface, Jasper thought pointedly. Alice knew her visions would fail. Alice knew you guys would want to come help. But as long as we have those few, early visions of hers we need to be careful. I can handle things over here. When Carlisle finishes analyzing her venom and finds actual fucking answers, let me know. Until they, stay put. I’m fine, and I’m handling things. “Don’t you dare put yourselves in danger. Not until we figure this out.”

The two stared at each other for a few long seconds before Jasper felt himself start to get antsy. He’d only been away from the house for barely more than five minutes, but the more time passed the more afraid he was that Alice would fall asleep and wake again, scared and disoriented, with him nowhere in sight.

“I’ll go,” Edward finally nodded toward the house as he walked back toward the driver’s side and opened the door. “Please text Carlisle her temperature when you get back. And yesterday’s summary, too. Please, Jasper. We’re doing our best.”

And with that, he climbed into the car, started the quiet engine, and pulled off. Jasper waited until the car pulled around a bend in the distance, a thick patch of trees obscuring the vehicle from sight before he ran forward and grabbed the first crate, and in seconds he was rushing back toward the house.

He was still several hundred meters from the house when the sound of hacking reached his ears. Jasper nearly dropped the crate to the ground as he rushed through the front door and flickered up the stairs and into Alice’s bedroom, only to find her crumbled in a heap on the floor, wheezing and coughing.

“Hey, hey,” he swept her up into his arms quickly, wondering why on Earth she’d decided to pluck all the electrodes off and find herself a spot on the floor, far from her oxygen. But before he could ask what she was doing, he felt the dampness that covered her thin flannel pajamas and his heart broke.

Her gasping came from her attempts at crying without her oxygen tube. Jasper maneuvered her back onto the bed—being aware to avoid the wet spot in the center of the bedding—and placed the tube around her head, shushing her.

Two hours, one bath, and a change of bedding later, Alice was fast asleep in the bed, her hand limply clinging to Jasper’s as he typed a long text with one hand.

Things are worse, he began the text. I don’t know what to do.

It started with a vision.

On day thirty-two, Alice ate her first human meal she could ever recall. It wasn’t much; a thin soup that he’d unpacked and warmed from the last shipment. She sipped it slowly, getting some of it down her front. It was hard, she admitted quietly to Jasper, to use a spoon when all she had ever known was biting down on flesh and sucking down blood with force.

She’d managed to eat a single cracker before breaking down in tears, broken up over the very fact that it didn’t taste entirely repulsive to her anymore.

On day thirty-four, Jasper picked up another shipment. Emmett was in a somber mood as he dropped the small delivery off. Groceries for Alice, mainly. 

“Tell me you have any news at all.” 

Jasper raised an eyebrow at that, watching from a distance as his adopted brother shuffled and frowned. Sadness never suited Emmett, who was one of the brightest personalities Jasper had ever known; the guy had radiated positivity ever since the former-solder had known him. 

“I don’t.”

Emmett shrugged at that, and Jasper hated how the taller man’s mood dampened further at those words. “Well, they always say no news is good news.”

Jasper met his sad golden gaze with a severe one of his own. “If I had good news we wouldn’t be doing this, Emmett.”

On day thirty-five, while Jasper read aloud to her, Alice accidentally scratched herself. Much like her hair, her nails were also beginning to grow at a snail’s pace. Along with that, they were more brittle than she was used to. While reaching over and adjusting the zipper to Jasper’s jacket she’d broken a nail, chipping the edge slightly. Then, she’d reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her head, scratching the now-delicate skin on her face.

It didn’t bleed, but Jasper could still smell the blood, resting idly beneath the surface.

On day thirty-seven they finally sat down and acknowledged what was happening. Jasper refused to say the word ‘human’ but Alice spoke it with a sad resignation, knowing that her body was somehow de-petrifying. “I don’t know if I’ll survive,” she whispered to him as he held her closely, tracing soothing shapes against her back. “In some visions it all ends here, in this bed. In others I can see myself all warm and pink, but the visions don’t go much farther than that, no matter what I do.

“I’m almost positive that I die, Jazz.” She whispered into the silent room. It remained silent for a while after that conversation, until Alice quietly informed Jasper that she needed to use the restroom, and he carried her out of the room, his mind still miles away.

On day forty-one, Alice’s temperature spiked. She slept seventeen hours that day, shivering for most of it, and crying out occasionally, with visions now only plaguing her in her sleep. Jasper held the thermometer against her head and when it registered 96.1 he threw the device, smashing it to pieces against the far wall of the bedroom. Alice didn’t budge.

On day forty-two, Alice woke up, her memory foggy. “Mom?” She called out, sitting up disoriented before Jasper could plant himself in her line of sight. When she flinched at the sight of him, gasping loudly, her shock smacked Jasper across the face. It took several long seconds for her to calm herself, recognition registering to Jasper before it showed on her face. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, hand against her chest as she struggled to regulate her breathing. “I’m sorry Jasper.”

On day forty-three Alice kissed him, harder than she’d kissed him in over a month. It was when her hands found the first button on his shirt that he stopped her, her name only a warning on his lips.

“Please,” she whispered as she kissed her way down his neck, her hands finding a different button as she pressed herself against him, “Jasper, please. I don’t know when we’ll ever be able to again.”

On day forty-three Alice and Jasper spent the entire day in bed. They’d pause in their lovemaking periodically for Alice to use the restroom, or eat a meal, or take a nap, and then resume in between. Jasper was used to handling her with care, but now it truly felt like his wife was made of glass. He was as careful as he dared, knowing that the second he hurt her in his passion would be the end of their physical relationship as far as either of them knew it.

It was early in the morning when Alice kissed him firmly and pulled away with a wince. “I think I need to stop,” and something akin to perspiration was beginning to gather on her forehead, her growing hair sticking to it firmly, “I’m… aching.”

And then, that was that.

On day forty-five she woke up with wide-eyes and was immediately unresponsive. Jasper spent several horrifically long minutes talking to her, checking her vitals, gently massaging and tapping her shoulders and limbs, trying to get her to come back to him, to speak, to do anything other than lie there, stare, and breathe.

He was seconds away from giving up and sending another hysterical phone call Carlisle’s way when she blinked twice and lifted her hand up, blindly reaching toward him. 

“Alice, Alice, oh thank God,” Jasper pressed her warm hand against his cheek, inhaling slowly in order to collect himself and prevent his ability from affecting her. “It’s okay, it’s…”

But when Alice forced her eyes to look at him—warm, dark brown eyes—Jasper froze as he felt her wipe wetness from his cheeks.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered as he jerked back, his hands wiping the venom from his face with a panic. 

For two days, Jasper’s gift was hard to control. Meaning that now, to his complete and utter dismay, Alice was just as miserable as he was.

It wasn’t that he cared about being a vampire. Sure, the power it supplied him with to protect Alice and his family was something he wouldn’t trade for anything, and with Alice slowly reverting back into a human he felt comforted that at the very least he could keep her safe.

But how was he supposed to protect her from all the dangers that were out there when he, too, would be human in time?

Forty-seven days after their family ran and they barricaded themselves in the house, confined to their West Virginia property, Alice broke.

“I wanted you to run,” she sobbed with all her might, yanking wires and throwing anything she could get her hands on across the room. “I wanted you to go with them. I didn’t want you to die, too. It’s my fault this is happening, it’s all my fault.”

She wouldn’t let Jasper anywhere near her that day. Even when she slept, her emotions were a turbulent storm, making it difficult for Jasper to even sit at her bedside while she tossed and turned and shivered.

On day forty-eight Alice spent the day apologizing profusely. For everything and anything under the sun. Jasper simply shook his head, kissed away her tears, and held her close. All while assuring her that she had nothing to apologize for. 

It wasn’t her fault they were dying, after all.

On day fifty-eight, Jasper had a sobering phone call with Carlisle and Edward.

“I reached out to Aro,” and Carlisle didn’t even pause in his sentence when Jasper hissed ferociously, “to see if he could provide any help, or any answers.”

“If anyone wants Alice alive as much as we do, it’s Aro, Jasper. Stop,” Edward spoke up loudly. And although the boy couldn’t hear Jasper’s thoughts he had decades of knowledge of his inner-thought process to know precisely where this conversation was heading. “It wasn’t anything we wanted to do, with Alice as weak as she is—”

“She said so herself,” Carlisle chimed in, not giving Jasper time to verbalize a response, “she doesn’t think she’ll make it out of this. And with you sick, too, we aren’t left with many other options.”

“The Volturi have far more resources than we could ever dream of having,” Edward spoke. “If this is something that’s ever been documented before, they’ll be able to find it.”

“But as far as Aro is aware, he’s never heard of anything like this happening before. Especially something that can be contracted by other vampires, too. We’re all in the dark here.”

Jasper refused to update them on his own state that day. It was bad enough that Alice had gone behind his back—quite literally—and texted Carlisle that Jasper’s first symptoms had begun to materialize the other day, but he didn’t want anyone’s attention on him. Alice was the priority. Alice would always be the priority, and Jasper refused to give any information to his family on his own state entirely.

But still, he knew that Alice was very likely texting Esme right now while he listened to Edward and Carlisle prattle on about their research and findings, and about how ultimately, they’d come up with no solutions.

If Alice died, Jasper knew he wouldn’t have to wait for this sickness to kill him in order to join her.

And with this thought it was as if Edward was truly there, in person. “Jasper. Hang in there. We’re going to figure something out,” the boy insisted after a length of silence had fallen across the line. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

On day sixty, she fell asleep and didn’t wake up.

Jasper sat by her bedside and waited. After the first day, he called Carlisle, only for Esme to pick up the phone and ask him what was wrong. The sound of her voice, so caring and full of love, caused him to finally break down. He found himself crying venomous tears for nearly an hour as he listened to her soothing words.

“The best thing you can do is stay with her,” she said eventually. “Talk to her maybe. If its anything like our transformations, she can likely hear you. Tell her you love her, and stay close.”

So that’s what he did. For the entirety of that second day, when he wasn’t on the phone with a member of their family, he sat at her bedside and talked. About her. About their relationship. About how devastated he was that this illness had struck her. He reminisced out loud about their first meeting, his many regrets, and about how even though now human blood had been introduced back into his diet (his body had begun to reject animal blood days ago) it felt completely and utterly ridiculous that it was what had driven him to madness time and time again.

He talked about how much he loved her. About how she was everything to him. The reason for his attempts at interacting with the public, the reason he abstained from human blood in the first place, and the reason he consistently pushed through his thirst. She was the reason he’d stopped hating his appearance, scars still prominent on every inch of his skin. She was the reason he’d given peace a chance, and the reason he now had a family to call his own.

She’d given him everything beyond what he could have ever hoped for in this cursed afterlife of his, and he told her such as she lay there, the only movement coming from her chest slowly and steadily rising and falling. He talked more that day than he’d spoken in a long, long time.

“I suppose all that ‘playing human’ should’ve helped us out better for this, huh?” He spoke out loud into an empty room sometime after midnight on the second day. “You’d think it would’ve prepared us for something crazy like this, instead of sending us to the brink of hopelessness.”

On the third day, Alice’s temperature skyrocketed, registering a fever that Jasper could do nothing to break. He cycled through damp rags, always keeping a cool, fresh one pressed against the burning skin of her forehead, being careful not to bump any of the wires, old and new.

Carlisle had to talk him through the insertion of the IV the night before. Now that her body required human food and water, Carlisle explained that it was vital in keeping her healthy and alive. Still, it had felt alien to poke at her skinny, fragile arm, looking around for a vein that hadn’t pumped blood in over a hundred years.

Eventually he placed it somewhere Carlisle—who’d been video called to assist—approved, but even still, Alice did not budge.

On the third day, Jasper climbed into bed with her and carefully pulled her close to him. His own temperature wasn’t as cool as it once was, but he hoped that even in her unconscious state it would help to soothe her somewhat. He closed his eyes and focused hard on her slow, even breaths, combined with the low buzz of her oxygen concentrator.

And in minutes Jasper was asleep for the first time since the nineteenth century.

He woke up with a start, mind immediately aware of Alice’s prone form beside him as he moved himself up and out of the bed. His entire body was shaking as his mind caught up with what was happening. His entire head felt foggy but despite not having slept in well over a century he knew that something had woken him up.

It started with a vision.

On day sixty-three Alice’s heart began to beat.

It was a slow, steady rhythm. With one hand Jasper quickly dialed Carlisle and with another he reached out, resting his fingers against her wrist as he counted the beats. Feeling a pulse flutter beneath his fingers didn’t help to combat the dizziness Jasper was still fighting, but he knew that he had to pay close attention. Alice’s life—Alice with her beating heart and blood-filled cheeks and her fragile skin and bones—now hung in the balance.

“It’s beating,” he spoke in lieu of a greeting, “her heart. It just started back up. About,” he focused for a few seconds, “seventeen beats per minute. She still isn’t awake, but she… there’s a pulse.”

“Oh my—hold on; Grandpa!” A familiar voice yelled in the background of the call, and Jasper’s dizziness increased as he realized Renesmee had answered Carlisle’s phone. “Mom! Aunt Rosie! Where’s Grandpa! It’s an emergency! Uncle Jasper says—”

“What’s going on?” Rosalie was on the phone immediately, and Jasper had to close his eyes and rest his head against the side of the bed as he focused, forcing himself to concentrate on counting Alice’s heart beats. “Jasper?”

“Her heart is beating, Rose,” he spoke miserably. “Not fast. And she’s not awake.”

“Ness is getting Carlisle now,” Jasper could hear how it felt like suddenly Rosalie was moving around quickly. “What’s her respiratory rate?”

Jasper looked up then, eyeing the silent machines with confusion. Horror fell over him when he realized that not only were they silent, not even registering Alice’s slow pulse, but they were completely shut off. It wasn’t something he’d noticed before he fell asleep. He’d been too preoccupied with fussing over her unconsciousness and babbling on about nothing to notice.

There was no way he’d unplugged anything, on accident or even on purpose. In fact, the last time he’d recalled the bright numbers and words being lit on either of the machines was—

“I hate that beeping,” Alice had commented the day before she’d lost consciousness, “it’s so disturbing. Can’t we set it up to only alarm when things are working, instead of when they’re not?”

In an instant he’d rounded the bed and lifted the chords attached to the machines, finding them unplugged from the wall. In seconds they were plugged back in and Jasper was quickly examining Alice, ensuring that everything was hooked up properly.

At the sound of Rosalie still demanding things through the phone that he’d abandoned on the bed, Jasper reached out and pressed the speaker button. “She unplugged everything. I just—give me a minute.”

And the instant the machines began to register her vitals, the alarms began to blare. 

“Her blood pressure isn’t going to register normally, but you have to pay attention to her heart and respiratory rates. If she’s human now you can’t let either of them drop down below what they are now. Do you hear me Jasper? Jasper!”

“I hear you,” he spoke miserably as he watched Alice’s chest rise and fall. 

“The instant they begin to dip you say something. Now, whatever you do now you’re not going to get off this phone, you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he rasped, feeling the sting of tears begin to pull to the surface, “I won’t.”

Then, there was shuffling in the background and Carlisle was on the line. “I heard the news. Just stay on the line Jasper. Is your thirst manageable?”

“I’m not going to fucking hurt her,” he snapped, his nerves wound up so tightly that he couldn’t even hold the words back before they were being spat. “Forget me, Carlisle, how do I keep her alive?”

“Keep her heart beating, and if anything at all changes, you say something. Now, go over her vitals for me please.”

The next hour felt like the longest period of time Jasper could recall in his entire existence. He swore that the minutes ticked by like hours. He didn’t touch the phone once. It sat just where he left it on the edge of the bed, and sat at Alice’s side, listening and watching her with an unstoppable focus. Of course he registered the sound of his family talking, even if he wasn’t registering their words half of the time. Knowing that they were connected was enough to calm him to the point where he could apply his single-minded concentration fully to Alice.

He would do damn near everything he could to keep her alive, her visions be damned.

At some point he acknowledged that her IV bag had been empty for a few hours, which prompted a nearly-ten minute long argument in which Rosalie was demanding—and Carlisle was pleading—for him to leave Alice for a few seconds and go into the next room and retrieve a new one. Eventually he gave in, but only after Rosalie yelled, “Don’t be fucking stupid, get it so she doesn’t die and throw your tantrum later.”

(No matter how angry it made him, deep down he knew she was right.)

“Alice,” he whispered to her as he reached out and caressed her warm face, “how did this happen?” But the only signs of life from her were the slight rise-and-fall of her chest and the beeping of the electrocardiograph. And that was exactly what they were now: signs of life.

Jasper himself had been ignoring the uncomfortable feeling that was beginning to plague him whenever he went more than a few seconds without taking a breath. After his first symptoms had appeared he had started forcing himself to breathe normally, timing his breaths along with Alice’s without her noticing. Practicing for the day when his respiratory system would start acting like a human’s again.

He couldn’t even waste time thinking about what it meant to be human again. He couldn’t care about his warming body or the fact that he was weakening more and more every day. The only thing that mattered was that Alice made it out of this alive. Everything else was an afterthought. It was all for her.

Jasper didn’t realize his phone had died until Alice’s started ringing. He almost ignored it until he realized it was Carlisle’s number, and when he looked toward his own phone, and the blank, empty screen, he felt foolish as he reached forward and plucked Alice’s phone from her side.

He quickly muttered an apology and an explanation before placing the phone back down on the bed, speaker activated so he could go back to ignoring that device, too. A part of him knew that he should’ve grabbed one of the chargers that was just barely out of arm’s reach, but he didn’t dare move too far from Alice’s side.

He held her hand firmly in his, and waited.

“How is she?” Carlisle asked the question the second that the tempo of one of her monitors changed.

 “Twenty beats per minute. Her breathing is…”

 There was a beat of silence where Jasper stared from Alice’s prone body to the face of the screens on the machines hooked up to her. Something wasn’t right.

And then Alice’s respiratory rate took a nose-dive, alarms started blaring, and all hell broke loose.

There was a flurry of panic on the other side of the phone while Jasper stood fully, hovering helplessly over Alice’s body. This was it, he knew instantly even without ever seeing the vision himself. This was what Alice had foreseen. Her body, pink and fragile and human, slowly deteriorating in this very bed in this very room.

Alice had been wrong. She hadn’t cursed Jasper to his own fate by transferring whatever illness was de-petrifying their stone bodies. The curse itself lay in the fact that Jasper had been foreseen to watch the deterioration and death of the woman he loved more than anything else in the universe.

She had only ever apologized to him for getting him sick, as if that was something that was her fault. As if that were worse than this.

Rosalie’s voice broke through the yelling on the other side.

“Jasper! Listen to me! Keep her breathing.”

He’d watched and read every piece of instruction material Carlisle and Edward had sent his way, so he knew exactly what to do. But performing rescue breathing and watching it be done were two entirely different things. Having to force air into Alice’s lungs was the most agonizing thing he’d done in months.

Please don’t die, please don’t die, he thought the phrase over and over again as he focused on counting through each breath, being careful to only give her lungs the air they needed and not a bit more. It was after about a minute when he pulled back and actually looked at her, when he began to panic. The color that had been so steadily restored to her face was slowly fading away.

“She’s turning blue,” he shouted at the phone before gently tilting her head back again, plugging her nose, and giving a few more slow breaths, “Carlisle!”

There was chaos across the line and for a moment Jasper was afraid that the call had dropped as silence hung in the air. Then, what sounded like someone picking up a fallen phone. “We’re almost there, just hold on,” Esme’s voice spoke quickly. 

That’s when the noises behind her began to make sense. The low pur of a car’s engine, the tell-tale sound of a vehicle speeding down the road. Jasper didn’t know how he’d missed the signs.

“No,” he pleaded desperately when he realized what that meant. “You’ll die.”

“No we won’t, sweetheart.” The smile in her voice nearly brought tears to his eyes. “Focus on Alice. It’ll all be okay.”

But for several long agonizing minutes he forced air into Alice’s weak lungs, and the alarms still blared. And when her already-weak pulse began to drop, he was beginning to think he’d failed. That he wouldn’t be able to do it. That Alice would be dead and it was all because he couldn’t protect her and—

The noise of glass shattering registered with his senses just as he was mid-breath, his mouth placed around Alice’s as he futilely attempted to bring her back. Hands were on his shoulders and when he was pulled away firmly he could only look up and shudder with relief over the sight of Carlisle and Rosalie working over Alice’s tiny, fragile body.

“I’ve got you man,” it was Emmett, “it’s going to be okay now.”

Jasper shook his head as he stumbled. But Emmett’s arms wrapped were around him from behind and he was pulling the blond backward far enough to give Carlisle and Rosalie space.

“You can’t,” Jasper protested weakly, feeling the tears that he’d been keeping at bay finally begin to spill over, “Alice didn’t want you to come.”

Emmett gave him a good shake, still not releasing him. “Well, too damn bad. Come on.”

Jasper didn’t have the strength to fight him as he was dragged from the room. He was sure that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to. Each day he’d grown weaker and weaker as more and more symptoms presented themselves. But when Emmett tried to force him down the stairs Jasper dug his feet into the carpet as hard as he could. (The fact that it didn’t force the wood to buckle beneath his feet was enough evidence of his own illness.)

“I can’t be far, please, Em.”

The sound of tires screeching to a stop outside of the house bought both of their attention toward the foyer, and when Esme burst through the front door, flickering up the stairs before stopping in front of the men, Jasper felt his knees begin to shake.

They’d surely all die now, too. Carlisle and Rosalie, who were hard at work trying to hook Alice up to whatever new device they’d jumped out of the car to sprint to the house. And Emmett and Esme, who were looking at him as if he were the one made of glass, and the one that was seconds away from shattering.

He wasn’t the one who needed putting back together.

“You’ll die,” he spoke, his voice rough with emotion as Esme reached up and placed her hands on his face, her own expression absolutely broken at the sight of him. “You’re all going to get sick now, too.”

When Esme smiled up at him, he felt his knees buckle. Thankfully, Emmett’s arms still trapping him like a cage kept him standing. “Alice made her choice in trying to keep us safe. Now, we’re making our choice. We aren’t going to leave you two to suffer alone anymore.”

“Carlisle and Rose are going to do whatever they can, man.” Emmett tightened his grip, perhaps sensing that he was the only thing keeping Jasper from hitting the floor.

A loud noise caused their heads to turn back toward Alice’s room and suddenly, there was calm. The only noises now were from the machines that were beeping calmly. And just under all of it, they could all hear the noise of a heartbeat, steady and strong.

“It’s going to be okay,” Esme whispered again when Jasper’s tears started anew. Slowly, Emmett released his grip, lowering Jasper to the ground where Esme wrapped her arms around him. “She’ll be alright. We’ve got you now. It’s alright.”

And the sound of that steady heartbeat was all Jasper could focus on as he buried his face against Esme’s shoulder and cried.

It started with a vision. And now they were past it, and Alice was still alive. 

Eventually they helped him walk back into the bedroom, and when he climbed into bed beside Alice—his warm, pink, human wife—they simply let him.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead before grabbing her hand in his and closing his eyes. There would be time to discuss things with his family later, and to acknowledge the weight of what had happened tonight and what had been done. But for now, he laid beside Alice, and Jasper slept.

[jessicanjpa]

                       Jenks

Jalice Week 2020 Day 3: Canon Gapfiller

Summary: Jasper begins his association with Jenks, Sr.

Rating: T

Words: 3,924

POV: Jasper

Setting: Indianapolis, 1974

You can read it here on Fanfiction.net or here on AO3. Please review and let me know what you think!

[jalicenetwork]

Hey, frightening little monsters! Jalice Week is ALMOST here!

We received amazing theme suggestions and now it’s time for you to cast your vote here. With that we now also have the official dates and instructions so listen up how and when it will happen ⬇

TO PARTICIPATE

Pick a theme (to be announced Oct 14)

Make a fanwork based on that theme

Post it on the theme day

Tag it with #JaliceWeek20 (in the first 5 tags)

For Ao3: add it to the public collection ‘Jalice Week 2020’

HOW WILL IT WORK

From OCTOBER 17-24 we will have one theme a day prompts for Jalice fans to post fanworks related to that theme. Fanworks can be anything: fic, art, graphics, gifs, videos, playlists, moodboards, meta, and more! All posts will be reblogged here on the Jalice Network Tumblr and added to the Ao3 collection, but we don’t claim ownership of anything. In case a work is posted only on the Ao3 collection we’ll publish it on Tumblr with all the proper credits. You can post one day, or all of them, whichever sparks for you! Themes will be announced OCTOBER 14.

Jalice Week is a fan event that brings fans together into being creative and creating amazing content for the fandom. We do hope you enjoy this event and that the challenge is fun for all, so we can make more along the road!

CAST YOUR THEME VOTES HERE

Please share and reblog this post, and spread the word!

[allicekitty13]

Moodboard for my fic Sweet Home Texas which can be read here

[goldeneyedgirl]

jaliceweek20 day 1: human/vampire

Title: Against A Wall (Part 1)

Prompt 1: Human/Vampire

Word Count: 3,851

Note: I’m going into hospital tomorrow, and I’ve run out of time to get this finished (so, so close but I need sleep). So I cut it in half in the most logical place. 

As long as the JaliceWeek Mods don’t have an issue, I’ll finish off Part 2 and upload the whole fic to the AO3 collection around Tuesday when I’m feeling human and have a decent Wifi connection.

Fifteen.

He crouches behind Dewey’s Bar, spitting blood onto the pavement, and trying to pretend that whatever is seeping into his jeans is just water, and not runoff from the reeking dumpster beside him.

It’s Tuesday night, and Tuesdays are always the worst. Tuesdays are his mom’s night shifts at the VA hospital. Tuesdays are pay-day. Tuesdays are the only day his father doesn’t pull his punches.

His left cheek and eye are swollen and split, like overripe fruit. He can’t see real well, and the taste of aluminium foil in the back of his mouth makes him suspect another fracture around his eye.  

But was it really a Tuesday night if cerebral fluid wasn’t leaking into his mouth?

He feels bad that his mother is going to walk in at five the next morning, exhausted, to find… well, to find Hettie and Flo asleep in Ava’s bed, as Ava studies and worries. To find Jasper’s bed empty, and Lydia’s too. To find the study door locked, no matter how long she knocks.

In fact, the only thing that Louise Whitlock won’t find when she gets home from work is the god-damned strength of will to leave her fucking husband.

Last time he said that to her face, she started to cry, and that made things worse.

It’s still early, which sucks. There are hours to go until it is safe to move, to drag himself to school, to shower in the locker rooms and get some food out of the vending machine and savour the fact that another Tuesday is behind him. Sheldon isn’t big enough for the other students and the teachers not to notice the bruises on his face, but it is small enough that everyone knows Jeremiah Whitlock, and no one is going to say anything to get him in trouble.  

He could go find Lydia, hide in the tree-house, tell someone who wasn’t family or a local. But he always ends up behind Dewey’s. When he was a kid, it hadn’t just been a bar; it had been been Dewey’s Bar and Grill, and his grandfather used to take him there for fried chicken and ice cream. Dewey had been his Grandpa Jed’s best friend, but even in those halcyon days it hadn’t exactly been family-friendly.

It had become a dive bar sometime around the time Jasper finished middle-school, but it didn’t matter - by then, Dewey and Grandpa were dead, and he was too busy trying to protect himself and his sisters to eat ice cream.

He spits blood again, and rests back against the brickwork. Nothing for it; Tuesdays were always hell.

—

He tries to sleep, amongst the noise of passersby, and remain unnoticed - Jasper’s learnt the hard way that his uncles still frequent Dewey’s, and they will march him straight back home for round two, no matter what he says. Even when he came up with the strength to tell them, about Lydia and Jerry and Tuesday nights, his uncles just tell him to shut up, man up, and maybe Jerry wouldn’t have to whoop his ass.

He thinks of Lydia and hopes she’s somewhere warm and clean tonight. Lydia’s smart enough to stay away on Tuesday nights. Home is never Lydia’s first port of call any night of the week, but never, ever on Tuesdays.

He remembers the last Tuesday night she was home, two summers ago, when Lydia stormed upstairs, a twelve-year-old hurricane with fire in her eyes, and called their father a coward for beating the shit out of Jasper.

Jeremiah Whitlock hadn’t liked being called a coward. Not at all.

Now she is transient, a ghost sister who vanishes at day break; one who bunks down on couches and in treehouses before coming back to her own bed. Their mom and Ava worry about where Lydia gets her money, cigar-sized rolls of dollar bills that she keeps in a tampon box, but he knows.

He knows that his sharp and pointy little sister never let anything stop her, least of all hard work, and that a lot of people in town know that Jerry Whitlock has a lot of anger and a lot of disappointment that he tries to drown in cheap beer and cheaper whiskey. It just makes him angrier. If the only thing they can do is give Lydia Whitlock some work, well, that kid’ll cut the grass, paint the garage, and walk the dog for a few bucks and a drink from a spigot.

It’s easy to say that Lydia is the best of them, making it clear that she doesn’t need their shitty father or their tired mother, but they are all strong in different ways. Ava, who smiles and simpers at their father, waiting for that day when she can buckle Hettie and Flo into her car and take them with her to college in Houston with a middle finger raised in the air. Flo stays quiet, stays alert, darting and hiding when the moment comes, but whose slight of hand belongs to a survivalist magician. And sweet little Hettie, who never lived on the ranch and knew their parents when they were happy, is sunshine and laughter and innocence. The one that reminds them why they stick together.

He’s the boy, so his role is obvious and unquestioned: he takes the punches and slaps and kicks that were meant for their mom, for Lydia, for Flo. He mutters things under his breath so that Jerry doesn’t hear what his sisters are saying, forgets that Hettie is sniffling or that Lydia hasn’t been home in ten days or that their mother has burnt dinner.

He knows his place.

—-

If you asked anyone with the surname ‘Whitlock’, they’d tell you that the family was cursed.

Had been since the Civil War; the youngest son had run off and joined up. Tried to desert two months in, crying for his momma, and ran afoul of someone - or something. He was dead a month later, but no one was exactly sure if he’d been executed for desertion, or if he’d just got in the way of a Yankee bullet. Either way, his last letter was rambling and terrified of something he never named, and his cowardice was rewarded with his bloodline’s constant suffering.

Within the Whitlock family lore, the curse was held accountable for numerous failings - from great-great grandmother Edith running off with one of the Wilkerson boys, to little Brian dropping dead as a doornail one summer day after seven years of perfect health. It was the Whitlock Curse to blame the day the bank took the ranch away from Jasper’s own father.      

It was the curse that had four and a half strapping brothers (Uncle Wyatt only counted as half since he went to the war in the Middle East and got himself blown up before he was even old enough to drink, and left behind a high school sweetheart with a bouncing baby girl they all called ‘Puddin’) father fifteen girls, and only one lousy boy.

Make no mistake about it, Jasper was a lousy heir to the Whitlock name. All three of his uncles reminded him of this every holiday season. Whitlock men were supposed to live and breathe the ranch, were supposed to be football players and champions. They were meant to knock up the head cheerleader and serve eight years in the army, like their brothers, fathers, uncles, and grandfathers before them.

Not snivelling little momma’s boys, who cried themselves to sleep when Sirius Black died, and could charm the birds from the trees. Not boys who helped their sisters catch rabbits, and keep them as secret pets, or name the house cat Socrates. Not boys who sat up all night when their horse had colic, and sit in the stable with her, begging and praying for her to be okay.

He tried, goddamnit. So hard. He was the best shot in the family (something that Uncle Bo had nearly hit him over, that one Thanksgiving. But everyone knew that Bo had the worst temper in the family.) Before things went to shit, he’d been a good student. He’d been able to convince the animals on the ranch to do anything. He was popular, without having any particular friends or putting much effort into it. He took care of his sisters.

But none of it was ever good enough.

Nothing ever was.

—

It’s Roy Lester that chases him off, before six the next morning. Roy runs the grocer next to Dewey’s, and went to school with his father and uncles - still had beers with them ever so often. The way he threatened Jasper and chased him off home whenever he caught him in the alley made Jasper think that they talked about him, and none of it flattering.

So he has to slink home because he stinks and he’s starving. The security at school won’t let anyone in before seven; he’s tried before; it’s not like he has much choice.

In a town like Sheldon, everyone knew everyone. You started kindergarten with maybe twenty other five year olds - most you probably already knew - and spent the next thirteen years with those same kids. You watched Maude Montgomery transform from the aesthetic-equivalent of Danny Devito to Jennifer Lawrence in a single summer, thanks to a late brush with puberty; you were right there when Casey Atkinson was put in a wheelchair and spent seventh grade learning to walk again. You knew that Ariel Turner was diabetic, Marley Harris was asthmatic, and you’d seen thirteen years of peanut-free lunches and birthday parties because Joey Thompson was highly allergic.

The joy of small towns.

Everyone knew that Jerry Whitlock hit his kids and his wife, but no one talked about it - not to their faces, at least. The adults tended to march Jasper home, to face his father’s wrath. The kids tended to get uncomfortable, and look through him. The few people who tried to reach out were from out of town, and were usually passing through - the odd teacher, a new neighbour, a concerned face on the bus.

Better to go home until school opened up.

Louise is in the kitchen, her face pinched and pale, clutching a cup of coffee. She looks hopeful when he walks in, but seems to crumple in on herself when she sees his bloody, swollen face. She looks old as she puts down her mug, and moves to pull him into a hug. He pretends not to notice her shuddering, as she cries onto his shoulder, before pulling away.

“I’ll make breakfast,” she manages, sniffling. “Okay? You must be hungry.”

He grunts and nods, as he heads upstairs. As if scrambled eggs and burnt toast can fix another Tuesday night.

But Wednesdays are good - the longest possible time until another Tuesday night.

He just has to keep telling himself that.

—

Seventeen.

Another Tuesday behind Dewey’s, but this time he’s puking up the few mouthfuls of food he managed before his father hauled him out the back - only because it was his mom’s week off and they were having a big family dinner. Louise resented those mid-week dinners; after a long day at work, having to make dinner for twenty-three people, and somehow find enough plates and chairs was the last thing she wanted to do. It was the only time Lydia would cross their father’s sight line, skinny and defiant.

If it had been a normal dinner, Jerry wouldn’t have dragged him out of the house. He would have beat him in the kitchen, yelling over Hettie’s sobs and Flo’s screams, and Louise’s pleading. He’s had a serving platter smashed over his head before, as well as a beer bottle, and a ceramic pitcher - one that had been made by Grandma Lillian, and Louise had sobbed over those broken shards.

His head is spinning, and he can’t remember exactly what he said to incite his father’s rage, though he remembers Uncle Bo’s jeers when he tried to stand up. The previous week’s wounds have reopened, and are bleeding onto his last decent t shirt. There’s vomit and alley-juice all over his jeans, and he wonders if he should drag himself to the hospital because his world is still spinning.

He wonders what will happen if he dies tonight; if Roy Lester finds him here in the morning, cold and dead. Most of the cops in town are from old families, and they’ve taken Lydia and Jasper back home enough times to know what goes on. It’s easier to picture the cover-up, that they’ll blame him and a make-believe schoolyard fight. Just a tragic accident.

Maybe then someone will help Lydia, help all of his sisters. Maybe it’ll be the thing that makes his mom leave.

He falls asleep facedown in the alley, and wants to cry when he wakes up the next morning to the bellow of school kids heading to the bus stop.

He was so goddamned close to it all being over.

So close.

—

“Do you need some help?”

It’s another Tuesday night, one that has come with busted ribs and possibly a dislocated shoulder. He missed lunch because of an English project, and his father had been drinking early, so he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. It’s making him feel sick, and wondering if anyone will notice if he sneaks in the back door of Dewey’s and grab some food.

And then someone is there and talking to him.

Her voice is high and sweet, and he expects a high school girl, maybe a sorority sister.

She is neither.

She’s only as tall as Flo, with uneven black hair curling around her cheeks. She’s one of the prettiest girls he has ever seen, with huge amber-coloured eyes that remind him of Hettie’s dolls and Lydia’s manga. She’s wearing a ragged button-up over a ruffled mini-skirt and leggings, with boots that look a size too big, a heavy man’s watch that hangs from her tiny wrist, and an ancient looking cadet’s cap - the entire effect makes him think of Oliver Twist as a female circus performer.

She walks over to him, and crouches in front of him, her head cocked to the side like a bird’s. He can only stare; other than the dark smudges under her eyes that speak of many sleepless nights, she is beautiful.

“Are you okay?” she asks, looking worried.

“Yeah,” he croaks, and winches as he jars his ribs. He doubles over, and cries out. She reaches out towards him but backs off just as suddenly.

“You’re hurt,” she says, looking bewildered and frightened. “Where?”

“I-It’s okay,” he manages, trying to reclaim his dignity in front of the prettiest girl. “I’ll be fine.”

The girl huffs. “Ugh, boys,” she mutters. “Hold on a second.” She gets up and slips out of the alley before he can beg her not to get help. In reality, going to the hospital is the last thing he should do - they can’t afford the bill, and  they’ll call home and… no. Just no.

His head is spinning, so he finds it hard to tell how much time has passed, but eventually she returns. She’s clutching two bags, and marches right up to him and crouches back down.

“This will help,” she says, holding out painkillers and a bottle of water. He fumbles with the lids of both, but eventually swallows the pillows down. She watches him carefully. “Don’t drink too fast,” she advises. “Now, I can put your shoulder back in now, or we can wait. It’s up to you.”

He blinks at her slowly. “Now,” he decides.

“Okay,” she looks nervous, but moves forward. It’s all blurry in his mind, but there is something cold, then hot, angry pain, and then he’s blinking up at her again. “Sorry. But trust me, the worst is over now. At least I didn’t break it worse. Hungry?”

He blinks as she reaches for the other bag - a bag of Skittles, a packaged sandwich, two oranges, and a bag of potato chips. He’s not sure if he has a concussion or it’s an odd selection, but he’s also hungry enough that he doesn’t care.

“I nearly had to call Bella, to ask what to get - Edward never let me buy her food after the chicken incident - which was entirely Emmett’s fault - but I think I figured it out okay,” the girl jabbers, taking a seat beside him, and smiles at him. “Better no one knows where I am, anyway.”

“I… thanks,” he croaked, as he reached for the sandwich. She beams at him again, and then frowns.

“Eat, then we’ll finish patching you up. I’ve come too far to watch you die in this disgusting place,” she stretches her legs out in front of her.

The sandwich is dry, but he wolfs it down - an orange too, before he takes a breath - that hurts - and takes another look at the tiny girl beside him.

“Who are you?” he finally asks, and she looks up from her watch.

“Oh! I’m Alice,” she says. “Sorry, I forgot you didn’t know. Do you want your ribs taped now, or are you going to open those?” She points to the Skittles.

“Um, I…” he looks at the bag of candy. “Do you want some?” This feels like a fever dream; maybe he’s passed out and this is just what his banged-up brain has provided him with.

“No,” she shakes her head, and the cadet’s cap tilts a little on her head. “I can’t. They just looked nice. Happy.”

“Happy,” he echoes, looking at the red package.

“I hear that sometimes little things can help,” Alice says. “Come on, cowboy, take that shirt off and let me see those ribs.”

His side is mottled black and blue and purple, and moving in basically any direction is a new adventure in pain. Alice gasps at the sight, and then coos at him in a way that is oddly comforting as her fingers trace his ribs - the coldness of her fingers is actually wonderful against the pain. Then comes the painful stage - as she, not entirely gently enough, begins layering tape over the pain, his head is spinning.

“All done,” Alice says, and her voice is soft, and when he slumps against her shoulder, she doesn’t move away. She smells like old fashioned things, like roses and linen. It reminds him of the old family homestead. He finds his eyes closing, and his side aches in time with his heart, and then Alice’s gentle fingers are running through his hair.

“Sleep, Jasper,” she murmurs, “I’ll keep watch.”

He’s asleep before he realises he never told her his name.

—

She’s gone when he wakes up, and the Skittles are in his pocket - along with the painkillers. Happy.

It’s Wednesday morning, and it’s not exactly ‘happy’ he’s feeling, but he’s got candy in his pocket and time to go home for a shower and more food, so Alice was right - the little things do help.

—

She never turns up two Tuesdays in a row, but he does see her again. She’s always more prepared than the first time, with a bag that always seems to contain exactly what they need - in his less lucid states, he is reminded of Mary Poppins’ magic carpet bag as she produces snacks and first aid kits, and even clothing.

Her attempts at first aid are, at best, rough and she accidentally breaks two of his fingers and nearly ends up in tears when he yells in pain, and hugs him so tight, weeping into his neck, that he ends up trying to comfort her.

Sometimes he sleeps. She’s so thin and tiny that her shoulder isn’t a good pillow, and he feels like a shit man, letting such a tiny girl keep watch behind a bar. It wouldn’t take much to break her, and he can’t defend anyone in this state.

But some Tuesdays, he falls asleep anyway, breathing in that scent of fresh roses and linen, and listening to her chatter away about people he doesn’t know, about places he’s never visited, about books he’s never read.

Alice sounds like she’s living a really nice life. One week, she quizzes him on his Spanish before his examine the next day, and her accent is flawless. When her phone buzzes and buzzes and buzzes, and she ignores it, she usually swears - he doesn’t know in what language, one of the Eastern Asian ones he thinks - but it’s definitely a swear.

He wishes he could see her, talk to her, out in the real world and prove to her that he’s not just a beat-up kid. But she’s always gone on Wednesday mornings, and he doesn’t even know how to contact her anyway.

All in all, he met Alice in the reeking alley behind Dewey’s with a concussion, broken ribs, and a dislocated shoulder, and now she’s the best friend he’s ever had in the world.

He’s getting closer to that ‘happy’ concept that she mentioned the first time they met.

—

The last time he sees her, he’s bleeding and he’s pretty sure his eye socket is fractured. He’s pissed with himself because he wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, to stop his father from going after Flo. So he’d thrown a punch at his old man  for the first time because Flo is his baby sister and all haunted eyes and he’ll never forget the sounds of her wailing after the belt struck her, but hitting the bastard back just fuelled him and … fuck.

Then Alice is there, in jeans with stars on the knees and a billowy purple top that is just opaque enough to obscure the skin underneath. She looks angry and frustrated, and doesn’t just sit next to him and open her bag like she usually does.

“It’s a stupid fucking decision you’re about to make,” she stamps her foot, “and I am so mad at you right now, but Carlisle and Edward have made me promise not to interfere. Carlisle says that everything I’m doing now is enough. And I’m already in enough trouble, honestly.”

He can taste foil again - definitely a fractured eye socket.

“What?” he manages, snappish and tired. He doesn’t need this. He wants sweet Alice, who helps him patch himself back together, and gets him food, and talks him to sleep. The one who makes him laugh, even when it hurts, and seems to be light-years ahead of him but that’s okay because she’s always so happy about whatever she’s telling him.

“I’m going to say this once,” she enunciates carefully, still glaring. “I will be here every Tuesday. Don’t make a dumb decision. There is always another choice.”

“You’re making less sense than normal,” he retorts. “Either help me, or go away - I’m not in the mood.”

“Happy freakin’ birthday,” she snaps, unbuckling her giant watch, and throws it at him before she storms back the way she came, leaving him behind.

[itsnotpluggedin]

Reincarnation for Jalice Week!!  @jalicenetwork​ The last one has art traced from art made by Tekka-Croe on DeviantArt