#twificmas21

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas: Christmas Eve Edition is here!

Today we have an STL AU one-shot (it's complete!) about what would have happened if Mary-Alice had left with the Major.

I'm so sorry that I haven't been able to post many of the requests, but December was a bit of a disaster and I fell way behind. I plan on finding something from every one of those requests in January to make it up to everyone <3

Onwards to FicMasEve ;)

And I never wanted anything from you,

Except everything you had, and what was left after that too.

Florence and the Machine, Dog Days Are Over.

—

How long have they been away from the South? From Maria and the wars?

She’s lost track entirely.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She never saw any of it coming.

She watched carefully, she planned and practiced, watched and worried, and she still never saw it coming. Not the Major taking her hand and dragging her out of Mexico and Texas in the dust of Charlotte and Peter’s flight. She never even considered that he’d think to take her with them.

So she does her best, her gaze focused on the future, focused on Maria and their desertion to make sure they see the end of the day, the end of the week, the end of the year. Her head feels tight, so full of what could-might-will happen that she’s glad that the Major doesn’t let go of her hand the entire time, just drags her along behind him.

And that’s how they escape the south.

—

They travel with Peter and Charlotte for many years, a little trio and the shadow. He watches her, the blankness of her face and her emotions as they move past the Mason-Dixon line to peace and safety.

She has no strong opinions about anything, never offers thoughts or ideas about their little trek across the country.

He doesn’t know how to help her. Not at all. He makes sure she’s fed, and that she’s decently clothed. He makes sure she’s not left behind, or alone too often (he knows something about the terror of being alone, and he doesn’t want anyone to feel that way.)

So they continue on. He waits, she watches, eyes empty but all-seeing. They part ways from Charlotte and Peter (there are a hundred little tiny reasons why, and Mary-Alice is one of them. She doesn’t feel safe, doesn’t trust Peter or Charlotte and he’d like to know why, but that’s not the kind of question he can ask her. Especially not now.) They wanted into the north, into wet and damp and green and empty, where the emotions of the cities are long behind them and he can finally breathe a little.

Mary-Alice doesn’t breathe, doesn’t relax or doesn’t seem any less broken. She simply is, still - a shadow, a ghost, his personal spectre of the horror of the wars.

This is not how he imagined freedom would be.

—

The little house had been half-swallowed up by the forest, one half of the building having collapsed under the weight of debris from the trees crowding it, and the smell of mould and rotting vegetation was overwhelming.

The rain had continued for two and a half days unabated, and whilst they ran no risk of getting sick or cold from it, but when it was raining this heavily and for this long, it was unpleasant - their clothes were sticking like a second skin, with rivulets of dirt and old blood running from the fabric onto their skin.

Wiping mud off her face with an equally filthy hand, she followed the Major towards the house; they were both covered in a combination of blood, mud, and ash from the fight. Mary-Alice’s dress was in a far worse state than the Major’s pants and shirt, but neither were particularly salvageable.

The house is a little time capsule of the past, having sat untouched for forty or fifty years, just resting and rotting. The dust that covers the floor is more of a sludge thanks to the dampness and the nearby river, with veins of mould and fungus running up the walls, and vivid green vines twisting and blooming up the door frames and around the ceiling. There might have been wallpaper once, but it’s little more than stained, rotten pulp right now.

(Two fat little frogs have nestled in a hole in the wall, luminous green and content. Mary-Alice watches them for a moment, fascinated. He likes that.)

They move through the house slowly; everything has been abandoned - it was not the home of wealthy people, but there is evidence of a few modest creature comforts - some books, discarded embroidery, painting supplies.

It feels like the other side of the Monterrey mansion; like they’ve stepped through the looking glass to another world. No one would argue that Maria’s home was cleaner - more bodies moving around to prevent dust settling - but the air of disrepair, of abandonment, of a liminal space is the same.

For a moment, he thinks he would prefer dirt and sand and the dry heat. But he’d take the rainiest days, the mouldiest shelter, before he’d go back to the hell of being a soldier in an unwinnable war.

—

The little washroom was covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, with lacy spiderwebs strung in the ceiling corners. The tub matches up with his hazy human memories, bringing the smell of castile soap, and the heat of the boiled water sloshing into the the tin tub to the front of his memory.

(It is bittersweet in its simplicity. That once upon a time, he was a boy who washed in a bath like this, with homemade soap and rough rags. That he was a person, a human, a brother and son. A child. Jasper. Those memories sting and feel heavy but at least he has them. There is something amusing but also dreadful at Mary-Alice’s fascination with something as simple as frogs, as folding paper into animals, at how stricken she is out in a brand-new world.)

They are absolutely filthy; it’s been weeks since they washed, in a river somewhere in Virginia. They’ve relied upon the rain, upon the remoteness of their path, but maybe a bath would help. Would make them feel better. Even back with Maria, getting the opportunity to wash, and to claim new clothes made things seem a little less grim.

If nothing else, they’ve both got blood in their hair they need to wash out.

(The first time he had her after their escape, was in the lake somewhere in South Carolina when they stopped to wash the dirt and sand from the south off them. It was rough and hard, because he felt stripped raw, and she had held on to him tightly, her face pressed against him and it wasn’t exactly the cleansing baptism he had hoped for, he realised afterwards. Not for either of them. Maybe this bath will be better.)

—

There’s an old bucket in the corner, rusted tin housing a fascinating colony of something unidentifiable that he takes down to the river when Mary-Alice is exploring the narrow second floor.

It takes a few trips to the river to fill the tub enough for the both of them, and by then, Mary-Alice has crept back downstairs to watch his progress with obvious curiosity.

(A piece of ragged ribbon is clutched in one of her hands, and he wonders why she would want such a thing.)

“Wash yourself,” he says gently, motioning to the bath. The water is off-colour, but it is river water, from an ancient bucket, and it is still cleaner than the two of them.

Mary-Alice nods and strips out of her rag of a dress; there was something utterly pathetic in the wet slap it made when she dropped it on the stone floor amongst the dust and dirt. She’d drag it back on when she was finished in the tub, he knew that - but it looked like nothing. Black and brown and red, the fabric worn thin and frayed. It was barely fit for bandages or as a cleaning rag, let alone as someone’s clothing.

She picks up the dress and rings it out - bloody-muddy water dribbled out of it. And she folds it over the half-broken chair in the corner, as if it is going to be dry or cleaner when she reaches for it again.

The whole thing just feels sad to him. But then, he knows how wrong this is; he vaguely remembers what it was like to have new, clean clothes as a human. Even as a vampire, he got to replace his garments more often than Mary-Alice ever did - so few of their victims were small enough for their clothing to fit her.

He couldn’t remember ever seeing Mary-Alice in clothing that fit her right. Not the ragged hospital gown he found her in, nor any of the dresses she was provided with afterwards. Always swallowing her up, leaving her shoulder bare.

That’s why she had so many scars there, overlapping indiscriminately. It had been like a beacon to others, a vulnerability. Because her clothes never fit right.

(He thinks of homemade sweaters, of crisp afternoon dresses, of pristine petticoats and neat lace. He thinks of rancid dresses and torn hospital gowns and thin, pale limbs unguarded.)

—

It’s been awhile since he saw her bare like this, as she steps towards the tub. (Normally when he does, he doesn’t see her back.)

His fingers have grazed over the narrow plane of her back, but he’s never really just looked at it. At the scars dotting her shoulders and arms, at the long scar that runs from her shoulder blades to her hip raggedly. He wonders how it happened, how old it is.

(Not that old. He knows the small scars under his fingers as well as his own; in comparison, her skin dips into it… how burns on his tongue but he says nothing.)

She turns to him, her head tilted in curiosity some, and she just… stands there. Thin and pale and scarred and completely naked without shame or thought. And that tastes like regret, that she’s been raised up like this, that she doesn’t expect privacy, doesn’t bother with modesty, because she never had a reason to. The Wars take their pound of flesh, and left this girl without the idea that she should-could cover herself. Could turn away, refuse, say no.

Her lack of modesty is something that shames him more than it shames her. It is not enduring, not an ideal. Just another red mark against him.

He turns away and she finally climbs into the bath, a cloud of filth spreading out from her as weeks of dirt and grime and dried blood peel away from her skin. She sits in one end, still watching him as he moves around the little wash room, tugging open cupboard doors and watching the rotten, water-logged door crumple in his hand. Vermin and insects have eaten away at any linens left behind, and water and time finished the job.

They don’t speak as he slips from the room, leaving her in the cold water, waiting for… whatever it is that she’s always waiting for.

—

She sinks into the water when the Major leaves her to wash, and scrubs at her arm with her hand, eyeing the cake of forgotten soap in its dirty little dish. The soap has been left behind and broken down into some mould-riddled pulp that looks almost organic in its curdled decay - it fascinates her, honestly. It’s so innocent, yet so repulsive, a mundane little reminder that nothing last forever. At least, nothing should.

(It’s easy to focus on little things, like rotten soap or the blood dried pink in the Major’s hair, than bigger things. Like her visions. Like the fact that this was never supposed to be their fate. That she hasn’t seen anything in weeks, since they fled. She has no idea what will become of them, truly, and it is ice-cold, hard knowledge that she cannot outrun, that she will not acknowledge.)

Stretching out in the tub, she smiles at the idle thought the she cannot even reach the other end with her toes - unless she submerges herself and stretches right out. Maybe then.

She has to wash her hair, pick out tiny leaves and sticks and crumbs of dirt and matted blood. Will have to wash out her dress, too; it was gingham once. Now it’s just brown. Brown like mud, brown like the bathwater, brown like the dried rivulets of old blood running down her neck. If she ever gets to choose, she thinks she’d like a blue dress. A blue dress with a yellow ribbon around the waist.

(Why can’t she see?)

—

He prowls through the rooms of the house that are still accessible, peeling off things that might be useful - he finds an old wooden comb; a mouldy bedsheet that he rips in half to salvage; and a long-sleeved dress, decades out of style, but perhaps small enough to suit Mary-Alice. It was grey once, and now has water marks and ragged moth holes, but it’s far and away better than what she was wearing.

(He finds himself a cleaner shirt, a little mouldy but certainly wearable. His pants will last until their next hunt - Mary-Alice is a quick study in which human’s clothing will fit him. She might even be convinced into stealing some clothing from a forgotten washing line, so that she finally has something that covers her properly, something that doesn’t leave her vulnerable and exposed.)

Back in the washroom, Mary-Alice looks somewhat cleaner, but not entirely. She straightens up in the bath as he walks back in, curiosity in her eyes at the items that he’s carrying. She always liked getting new clothes back in the South, always inspected each dress she was issued, as if she had to make a choice and didn’t just have to settle for the closest fit, for whatever colour and fabric and style was in the mixed-up pile.

(She always did a little twirl when she tried them on, a little spin as she looked down at her new prize. It was… endearing. Sweet. Hopeful. He didn’t know if she realised that she did it, or that he noticed. He never said anything, but he was always sorry when she came back from a battle with a new tear or stain - she always appreciated her clothes so damn much.)

He nods at her, and she rests her chin on the edge of the tub, her gaze following him as he walked around the room.

The new dress and shirt are folded carefully on top of the bedsheet, so damn obvious in their surroundings like offerings to a pagan god.

(Perhaps prayers for a rebirth, for a revolution and a revelation. New clothes for a new age.

He’s already getting sentimental over a few lengths of moth-eaten fabric.)

When he turns back around, she’s still watching him with that vacant, but half-starved look, grime still streaked on her face.

“Has it helped?” he asks, sitting down by the tub. They are nearly face-to-face this way, neither looking up nor down. Her eyes are darkening, to a deep rose-red. They still have another few days, maybe a week, before they have to hunt again.

“Has what helped?” she asks, confused.

“The bath.” He looks at the stone floor, at the little veins of dirt running through it. “I thought it might help.”

She shifts in the tub, so he can only see the top of her nose and her eyes above the rim, shadows rippling over her face.

“Help?”

He swallows and looks at her. Really looks at her. At the dark circles under her eyes that seem deeper because of the fear. At the way she shrinks back but never breaks her gaze.

(A slim hand gripping his shirt sleeve when the nomads approached them, tucking herself behind him. That had surprised him; he’d never seen Mary-Alice back away from a threat before.)

“I know…” he begins, and he wants to reach out and hold her. But they aren’t there, they don’t casually touch in that way. This was his choice, and he dragged her along for it with little consideration for her, just laser focus on getting them both away.

“I know you didn’t see this coming…” he tries again and he doesn’t finish that sentence before Mary-Alice shudders and folds in on herself, burying her face in her hands.

And crying.

—

He reaches for her, instinctually; her tiny frame shaking as she tries to contain whatever she’s feeling.

(She cries like a little child; little wobbly sobs into her hands with shiny red eyes that will never produce tears but secrete venom down her face, more viscous than the venom from their mouth. It burns white stains on clothing, their faux tears do. Venom from their mouths and limbs eats through most fabrics and papers quickly. But that’s not why he wants to mop up her face and hold her tight.

He wants to because she’s scared and worried and feels like she’s alone. And he never, ever wants anyone else to feel that way, not when he can make a difference.)

The water sloshes in the tub as he climbs in, fully clothed. If the water was cloudy when it was first tipped into the tub, now it’s completely opaque - they would get a better wash, in cleaner water, if they just waded out into the rain-swollen river. She looks up at him with a breath that almost sounds like a gasp, as he sinks into the water, and pulls her into his arms.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, her thin arms wrapping around his neck, and she pushes her face against the rough, reeking fabric of his shirt and maybe there’s a corner of his mind that is a little embarrassed at the state of him when she’s this close, but she’s naked and looking so very broken that she takes priority, not some half-forgotten lessons on gentlemanly behaviour in the back of his head. It’s not like he’s ever been a particular gentleman to her before.

“I can’t see,” she says, and she shudders with misery and sobs. “I can’t see anything, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

Gently rocking her, he ran his hands through her hair, freeing a few small tangles and some debris gently.

“It’s alright,” he says again, because he really is lost at what to say to fix this. To apologise and soothe and heal and repent.

“No. It’s not,” she leans back, and he’s enchanted by her. By her mussed hair, and her big red eyes, and the sheen of venom clinging to the fan of her eyelashes. She really is truly lovely - he thought that the day he found her, with a wide smile and emotions that leapt out at him in their strength and purity. He could have led her anywhere, and she wouldn’t have questioned him. Or rather, she would have, but in excitement and trust. Not in fear or suspicion.

(He aches to go back and make it right. He’s watched her since they left; the blank, cold way she has moved around. Just utterly dull and uncomfortable. Peter had voiced the suspicion that it was him and Charlotte that had been making her so unhappy, that perhaps she hadn’t wanted to leave but had needed to follow the Major’s orders above all else. But even now, weeks after leaving Peter and Charlotte in New York, she was still so miserable, a shadow of all that she had been before - gone was that happy girl he found abandoned in Mississippi; as was the solemn but confident little shadow of the Wars. She was like a marionette with the strings cut away, like an abused animal limping into freedom reluctantly, scared of another set of tests and traumas.

And all of that is his fault.)

“It is. None of us know what’s going to happen next. That’s how it is,” he tries but she scowls.

“We never would have gotten this far if I hadn’t seen,” she murmurs, ducking her head. “I need… it protects all of us.”

It takes him a minute to comprehend what she’s saying - the scope and scale of her gift; of her efforts to protect and guide and manipulate. Of the fact that she was never just looking after herself; that she had stretched and warped herself into the shield that protected him and his.

(‘All of us’ is not just them. It is him, and her, and Peter and Charlotte. And he’s seen the way she and Peter stare at each other, at the way Charlotte inches away from Mary-Alice with varying degrees of subtlety. The only reason for her to have guarded them is because they were his friends. His people. And that is a layer of devotion, of kindness, and of power that he’s not sure how to compute, how to articulate.)

“…You did that for us?” he finally manages, pushing a soggy lock of hair out of her eyes, ignoring the rust-coloured stain it leaves on his fingers. They’ve both been hunting a little more viciously in this part of the country, where easy prey is harder to come by. Bloody hair is hardly their biggest problem.

She blinks and frowns. “Of course. We were meant to…” And she trails off, and for once, he feels something from her. Sadness, disappointment, and grief all tangled up. Something that was lost, then; something that couldn’t be retrieved.

His hand slips to cradle her cheek and he has a million things to say and he doesn’t know what to say first.

(I’m sorry, let me protect you, let me fix this, let me fix you. Let me stay with you, let me touch you, let me make you smile again.)

“How does it work?” he asked. “Your gift?” She’s leaning into his touch and he wonders if she notices. He wonders if it’s just wishful thinking on his part.

“Decisions. The outcomes of choices. Things can change,” she says quietly, “but I’d see that as well.”

(She smells like flowers and salt, even now.)

“Does that mean you haven’t made a choice yet?” he asked, his thumb stroking her cheek.

Mary-Alice shrugged. “I don’t know what choice to make,” she said.

It’s such a simple answer, such an easy problem, and he marvels at it for a moment. The idea that she’s been guided by her visions for so long - a hand pulling her along in the dark - that she can’t bring herself to move forward on an unknown path… it indicates so much power, so much discipline, and such a burden. That, to her, any wrong step on the tight-rope could ruin everything.

“What about a small decision?” he asked, and watched as her hands fell to his shirt, to the few buttons that still clung onto the fabric. “What’s something that you want?”

He can see the thoughts turn over in her head, watches her bite her lip and she looks at him like she can see right through him, see every thought and dream and regret he’s ever had before she breaks her gaze and looks back down at his chest.

“I want…” she begins, and another hint of emotion brushes by him, half gone before he can identify it - embarrassment.

“What do you want?” he asks again, covering her hands with his and she looks at him again with a desperate, starving look.

“I want us to stay together.” Her voice is soft and sad but hopeful. “Please.”

(He wasn’t expecting that.

Not at all.)

“I want that too,” he manages hoarsely.

And she looks at him, her face a portrait of unfiltered surprise. He doesn’t ever want to lose her, to let her go. To let her down. He wants… he wants to find her somewhere safe and peaceful, where her dresses fit properly and she smiles. He’s spent so many years using her as a crutch, as a way to keep himself functioning and alive, with no knowledge that she was already protecting him the very best she could, that he wants to repay her, desperately.

“Okay.” She nods and curls against his shoulder, threading the buttons through each buttonhole of his shirt. Pushing the sides of his shirt aside until he sits up long enough to peel it off and fling it onto the floor, she lies half-sprawled across him, occasionally wiping dirt and blood off him.

(For a moment, he feels her - skin to skin, in the dirty bathwater. They are fragile, her emotions, ephemeral and easily missed. But it is more that he ever felt from her before - little flutters of hope and reassurance, relief and a deep well of devotion; devotion to him.)

They sit there, tangled up in each other, for awhile - until she goes rigid for a few moments and then blinks up at him.

“We’ll be together,” she says, shifting against him, and he wishes they could sleep, just so they could do so curled in each other’s arms. “I can see that.”

He doesn’t know why (or won’t admit it) but he presses his lips to her forehead; despite the amount of times they’ve been together (on his terms, always), this gesture is strangely intimate, oddly binding.

They’ll be together.

That’s a future that will never change.

—

He finally strips off and they sink into the dirty water entangled, sponging off dirt with the use of his shirt, when he insists he found a cleaner one. She drags the comb through his curls so gently; her fingers teasing out each piece of debris, each snarl and knot. He attempts to salvage some of the soap for their hair, but it is a disgusting and futile endeavour.

(And maybe it’s worth it because she almost laughs; the mirth bubbling faintly as they both eye the mess.)

He wants to ask her questions about what she has seen, what was lost, and what comes next. But he doesn’t want to, not yet. There’s something more tangible between them now; soft and almost new, unlike what they’ve had in the past. He already likes this little bubble they’ve found themselves in - the way she wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him like she’s going to be torn away from him. The way she presses her face against his neck, he can feel her inhaling, nuzzling closer. He loves that already, that she wants to get closer, that despite everything, she’s so open about taking her comforts from him.

(He wants to press kisses to her cheeks, and cradle her in his arms properly. He wants to watch her spin in new dresses and memorise every mark and every scar on her skin. He wants this peace, this conviction that they’ve both finally found each other in the right place at the right time - a new certainty that has settled into him out of nowhere - to stay forever.)

Her lips quirk against his skin, and he thinks she might have smiled, and he tightens his arms around her.

(The next kiss he gives her will be one she asks for. He promises himself that.)

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas NYD Edition: Hybrid

Happy New Year my lovelies. I come bearing the late final addition to FicMas. Note to self, make sure you post before you drink champagne this year.

Today I bring something inexplicably popular? Like almost all my requests mentioned it? No one has really been gangbusters about this particular fic before, so I was surprised and very excited that people are looking forward to it.

Hybrid.

We have Jasper's POV of the post-sex night, and we have some outtakes of the fic proper. Some changes have been made to the original snippets posts, so if something is different/changed in this version, it's because I improved on the original.

Happy New Year, stay safe, drink some water, have a snack <3

He shouldn’t have gone home. He realizes that as soon as he sets foot in the front door. It’s his own fault, really. He took a detour to hunt and regretfully stopped to wash Alice’s scent off himself (she smelt like rainwater and flowers, a taste still lingering on his tongue, even after the two deer he had found) before going near the house.

But he gave himself away. The press of her warm skin against his, her pale skin stretched soft and smooth over her ribs and hips; the swell of her breast underneath his palm…

Edward’s bedroom door slams open, and he winces because it’s obvious that his train of thought has been heard, and that the door is now most likely embedded in the wall from the sound it made against the plastic

“What the hell were you thinking?” Edward yelled, as he flew down the stairs. “Do you have no sense at all?”

‘Stay out of my head, Edward.’ The warning is mild but razor-edged. That memory of Alice is his, and his alone; that it’s outrageously disrespectful for his brother to acknowledge what he has seen out-loud when it not only invades his privacy but Alice’s too.

“And let you make decisions that risk us all?” Edward’s eyes were black from anger as he glared at Jasper.

“What on earth has happened?” Esme appeared in the living room, Carlisle behind her looking concerned.

The way she blushed when she saw him nude, the pink staining her cheeks and down to her bare chest, clad only in a tiny pair of panties. But her gaze, her emotions were appreciative and she smiled shyly as he moved back towards the bed, reaching out to cradle her cheek as he kissed her…

“Jasper took a risk that was so… so ridiculous and so dangerous and stupid and unnecessary!” Edward was yelling and pacing, running his hand through his hair in agitation.

“Get out of my head,” Jasper snapped, intensely aware of how much of Alice he had revealed - her body, her scars, all the little pieces that she had entrusted to him; not Edward, and not his family. He wanted to be back at the Brandon house, with his beautiful, sharp, funny girl in his arms - the idea of being in her bed as she slept was so tempting, and such a simple one… She’d been getting better at sleeping with him in the room - her terrors had faded to something manageable when he stayed in her room - but he was still cautious, still preferred to let her sleep peacefully alone.

“You are the one who practically shouted what you’d been doing with her all night the second you got within range of the house,” Edward hissed, and Jasper hissed at him.

“Wait, what?” Emmett emerged from the media room still clutching an xBox controller.

“As if I don’t know exactly what you feel every time Bella is in your line of sight,” Jasper snapped back.

“At least I have some semblance of restraint.” That double-edged insult landed harshly; the scar that Jasper had left on Alice’s throat had healed neatly but it had scarred - a constant reminder of his own weakness.

“No way…?” Emmett was looking between Edward and Jasper.

“No way what?” Rosalie sounded bored, where she was leaning against the door to the garage, having appeared suddenly. “Why is Edward yelling?”

“Hell yeah, bro, high five for sealing the deal!” Emmett was laughing delightedly now, and Jasper grudgingly high-five him.

“Charming,” Rose said sourly. “We’ll never get rid of her now,” she muttered. “Another human pet, that’s just fantastic.”

“Oh my,” Esme bit her lip and was clearly trying not to giggle, looking at Carlisle, who was at a loss at how to deal with the situation before him before glimpsing Edward’s murderous expression. “Edward, you need to calm down.”

“This wasn’t just dangerous, this was pure stupidity! Do you have no self-control?” Edward hissed, his pacing getting faster and faster, until he was past a human speed.

“She still alive?” Emmett asked.

“Yes,” Jasper said, annoyed.

“She have a good time?”

“Emmett!” Esme was visibly laughing now.

“Alice is fine,” Jasper said between gritted teeth.

“So what’s the problem, Eddie?” Emmett shrugged. “Our brother gets some tension relief with a pretty girl, didn’t suck her dry, and the pretty girl has enough vampire in her that she survived to see another day?”

Edward’s fist shot out and cracked against Emmett’s shoulder.

“You could have killed her, and how would we have explained that?” Edward was so angry it felt like something was grating against his skin.

“I do think that this… step in your relationship with Alice was a sensitive one, Jasper,” Carlisle began awkwardly. “And that it would have been one that took some inner consideration… and there was significant risk to consider but I’m sure that you and Alice considered these things. I’m glad that it worked out, and I think that this is a private milestone between you and Alice.”

“Thank god someone does,” Jasper muttered, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Edward,” Carlisle continued, clearly uncomfortable with the situation he had found himself mediating, “Whilst I understand that you cannot help overhearing thoughts, you do have an ethical and moral obligation towards maintaining the privacy of the mind of others. I understand that you had reasonable concerns about the welfare of your brother and of Alice, but your concerns should have been brought to Jasper privately.”

Edward scowled, without making eye-contact with Carlisle.

“Please,” Rosalie scoffed, “Edward isn’t worried about Alice’s safety or Jasper having an impromptu snack.” She straightened, her irritation about the entire scenario pricking at him. “He’s jealous.”

A growl rumbled through Edward.

“Jealous? Of Jasper and Alice?” Carlisle frowned and Rosalie rolled her eyes.

“He’s jealous that he knows he can’t have sex with Bella because his control isn’t good enough, and Bella’s a normal human. He’s also jealous that his conscience won’t let him. He’s going to want to marry Bella before he even thinks about her naked.”

The rage coming off Edward was thick and heavy now.

“What? Alice’s existence destroyed any argument you had about her choice to have children or that humans and vampires can’t sleep together,” Rosalie said. “You’ve got nothing, Edward. You’re jealous.”

“She’s right,” Emmett shrugged.

“And if Jasper, the weakest of the family can sleep with his girlfriend, Edward’s got to admit that his martyr act is just that - an act.” Rosalie spun on her heel. “Oh, Jasper?”

“Yes, Rosalie?” Jasper sounded tired.

“I still think she’s a brat and I don’t like her.”

“Understood.”

Carlisle sighed as Rosalie disappeared back into the garage, with Emmett trailing after her. Edward was still looking murderous but remained behind. “I don’t know what to say,” he said frankly, looking over at Esme hopefully.

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if Edward hadn’t lost his temper,” Jasper said, inching towards the stairs. “So, I’d prefer if we could pretend that…”

“Agreed,” Carlisle said with relief. Jasper turned to flee into his room before Esme called out.

“Jasper,” Esme said sweetly.

“Yes, Esme?” He looked down on her from the top of the stairs.

“Remember to use a condom.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Laughter - Emmett’s - echoed through the house at that and Jasper suddenly wondered why he’d had the bright idea to leave Alice’s place at all.

-------

Alice's POV

That first week of high school dragged on endlessly, frankly. It was hard to settle in at this school - I missed Chicago, missed the huge public school I’d come from where I was just another face in a sea of kids. No one really paid attention to whether I was doing my schoolwork or paying attention or even in class.

Not at Forks High. Most of my classes were around twenty students, and every single one of them knew my name, knew that I went by Alice; many of them knew my house, knew Simon from the hospital and the clinic, knew of or had even baby-sat Cynthia. It was disconcerting to be surrounded by people who knew my family better than I did, who could tell me that I had to try my own stepfather’s lemon meringue pie because it was so good, who knew that Cynthia had been obsessed with Snow White in elementary school. I had none of those memories, none of those little pieces of knowledge that normal families grow up with.

It was awkward, to say the least. And there were a few students that made it clear they knew my father and Simon, and they did not approve of two men being married, so I was on their hit list. Maybe it was the fact that I had spent my life in cities and this was a small town, but I was stunned silent to be the target of homophobic abuse because of my parents. And that’s what Simon was, really - one of my parents.

It was still a mind-fuck to have one father, let alone two, after years of considering myself an orphan.

Another thing I quickly noticed was how carefully I was being watched; the blond Cullen - Jasper - hovered at the peripheral of my vision all week. He was absolutely watching me, even following me, around school and I was genuinely curious what he thought he would learn about me this way. My school bag was very carefully curated to look innocent - the box cutter I carried was disguised amongst my art class supplies; the aerosol deodorant was understandable; the most incriminating item was the plastic pink lighter I had buried in a pocket. But smoking? Not illegal. I tried not to stand out with my fashion choices just yet - it was always better to wait and watch before trying anything outrageous. I had done everything I could to be ordinary, and yet Jasper Cullen continued to watch me.

It wasn’t until I made it to the cafeteria on Thursday or Friday that Jasper Cullen made a move directly against me; getting in the queue to snag two sodas and a package of chips, I moved quickly to avoid dealing with the disapproval of the lunch ladies who seemed to think they had the obligation to comment on every single lunch selection made every single day, as if the mains were even slightly palatable. I had been planning on bringing my own food to school to avoid the old bats, but I wasn’t sure how to broach that decision with Dad yet - neither he nor Simon had offered an alternative to eating lunch from the cafeteria.

As I span around, one of my sodas tipped and nearly went flying - except for the quick appearance and save by one Jasper Cullen, who righted my drink smoothly.

“Thanks,” I said in a flat tone. I shouldn’t have even bothered with a tray, I could have put my food in my bag and it would have been fine.

“Glad to help,” he said in a low voice, staring at me with an indecipherable look that made me feel warm, his nostrils flaring infinitesimally - enough for me to feel uncomfortable. Vampires were always fantastically creepy about their sense of smell, their focus on scents, and I should have known better than to expect that vampires in high school would have managed to repress that. The idea that he was… mapping me, learning what I smelt like, made me shudder internally.

The thing was, I knew this irritating vampire. I knew exactly how his voice sounded when it said my name; I knew the look in his eyes as he gently cradled my face.

I knew the way he felt against me, skin to skin, his name spilling from my own mouth like a plea.

And it felt… too much. So much. I didn’t want to deal with vampires. I didn’t want to deal with a stalker. I didn’t want him to smell me and follow me and watch me. I couldn’t. Something as simple as a vampire watching me felt like the last straw, the thing that would break me.

Especially when it was the one person I had been seeing and dreaming about for so long. It made my mind race that, after so many years of seeing him as a comfort and prize and a good thing, he could be what ruined everything.

I nodded once, and headed to my corner table. If nothing else, I had my sketchbook on me and my headphones. Headphones - even ones held together with tape and determination - are a universal sign for ‘leave me alone’.

//

Simon decided that to maximise familial bonding was required during my first couple of weeks in Forks, and that manifested in being gently encouraged to do my homework at the kitchen table whilst he prepared dinner.

I had noticed that Simon seemed to flit between his love of cooking and his love of home design; I couldn’t identify half of the contents of the fridge, and most of them were clearly homemade and elaborate. There was almost always something cooking, and it was reassuring - the warmth, the smell, the activity… I found myself gravitating towards the kitchen whenever I ventured out of my room.

Which was why I found myself at the kitchen table with my Algebra book opened in front of me as I tried to focus on schoolwork and not the fact that Jasper had had the audacity to kiss me and then not attend school the next day. It had been the first sunny day I had witnessed in Forks, but surely he could have just pulled his hood up and sucked it up instead of leaving me to stress for a full day. I was too nervous to even consider checking my phone.

I certainly wasn’t expecting Cynthia to burst in through the back door with Dad behind her, and pointing at me going, “Alice.”

“What?” I looked up, disorientated (Jasper had smelt like leather and fresh air and salt pressed up close to me…) before looking down at my work and realising I was holding my pen upside down, and the most recent equation I had attempted slanted down the page.

Oops.

“Is it true,” Cynthia began with all the gravitas of a lawyer in a court room, dropping her backpack in the door and appearing next to me at the table, “that you and one Jasper Hale were spotted making out in Rosalie Hale’s convertible?”

I gaped at her. Those middle schoolers were sneaky, gossipy little shits who were embellishing the story for dramatic value. Who had seen us through the tinted windows of the Land Rover? I really loathed small towns.

Both Dad and Simon were watching me in a way that was supposed to be casual but was actually very invested in my answer. I was still trying to work out what had happened on Tuesday afternoon, I hadn’t even spoken to Jasper… I certainly didn’t want to tell my family anything until I was certain of where I - where we - stood.

“Bold of you to assume Rosalie Hale wouldn’t hit me with her convertible if I looked at it wrong,” I managed. “You and your friends need to take up creative writing.”

Cynthia deflated. “It didn’t happen?” she asked, looking disappointed. I saw my father visibly relax out of the corner of my eye. “Jenna swore…”

“Me making out with Jasper in the back of Rosalie’s car? She loves that car more than anything on this planet, there’s no way anyone would get within a foot of it,” I said, turning back to my homework and hoped that the truth wasn’t written all over my face.

“UGH.” Cynthia huffed, taking her proffered backpack. “This was the most exciting thing to happen since Bella Swan and Edward Cullen!” she called back as she stomped up the stairs.

“Then you need to get a new hobby!” I called back, closing my schoolbooks and gathering them up. Maybe I could brave my phone and see if I had any messages. I wasn’t entirely sure what would be worse - if Jasper had left me some kind of text or voicemail, or if he hadn’t. I wasn’t sure the next time we saw each other could be in the high school parking lot.

Dad and Simon were quietly conversing behind the kitchen counter, as I snagged an apple from the fruit bowl as I walked out. “Are you not at all terrified by the stuff she hears at school? Because they cannot be doing much studying with all the gossip.” Biting into my apple, I headed towards the stairs, pausing only when I heard Simon laugh.

“She’s good, alright,” he said.

“Who? Alice?” Dad sounded confused.

“Your eldest daughter just shut down all possibility that she was ever in Rosalie Hale’s very expensive car,” Simon continued.

“Yes?”

“I did not hear a single word denying that she and Jasper weren’t … involved.”

Shit.

“Oh. Oh.”

Wincing, I headed straight to my room, to where my phone was plugged in on the nightstand.

With three unread messages waiting for me.

All of them from Jasper.

Double shit.

Taking a deep breath, praying for some kind of miracle, I opened them.

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas Day 11: AU Shadow to Light

Tonight's offering is an AU to STL that I've been playing with - if Mary-Alice had fled the army when she was assaulted, rather than stayed. This will absolutely be a one-shot piece, just an exploration of exactly how close Mary-Alice was that day to a very different future.

I hope everyone is staying safe these holidays - it looks like my sister won't be home for Christmas because she's come in contact with COVID which is really scary. Be smart, get vaccinated, and wear a mask <3

tw: rape/assault mentioned, not graphically.

There’s a girl in the tree outside the kitchen window.

Esme notices her early in the day, when the dew is still sitting on the lawn. She’s small and pale and ragged, and she’s half-lying over a branch, her chin on her hands as she watches the Cullen house. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. Just watches.

It might be one of Carlisle’s friends, but the boys have all gone hunting and she cannot ask. They won’t be back for four days - another bonding trip; Jasper has been doing so well with the family, but they are all careful to reinforce the familial bond, to remind them all of the affection, respect, and enjoyment they get from being apart of a family. It sounds mercenary, calculated, but it works for them. The same way she and Rosalie prize their time together.

Esme thinks about calling Rose but she doesn’t. Instead, she goes outside, smiling as she walks towards the little mite in the tree. She’s not a newborn - her eyes are black, and she’s so still. Her eyes meet Esme’s, and the woman thinks of animals. Animals dying slowly, in pain, hoping for some kind of divine intervention.

“Hello,” Esme smiles up at her, seven feet in the air. “I’m Esme Cullen.”

There is no response. The girl jerks backwards to flatten herself against the trunk, her limbs pulled tight against herself. And without breaking Esme’s gaze, she ascends higher up into the branches. Putting more distance between herself and Esme.

“I’m not going to hurt you?” Esme offers, suddenly concerned. Perhaps she’s not a friend of Carlisle’s, but some nomadic little waif, seeking out her own kind but too fearful to engage them.

The girl turns her head away to the house, and no matter what Esme says to her, does not say a word.

She stays in the tree.

—

It is only a month or two after their arrival, Maria begins to rebuild the army. She is cautious in her selection of soldiers. The first few are harmless – Reina is the vainest creature on the planet, and Felipe is strong but as dumb as a brick. They are both obedient, respectful, and learn their roles quickly.

It is Derrick she does not like. He looks innocuous, baby-faced, but there’s something foul about him. His sly smirks and calculating gazes do not put anyone else on edge, but she stays away as best she can. The newborns are kept in the cellar, but she is finally granted a reprieve from the ‘barracks’, and shares a tiny room with Ariana in the farmhouse proper.

For a little while, she thinks that is enough to protect her from a nebulous threat she doesn’t entirely comprehend.

He finally corners her in the barn, after training. It happens so quickly, and he is so strong, then he has her pinned, his arm around her throat. She cannot move, and she isn’t stupid – so much as a murmur, and he will take her head clean off.

There is nothing she can do.

The things he whispers in her ear are vile, but she is silent, trying to still her unnecessary breathing.

Fear creates predatory behaviour. The Major taught her that.

But it doesn’t help her now; it doesn’t stop him in his assault, his arm still tight and unrelenting. He goads her, clearly eager for her to provoke him into beheading her.

This is not how she dies.

She is rage wrapped in ice and stone. Instead of crawling into a corner of her mind, she tries to drag a vision upon herself so she can figure out what she does next.

But she doesn’t know, so she cannot make that choice, and when he finally releases her, she runs. She runs and runs, until she can see the ocean and there is sand underneath her bare feet. It is there that her rage burns out, and she just feels hollowed out and dirty.

She can still smell that bastard on her. That is easily fixed; the heavy, salt water of the Gulf of Mexico wash away his scent, and leaves her hair gritty and her dress stiff. But the feeling of him pressed up against her, of his arm around her throat, the scent of his hot breath, his mocking words…

She wants to be sick. She wants to vomit up her last meal into the sand. She wants to rip and tear and destroy. She wants to scream and cry, cry real human tears. And she knows if she goes back to the house, goes back and tells Maria what Derrick did to her, she probably wouldn’t care. It’s the flip of a coin whether Maria would raise her eyebrow as if she was whining about the weather, or if she’d destroy Derrick. And even then, it would be more about putting Derrick in his rightful place than what he’d done to her.

If she wanted something done about him, wanted him destroyed, she’d have to do it herself. That’s the truth.

No one has ever protected her for her sake. No one has ever comforted her, ever defended her, ever protected her. In battle, she was the shield that protected the Major and Peter and Maria and Charlotte… She’s always been the one on the frontline, the one that is expendable.

And she’s so very, very tired. She wants…

She wants…

She wants the Major.

She wants the Major who once beheaded a newborn for arguing with her on matters of battle strategy. Who brought her back a dress from a hunt in town one night, because they hadn’t found anything to fit her half-decently in months. She wants the Major, who always made sure there was paper for her to fold, waiting for her on the window ledge.

She wants the Major. He’d tear Derrick apart, slowly and painfully and not just because Mary-Alice was the Major’s property. It would be a lie not to acknowledge it. But because she was distressed. Because she wanted to feel safe. He’d let her light up the body as well, fold her against him and stroke her hair.

Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

Except… it doesn’t have to be.

She’s already wading out to the water before she can wrap her head around what she’s doing. There’s nothing she’s really leaving behind - the Major’s dog-tags are safe around her neck, the only thing in her quarters are a ragged dress, a book she cannot read, and dozens of folded animals and flowers. Nothing worth staying for.

Swimming isn’t something she’s ever done before, but she’s going to try. She’s going to try her goddamn hardest and maybe by the time she’s finished, the only thing she’ll smell on herself is sand and salt and sea.

—

Rosalie is less worried about the girl, and more irritated. “She needs to leave,” Rose says between gritted teeth as she paces in front of the window. “What does she want?”

“I don’t know,” Esme sighs. It’s been a debate since she told Rosalie about her. “She hasn’t tried to hunt, and she looks thirsty. She won’t speak to me… she looks so sad, Rosalie. I just want to help.”

“If she wants help, she has to ask for it,” Rosalie snapped and turned on her heal to march out the back door.

The girl looks at her curiously, but does not leave her perch.

“What do you want?” Rosalie half-yells, and the girl says nothing.

“If you aren’t going to talk to us like a human, you need to leave!” Rosalie insists. “We don’t want you here!”

The girl shrinks into herself, somehow getting smaller, her chin resting on her knees. But she doesn’t budge.

“Rosalie,” Esme sighs but Rosalie already regrets her words, at the way the stranger seemed to shrink away.

//

It’s not an easy escape.

But it was never destined to be.

She is awkward in the water, but fast, keeping as deep as she can because she’s scared she will be caught out by someone. Not just Maria, but Valeria’s people or Emile’s. The fear is like a live-wire in her head, on her skin. It’s all she’s known for days.

The visions hit her lazily. Maria had assumed that Derrick had destroyed her after his assault, and he had been executed without ceremony - he was too dangerous to keep, in a myriad of ways. She was assumed to be dead, but despite two nights of searches, no one had found evidence of a pyre.

That should be a comfort.

Emile is prowling further up the coastline and that is powerfully inconvenient - she wanted to leave the water as close to Alabama as possible. Instead, she’ll go as far as Florida - no matter how good and terrible and vicious Emile is, even if he ever managed to claim Georgia, Florida is a land unto itself.

If Florida ever falls, the South is lost.

Valeria is still hovering around California and that’s good, even if Valeria puts Mary-Alice’s teeth on edge; the woman makes her feel like a trigger about to be pulled. And she hates that. She hates things she can not tease apart and understand - that’s the only reason she got that far in this life, after all.

She swims with panicked urgency, as if she can outrun all the horrors she has left behind. And maybe being so deep in the water, having the grim and blood washed off her, should feel like some kind of baptism. But instead, it feels heavy, it feels dangerous, it feels like something she wants to be rid of immediately.

But the feeling doesn’t ebb when she finally makes it to Florida in the dead of night. She’s shaking for some reason, and her hair and dress feel horrible against her skin and she doesn’t feel better at all. She still feels like a rabbit in the underbrush, trying to dark and scurry to safety.

But her safety is not easy coming. Is anywhere safe?

What will the Major say or do when he sees her?

What if… what if he tells her she’s being silly? A bad soldier. That she was wrong to leave Maria over something so petty. She could have destroyed the newborn herself.

She can’t stop shaking.

It takes another day to get a clear vision of the Major, she’s too jumbled up to focus enough. She’s tucked herself up on the underside of a bridge, her knees tight to her chest as she waits and she finds herself rocking. There is no calm to be found, not in a million different stimulants, in the scent of people and the sounds and the pounding fear in her head. She’s thirsty again but she doesn’t want to hunt. Doesn’t want to leave her ledge. Just wants someone to turn the word right-side-up again.

After hours of waiting, she finally has her vision. He’s in Wisconsin. With the Cullens. In a house with a blue door, surrounded by trees. He’s laughing in the vision, with the Cullen men. He’s clean and he’s more relaxed than she’s ever seen him.

Wisconsin. It’s further than she’s ever run in her whole life, and she’s not entirely sure how to get there, but she’ll figure it out.

She leaves Florida as soon as it gets dark.

—

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas Day 9: Mermaid AU

Today's offering is a mostly-retired version of a mermaid AU. Retired because it felt a little paint by numbers, and I kind of think a modern mermaid AU might be more dynamic.

As we hit the end of Ficmas, is there anything anyone is *dying* for that I can bump to the top of the list?

Blood stains bloom in the sand as she limps up the beach, dragging the rough cloth around her – the fabric is stiff with salt, and it burns into her cuts, but there is nothing else to protect her modesty. Not here, at least.

The pier hasn’t been used in decades, half-rotten and forgotten on this stretch of beach. A good hiding place.

She remembers when sanctuary meant something more than half-rotten cloth and a dark place to hide.

Little gasps escape her lips - her legs and feet are slashed to ribbons, and the pain radiates hot and agonizing throughout her body. She is exhausted and starving, but she made it. She is safe. For now.

Finally.

The sky and sea are churning, grey and angry, and there is something reassuring about the rage that precedes a storm.

--

“You know, not matter how hard you scowl, it isn’t going to change anything?”

Jasper looked up from where he was staring out to sea – goddamn sea – and looked up to find his cousin smirking at him in, quite frankly, an unladylike way.

Rosalie looked ready for high tea somewhere, not clumping around an old ship – her blonde hair pinned up, delicate jewels hanging from her ears and throat, her dress a soft pink beacon surrounded by muddy blue water, brown wood, and the dark wool of everyone else on board.

“Shouldn’t you be sewing or gossiping below deck?” Jasper asked archly, and Rosalie scowled – the twin of the one on Jasper’s face a mere moment before.

“Utterly hilarious, Jasper,” she sniffs. “It was far too stuffy and unpleasant below deck that I decided to get some fresh air.”

Jasper chuckled. “So, it had nothing to do with the fact that McCarty is working on deck this morning?”

He wasn’t imagining the soft pink tone in his cousin’s cheek as she haughtily looked away. “I have no idea where Emmett is this morning.”

“Oh, it’s Emmett now, is it?” He was enjoying himself. It had been so long since Rosalie had smiled, and joked around.

In truth, the voyage was worth it just to see Rosalie looking like herself again. A little sadder, a little sharper, but still essentially Rose. He would travel on a hundred ships to the corner of the universe, to put Rosalie back together again, so he figured a little teasing wouldn’t hurt too much.

The Hale-Whitlock escape from New York City was currently something of a scandal – mostly because it had been such a quiet season in the city. Within the space of three weeks, people had gone from carelessly debating the appropriateness of the new King residence on Park Avenue (gauche, very ‘new-money’) to whispering behind gloved hands about the Hale-Whitlock family. And whilst the rumours swirled higher and higher, Jasper couldn’t deny there was a great deal of truth to them.

There were lies circulating, too – he hadn’t been completely left out of the will when his parents died; no debtors had chased him from the country, and his two sisters had made good marriages long before he packed up his things and headed to his closest kin. Though it was true that neither of them had opened their houses to him, and he was fairly certain he was persona non grata in Texas at the moment.

It didn’t matter though - Aunt Lillian had welcomed him, delighted at the idea of her dashing nephew joining Rosalie in the social circuit, no matter the scandal that had sent him over the Mason-Dixon Line. Rosalie had taken some time to thaw to his presence in her home, as her chaperone and escort, but they were kindred spirits, as close as brother and sister. And New York had been good for him – something new, a challenge to conquer, a strange riddle to understand. Whitlock Ranch hadn’t exactly prepared him for Manhattan cocktail parties and box seats at the opera.

Of course, some days, he had felt like packing up Rosalie and taking her back to Texas. He had tried to talk to Vernon a few times, but the man had made it clear that he didn’t care a whit what Jasper had to say. After all, Rosalie was the flower of the family, the most beautiful and envied socialite, and Jasper was short of disgraced, the orphaned son of his sister-in-law. What could he possibly know?

If it hadn’t been for Rose, Jasper would have washed his hands of the whole mess and high-tailed it back to Texas the following day, no matter what was waiting for him. There had to be a way to protect Rose without drawing Vernon Hale’s ire.

Royce King was dangerous, moreso than his aunt and cousin could ever comprehend. There had to be a way out.

Before he worked it out, there had been the terrible accident.

And the worse aftermath.

Whatever their misfortunes, Jasper was eternally grateful the hideous emerald ring was gone from Rosalie’s hand. Whatever else fell apart, at least he could protect his cousin and make sure she was taken care of.

--

The letter had come in the spring, crumpled and stained, all the way from England. From an Esme Cullen, a name that had made Rosalie smile. The exceptionally polite missive offered sympathies for the loss of Lillian and Louisa, and their respective husbands. Esme had been school friends with both Lillian and Louisa, and was Rosalie’s godmother – though she hadn’t seen Rose since she was very young, when Esme had left for England to marry a doctor.

I understand how difficult it can be to be left utterly alone in your youth, and whilst you have each other, I would very much like to invite you into our home and our family for as long as you will have us.

The offer was unexpected at best. London. London. How far from Texas could he possibly get? And who was this woman, truly, opening her home to them for as long as they wished?

But Rosalie had still looked utterly haunted and miserable then, and Jasper had wondered aloud at the possibility of a London season, she had perked up some. And it wasn’t like his sisters had invited either of them into their marital homes, or any of Rose’s father’s family had reached out. It was London, or haunting the halls of Rosalie’s empty childhood home – he knew better now than t0 suggest they retreat back to Houston.

“London,” Rose said certainly. “It will be good for us, Jasper. Even if we only stay for a little while. We can see Paris and Berlin, too.”

For the first time in weeks, Rosalie put herself together and began to make plans. Jasper was sure he’d be bankrupt in a week, the amount of telegrams Rosalie sent to Mrs Cullen to plan their journey. Dr Cullen knew of a privately-owned ship leaving Boston for Europe, with a stop in Portugal and Spain, that had spaces for passengers and arranged for them to join it in New York.

And here they were, two days into their journey.

The ship was hardly the luxury liner he pictured Rosalie insisting upon. It was clearly a modest business venture, loaded with cargo. There were roughly a dozen very small rooms, half of which were reserved for the crew. The rooms themselves were basic – a narrow metal closet, a set of bolted-down bunk beds, a sink and a bolted down desk and chair. Most of their luggage was strapped down with the rest of the cargo, though Rosalie had taken the time to unpack her things for the journey and settle in.

The other travellers were an older eccentric named Alistair, who had shut himself into his berth every morning after breakfast, emerging at dinner. He was erratic, haunted and reeked of stale liquor; and an Irish trio – Liam and Siobhan, who were travelling with Siobhan’s cousin, Maggie. Maggie was younger than Rosalie, but both girls got along well, though Siobhan encouraged Maggie to stay close and not roam the ship like Rose.

The crew were a very nice group – the ship was owned and captained by Emmett McCarty and a man simply known as Garrett to all, who used it to run a respectable but modest shipping and transport business. Then there was Randall, Riley and Laurent – the crew – and Mary, the cook.

Jasper had asked about the smallness of the crew, and Garrett had mentioned a few other crew members who were remaining behind in the US for the next few months, as the ship fulfilled its European contracts and would re-join the ship when they returned to New York in the late summer before Emmett and Garrett shut the business down over the winter.

//

It had been an ordinary evening. He and Rosalie were in for the evening – Rosalie was recovering from a cold, and Aunt Lillian had declared the evening’s invitations inappropriate for people of their status. But Uncle Vernon had an invitation for him and Lillian to attend a dinner party at a colleague’s house, and they had gone.

No one knew why the car had burst into flames in such a way, or why Vernon and Lillian hadn’t been able to escape the burning vehicle. But they were dead, leaving Rosalie an orphan in one dreadful night.

The police had turned down Jasper’s offer to identify the body, since there was nothing identifiable about them – just the remains of Uncle Vernon’s cigarette lighter. The sight of which made Rosalie faint.

The funeral had been two days later, with Vernon’s family prominent at the event. Rosalie had looked small and young in her black lace, tucked into Jasper’s side.

And then there had been the will reading.

Rosalie had been left her belongings, some jewellery and modest assets, mostly art and ornaments and a small allowance. The money and property would have only been hers had she been married. Everything else had been left to Vernon’s brother Maxwell.

Maxwell, who had smiled victoriously across the table at them, and given them twenty-four hours to pack and get out of his house. The servants, the house, everything inside the house – it was all Maxwell’s. Rosalie could claim nothing but a modest allowance from the trust.

Jasper had stared at Rose’s pale face, and sneered at Maxwell, and bought the house for Rosalie. In both their names, so that Rosalie might never have her birthright stolen from her. He paid a ridiculous amount, though consoled himself that the artworks in the Hale house were worth more than conniving Maxwell realised.

And then Jasper realised Rose might be a Hale first, but she was also a Whitlock lady, and in his care. There was money from Grandfather Whitlock, for all his grandchildren, and goodly amount. Jasper had invested much of his in his horses and had a good return (he would trust no one but Peter with his horses during his absence). His oldest sister had spent hers on a London season. His other sister had used hers as a dowry.

But Rosalie’s was untouched, and forgotten.

It took little more than a day to pen all his letters, and arrange things. To dissolve Rosalie’s engagement – easy to do when Maxwell Hale’s inheritance was so well reported – and Royce had a new debutante on his arm within the week. To set up Rosalie a trust. To direct all Hale accounts to the office of Maxwell Hale. To sell and trade and secure.

//

The girl blinked owlishly back at him, worry and fear etched into her face.

She was beautiful. A black cloud of hair framed her face, and a rope-like braid was tossed over one shoulder. Enormous golden eyes stared out at him, from alabaster skin. She was huddled beneath a filthy piece of cloth,

//

Rosalie smirked at him as she presented Alice to him.

Her hair had been washed, cut and brushed, a loose tumble of curls over one shoulder. Her cheeks were tinted pink, and her dress was soft blue-grey, that made her eyes even brighter. A choker of pearls wrapped around her throat, and she wore tiny dancing slippers.

“I managed to cobble together a wardrobe for her,” Rosalie said and Alice shyly smiled.

//

Jasper gasped.

Alice perched on the rocks, looking sad. Grey-blue scales were forming on her legs as the water washed over them, slowing pulling them together and covering them in swirling patterns, delicate fins that were almost transparent forming at the ends. Her hair hung wetly against her face, and the dress seemed to have dissolved into sand across her torso, her hair providing a small amount of modesty.

Mermaid.

Thin scars rested on her neck, and as he watched, they deepened and gills. They were actual gills. He wanted to be sick.

She reached out to touch his cheek.

“I am sorry. I never meant for harm to come to anyone when I ran.” In his head, her voice was sweet, like bells, and full of such sorrow. “I know not who perished, but your cousin and her paramour are quite safe. You should be found here within the day.” She looked at the ugly wound on his leg. “I can wait with you until they arrive, if you would like me to.”

“Please. Stay,” he croaked, his mouth dry. She offered a small and adorable smile, sliding off the rocks and into the water, reappearing seconds later at his side, resting on her arms.

Jasper knew that he had a head wound, an angry wound on his leg, had nearly drowned, and various other cuts and bruises, making him somewhat delirious. But the sight of sweet Alice, her black hair shiny with water, her pale skin almost glimmering, and the swell of her breasts above the water was just the sort of image he wanted to carve into his memory forever.

Her story was terrible. An orphan delivered into the care of an uncle who, when the ship went down, prayed to the old gods to take his niece in his place. And they had snapped her up and cursed her, turned her into a mermaid, whilst her uncle had been found and saved, and lived out his life.

The shoal of mermaids she had taken up with traded with a few of the older boats and fishermen – they knew of the mermaids, of the old legends, and were always pleased to see the girls. Most of them were good men, respectful of the girls and of the ancient magic and laws they represented. But there were the younger men who weren’t. Who looked upon the girls with greedy desire, as animals to be captured and imprisoned; they ignored the warnings from the older men, who knew that the ocean would not be pleased at the loss of one of its daughters, especially in such a cruel way.

One of those men was James.

James, from his first glance of Alice, had planned to take her for himself – if not as a lover or child bride, then as a trophy. It had been almost ten years and Alicia had tried to escape James, had left behind everyone she knew to hide from him, but still he came after her.

“He nearly caught me in Barbados,” she told him through their minds, the images flashing in his mind, of tiny Alice with a tall, thin blonde girl sprawled on the beach, watching the scales pale and dull and peel off their bare legs. “Irina and I. Irina was looking for the one she fell in love with, and I was running, so we went together.

“A fishing boat came close, and we thought it might be Marcus. A good man, gives us news and helps us out. His own wife was cursed a long time ago, and he spends his days searching for Didyme,” Alice continued. “In return, we tell him whatever we can; we are fairly certain she was caught in her early days, but Marcus won’t stop. Not until he has drained the sea and named us all. He loves her so much.

“I drew the short straw and swum out to see Marcus. He was kind, warned me James was close. And that he’d found Irina’s sailor – he kept a home in Brighton, she should go to him there.

“We talked too long. He liked our stories, liked to tell us about Didyme, before she was cursed. It was late afternoon by the time I went back to the beach.

“Irina was there, but James was there too. He knew all our tricks, all our magic,” she shuddered. “He’d bound her and raped her and cut her throat. It… it doesn’t kill us like humans. It silences us and it is the most terrible pain, but we do not die. She couldn’t even scream for help… Afterwards, he wet her legs down and cut her scales from her, right to the bone. Cut her braid from her head. That’s what killed her, cutting the scales away. She bled out, slowly.”

She was crying now, white cloudy liquid that spilt down her cheeks and left flecks of salt behind. “And I couldn’t do anything but hide in the caves and wait til he’d gone.”

Jasper wanted to hold her, to sooth her.

“I took her necklace, though, and decided to take it to the sailor and let him know she had been murdered. Perhaps he could stop James in Irina’s name. So, I went to Brighton. It took me a few days to make such a trip - and made me ill, going from warm, to so cold – but I made it. The sailor’s place was remote, an old boatshed you could swim up to through the floor. So I did.

“And he sat there, with James. James plunked down a chunk of Irina and her lovely pink and grey scales and the sailor paid him. And he knew they were Irina’s, knew and still paid the monster for them. He used them in jewellery, in medicine, in magic - they were valuable. The brighter, the better. Our hair is stronger than rope, and he took that too. He never loved Irina at all.

“I followed James when he left, and he had another girl, another mermaid he’d caught. Victoria, he called her. Victory, his first live catch. She had curly red hair and a vicious temper, and he had her chained in iron, so she could never retreat back to the water, and it was slowly poisoning her. She was nothing but a toy for his pleasure. Their babies were born dead, and he’d burn the little corpses. When they ran out of money, he’d wet down her legs and rip her scales out clean. I watched for a long time – he’d had her ten years, since she was cursed, stuck in a shack in the middle of nowhere, but close enough so she could hear the ocean. The iron bracelets around her wrists were melted into the skin.”

She shuddered. “There was nothing I could do. She could never go back into the water again, not with the iron melted into her skin, and she was too weak to run as a human girl. The iron’s poison had left her mostly blind. I couldn’t do anything. I had to leave her there.”

//

The aid ship arrived in the earliest morning hours. Jasper had finally convinced Alice to return with him, and she had finally climbed out of the water, scooping up handfuls of sand and rubbing it over her torso. As her scales dried and fell away, revealing her pale legs, the sand too dried, and began to weft together until she was wearing a very thin, ragged dress.

“That’s a good trick,” Jasper managed as Alice knelt beside him.

“At heart, I am rather modest,” Alice said, peeling off the cloth to examine his leg. “I could use it to wrap your leg properly, but if it becomes wet again, your wound would fill with sand.”

Jasper winced at the prospect of pain. “I’d rather not test that out.”

Alice giggled. “Understood.”

When the aid ship arrived, Rosalie was white with fear for Jasper, and mortified at his wounds. Alice quickly wove a story about Jasper protecting her at his own cost, to explain her own lack of serious injury. Riley and Mary had perished, Randall hadn’t been found, and both Garrett and Maggie were injured, but everyone else was okay.

By the time they arrived in Dover, they were all glad to be done with the journey. The aid ship had taken them to the Spanish port of A Coruña, where Emmett and Garrett’s ship was waiting for repairs. The bodies of Riley and Mary were buried there – neither had significant family. They had stayed in Spain for a week, where Garrett, Maggie, and Jasper were seen by doctors, and new supplies were gathered.

The sight of Dover was one they were all grateful for. Emmett had rented a smaller ship to take their surviving cargo, Alice, Rosalie, Jasper, and Alistair on to England, whilst Garrett was waiting for repairs of their ship, and Maggie healed enough for Siobhan and Liam to continue on their journey.

Rosalie had occupied herself by fashioning Alice a second wardrobe, and teaching the girl to sew, looking a lot more solemn than she had before the storm. By the time they reached Dover, Alice looked like any other young lady travelling.

//

When James finally comes for her, she is unprepared. They are within days of leaving for America again – Jasper has come to an agreement with Esme and Carlisle to build them a house on Cullen land, bring his beloved horses from Texas, and breed and train horses. Alice knows that Emmett has already approached Carlisle and Esme, asking if he and Rosalie could remain in the cottage once they are married, so he might save for a respectable home for her, though he has yet to ask Jasper’s permission or choose a ring.

Packing the cases, Alice hummed as she worked, making sure they had everything. They would arrive in very early spring, and leave in early summer, to avoid the terrible heat. Emmett had agreed to take them, drumming up some extra, early shipments to put towards his future.

“Hello Alice.”

Whirling around with a shriek, Alice stared wide-eyed at the man in the bedroom doorway.

James.

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas Day 6: Infidelity Jalice

Oh boy, I'm bringing out the big guns. Why did I write this? Probably to make myself cry. And as with most things I write, if I broke it, it was only to fix it later.

I honestly have my doubts that I'll ever attempt to finish this - I have another fic that explores similar themes in a Human AU that I would prefer to spend the time on, so I figure I'll put this out into the world and we can all enjoy a good cathartic cry ;)

It’s not a secret. It’s just never mentioned.

After all, Jasper is an empath - drawn to positive emotions, to the feedback. He was half-feral for sixty years. It shouldn’t have surprised her.

The cycle is the same every time - he falls, he repents, he is counselled by Carlisle, she forgives, and they are at peace for a brief time.

She’s noticed he’s been getting less regretful, more defensive; attempts to seduce her or distract her from his sins. She has nine cocktail rings, one for each failure, and she keeps them lined up in her jewellery chest, unworn.

When she finds him with Bella, she wonders what it will be this time - what stone will become Bella? She’s got a ruby for Maria, a yellow diamond for Charlotte and Peter, a black diamond for the girl from Vermont, a sapphire for Kate and an emerald for Irina; an opal for that girl in Wisconsin; a pearl for that girl from Minnesota, a pink diamond for Tanya, and an aquamarine for the girl in Maine. All huge and ostentatious and each of them a broken promise.

She stares at them in the middle of her bed, on her sheets, in her room. Bella is angling her body away, and Jasper is looking at her with an odd expression. Maybe it’s because normally she’s upset, crying. This time she’s just numb, knowing she’s going to burn every piece of furniture in this room.

She looks at the both of them, locked into an embrace, and she knows that Bella will be her wedding rings being added to that drawer in jewellery chest. She’s got no heart left to break, no further to fall. She’s got nothing left.

And she turns around and walks out, pulling the door closed behind her. She walks downstairs, and sits down in front of the television, where Emmett is playing some video game. He looks at her.

“You okay?” he asks, looking concerned.

“I’m fine.” She’s numb. There’s just being now, no feelings.

“O-kay,” Emmett put his game on pause. “Where’s Jasper?”

“Fucking Bella in my bed.”

The game controller is crushed in Emmett’s hand, and he looks angry on her behalf.

“Can we watch a movie?” she asks, pulling her knees to her chest.

“Sure. You want me to…?” Emmett motions upstairs.

“Nope.”

“Okay.”

Emmett cues up half a dozen movies that are most certainly not romantic, and she stares in the general direction of the television. At some point, she mechanically pulls out her phone and begins to tap away at it; she feels like she’s watching herself.

Bella and Jasper come downstairs about forty minutes after she walks in on them, and Emmett actively growls at the pair.

“Go home Bella,” Emmett sounds threatening, and Jasper hisses back and Alice just keeps tapping at her phone. Her plans are taking shape, like she’s possessed.

“Stay out of this, Emmett,” Jasper says through gritted teeth, and Alice feels tired.

“Are you kidding?” Emmett gestures at her. “You think anyone is going to take your side in this?”

She tunes them out and she doesn’t know what’s arranged, but Jasper and Emmett both leave with Bella, so she unfolds herself from the couch and heads up to her room… well, her old room. The smell in it makes her want to gag or cry or feel anything.

It takes her only a few moments to have one of her suitcases packed and tucked away. Then she picks up her laptop and goes downstairs to the dining room. Her fingers flutter over the keys as she puts all the pieces in order.

She doesn’t speak to Jasper that night. Instead, she goes to Carlisle in his study, who looks very sad. She still doesn’t care about anything. She academically knows she has to hunt soon but the burn seems unimportant.

“I’ve sent you an email with all the arrangements and information,” she begins stiffly. “I’ve taken care of everything I can think of, the cover story will work. I’ll maintain the stock account, that’s not an issue. I’ll be maintaining my secure email account and my phone, so you won’t have any problems keeping in touch.”

“And how long…?”

“We’ll start with a year,” Alice says. “I’ll let you know any decisions I make.”

“We’ll miss you,” Carlisle reaches out. “I can speak with him.”

“That’s not necessary,” Alice shook her head. “We all make choices. Sometimes actions speak louder than words.”

//

The official plan is that’s she going to Paris. Forks High is informed that she’s transferred to a boarding school in France. Carlisle thinks she’s taking up residence in a French farmhouse he’s owned since the 1870s.

Instead, she gets to Paris and then catches her unmentioned connecting flight. There’s a house in rural Japan waiting for her. Remote, out of the reach - and temptation - of Volterra, and no one knows where she is. It feels like a steadying breath, that she can be alone and let the pain seep in.

Esme is horrified when Carlisle informs the family that Alice has gone to Paris. She’s taken care of finances, transferring half of her last year’s earnings into new accounts to prevent her family watching her. Before she left, Alice had stripped her bedroom down - the bed frame had been dismantled and placed in the basement, her closet had been cleared out and sent to the family’s climate-controlled storage facility in New York. A few boxes of her things have been added to the basement, and a bag of bed linen, pillows, quilts had been dumped in the trash.

//

The words feel like they’re echoing in his head, that they are a neon sign lit up over him, letting everyone know who he truly was.

That when all was said and done, Alice wouldn’t have chosen the life they had shared if she’d known it all.

“I tried so hard, and you just kept… breaking my heart over and over again. If I’d known that this… this cycle of misery and unhappiness and resentment was all that lay in our future together, I would have… I would have made different choices. For both of us.”

His stomach twists, and maybe this is what feeling sick is. Everything is imprinted flawlessly on his memory; the ice-coldness of her emotions, the grief and anger and frustration staining him; the way she turned away from him, her arms crossed over her chest, looking up at him with such sadness on her face. She would have been crying if they were able. The look in her eyes, the one that said she meant every word that she was saying and he couldn’t bring himself to ask her, to demand she explain what ‘choices’ she would have changed. Would she have still found him? Brought him to the Cullens? Loved him?

He’s always been a fuck-up, a disaster, a god-damn monster. A leech in more ways than one. A fucking Confederate soldier, a southern-warlord, an adulterous husband, a junkie looking for his next fix of emotion. And he’d convinced himself that he’d made good, pieced himself back together in a way that was good and decent, that no one could be entirely without flaws, completely ignoring that fact that every pretty girl he’d lured into his arms was just another testimony to the fact he’d never really changed. And that, despite everything he paid lip service too, he’d treated Alice like she wasn’t precious to him, wasn’t the very vital centre of his universe. No, those days were behind them. He’d treated her like she was his parole officer, had preyed on her most private fears and insecurities, and splayed every dysfunctional piece of them out for others to gawk at and pity her for.

How many years had it been since she allowed him to strip her bare when he took her to bed? To linger over her body? No, in the most recent encounters he could think of, with shame colouring every moment, she had stayed mostly clothed and had focused her attentions on pleasing him, on satisfying him. An act of sheer desperation, that she could somehow fix something that wasn’t even her responsibility to repair.

He thinks about everything Alice had been juggling to try and make him happy - pushing the right cocktail of emotions as she moved over his body; painting the right picture in both his mind and in the moment, so that no one could ask too many questions; being dutiful and pretty and compliant and willing, and appearing to be without a care or hurt or worry in the world.

About her infinite forgiveness and compassion when he did come to her for her absolution for another transgression; forgiveness she doled out so easily for hurts that had quietly settled and made a home in her bones and heart and mind. He wonders how many times she went to Esme or Carlisle for confidences, but he also knows that she didn’t; she wouldn’t - she’d always made it clear that their marriage was their private matter, and not one she wished to draw other people into. It had been him who had sought out Carlisle for counsel.

She had paid careful attention every time, to his chosen partners; to his face, she had always carelessly dismissed the other party with the air that she was only worried about him, but he knew in his heart she had noticed, had carefully observed and noted who caught his eye and held herself up against that choice. That’s why she stopped slipping out of her clothing when he had her, preferring to draw him into something hard and fast rather than bare herself to him and find him wanting. And he’ll be the first to admit it, that the girls he chases after are ones with long hair that falls over their breasts, with curves that he molded his hands over. Girls that might have to stand on their toes to kiss him, that are easy to reach for. Girls that she could never be, no matter what she did.

She’s gone again now, and he knows she won’t answer his calls or his messages. She’s made that clear. He doesn’t blame her, not a bit. And what does he even say? ‘Sorry’ is just hollow, a meaningless platitude that is insulting to both of them. Perhaps ‘I regret everything’? It’s closer, but it does nothing to repair all those regrets, everything that has been done. He doesn’t know the words, that’s the truth.

That’s how Esme and Rose find him, sitting on the porch with his head in his hands, and his mind playing every single hideous, heart-breaking moment of Alice’s grief in perfect, immortal clarity.

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas Day 12: Human Alice/Vampire Jess AU

The counterpart to Jess's story is Alice's story because I haven't written anything for the girls' this month that I'm particularly happy with <3

But god, I love a good human/vampire fic <3

TW: Domestic Violence; Homophobia.

Before lunch time, Cynthia had already integrated herself into the popular clique of the sophomore class; I passed her chatting away at a million miles per hour, tossing her hair and genuinely being her very best self - though I was still absolutely furious she’d borrowed my necklace.

The junior class were polite to me, but no one really attached themselves to me like Cynthia. That was probably my fault, truly - I should have played it safe and worn jeans and a sweater and smiled nicely and then gone full Alice-Brandon on them. But Anne-Marie had irritated me this morning, and this skirt always made me smile.

I had made it myself in sophomore year - three-tiers of black mesh with a wired hem, making it stiff and stand out from my body. For modesty, I’d worn a black pencil skirt and tights underneath it, and then combined it with a vintage puffed-sleeve sweater in grey that was fitted at the waist and gave me the illusion of having a decent bust-line. I’d added sequins to the shoulders and neckline, and added black arm-warmers so that I didn’t freeze to death. And my boots - rubber ankle-high ones, with a block heel and square toe - was the crown jewel in the outfit; definitely one to post to my social media, but stood out like a beacon in Forks High.

I slipped into the cafeteria to snag something to eat, and took a seat at the end of one table, content to sketch out new ideas whilst I ate - before we’d left Biloxi, I’d scavenged two ancient prom dresses, a hideous but high quality red wool coat, and a pair of black satin bell-bottoms that I already had big plans to recut. I’d spied a thrift store on our drive through Forks the previous day that looked like it had potential but I was saving that for Saturday morning - even the worst thrift shops were bountiful sources of wool, and there was always eBay.

I looked up from my sketchbook as a chair across from me dragged across the lino.

The next table was now occupied with the most uncanny looking people I had ever seen - they had to all be related. I stared at them blankly for a moment - a redheaded boy, a dark-haired boy, and two of the most striking blonde girls I had ever laid my eyes on. One was astoundingly lovely, as if someone had sculpted her to represent feminine beauty (to a white, Euro-centric standard). It was hard to imagine how she hadn’t been headhunted as a model, even in dismal little Forks. And she was wearing a designer sweater I’d been eyeballing online for the last week, despite its total impracticality for Forks weather, and its outrageous price tag.

And the other girl…

She was beautiful too, just in a different way. Her blonde hair was darker, and twisted into a messy knot at the back of her head, some of it falling into her face. Her eyes were a dark yet odd shade of gold, and she looked totally humourless; I could see an angry scar on the left side of her neck; just a knot of rough, torn skin. She was tall and slender, and somehow made some well-worn jeans, combat boots, and a loose sweatshirt look like it was tailored specifically for her.

And she was glaring at me, with a nearly murderous expression.

I turned back to my sketchbook, trying to resist the urge to redraw my models to match these girls - or at least, the angry one. Whilst the former girl looked untouchable and cold, the latter looked like she was crackling with life, that she was restraining herself somehow. And I liked that, when people’s energy and zest for life was barely contained in them. It was important to have that passion, that curiosity, that sheer joie de vivre.

By the time lunch was over, I had carefully shaded in a new top to go with the satin pants - black, with a deep V of intricate jet beading that would take the place of a necklace and puffy chiffon sleeves with velvet cuffs.

I slipped through the hallways quickly, towards my Biology class. I hated Biology with a fiery passion; it was messy and boring and your grade depended entirely on whether your lab partner would do the work and participate. There was no room for creativity in Biology, and if I had been able to take any other class, I would have.

“The older Miss Brandon, I presume,” the Biology teacher seemed to be a nice man, who smiled at me as I walked in, and handed me a textbook. “I had the pleasure of meeting your younger sister this morning. If you could take a seat next to Miss Hale, we can get started.”

I look up and immediately spotted the only unoccupied seat in the room - next to the girl from the cafeteria. She looked distastefully at me as I moved across the room. Hopping up on the stool, I turned and smiled brightly at her.

“I’m Alice Brandon,” I said.

“Jessamine Hale,” she grunted, turning to look out the window - clearly dismissing me.

—

I pretended not to notice Jessamine playing with the fringe of my skirt.

“Mom was half Korean, and Dad basically married her as part of a business deal,” I said, “My great-grandfather was managing director of a very profitable drink and snack distribution company in Korea and Taiwan, and my father’s company was in trouble. Mom was never informed that she was part of the deal, and thought they were in love. She shouldn’t have been surprised - my grandmother was married off to an American businessman for the same purpose.”

Jessamine frowned. “She found out?”

“After roughly fifteen years of marriage, she found out that Dad was having an affair with Anne-Marie,” I made a face at the mention of my stepmother. “She was… completely broken. She miscarried my little brother. But they stayed married for another couple of years - she was miserable.”

“Where is she now?” Jessamine looked at me, and I was struck by the gold of her eyes.

“Dead,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Dad told her that he didn’t need her any more, that Brandon Imports was independently profitable, and he wanted Anne-Marie. He moved out and she killed herself.”

Jessamine moved closer, her fingers lacing through mine. “I’m sorry,” her voice was soft and calming.

“Thanks,” I said, looking at my feet and letting my hair fall across my face as I composed myself. “It was… almost two years ago.”

“That’s not that long,” she replied.

“No. Feels like an age, living with Dad and Anne-Marie,” I sighed. “If I’d had anywhere else to go…”

“You wouldn’t be here then,” Jessamine said softly. She hadn’t pulled her hand away yet.

“No.” I looked up at her and was once again struck by how pretty she was.

—

I laughed at her, leaning back against the brick wall, and all of a sudden, Jessamine’s lips were against mine.

The girl kissed like she was going to war. Her hand slipped around to cradle my cheek, pulling me closer, her kiss hard and desperate. I gasped in surprise, and was struck still for a moment before I kissed her back, leaning into it.

It was then I heard the wolf-whistling and I pulled back out of embarrassment that we clearly had an audience.

“So hot,” said some guy I recognised from gym, and I spied more than one cellphone and a lot of whispering.

“Fuck off,” Jessamine snapped at the onlookers, and I shrunk back against her when I noticed Cynthia standing with her friends, and Cece didn’t look happy.

I looked back at her, and Jessamine looked furious, but her hand was still on my thigh. “I should probably go,” I stammered. “The bus…”

Jessamine looked at me carefully and then nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I nodded, scooped up my bag and moved across the carpark.

—

Cece stood in my doorway; her hair was down and she was already in her pyjamas.

“So, when are you going to tell them?” she asked, looking around. I missed the days Cece and I were close. Before Anne-Marie managed to wedge herself between us.

“Tell them what?” I asked absently, knotting the thread and stepping away from the dress. I’d made it out of a tweed mini dress with a badly-torn back, and a black dress coat. I couldn’t decide what to do with the sleeves.

“That you… you know,” Cece looked uncomfortable, “Like girls?”

I looked over my shoulder. “I don’t like girls,” I said shortly.

“Really?” Cece gave me a look.

“I like Jessamine,” I said, looking away from her. “And I have no plans of telling Dad or Anne-Marie anything.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “You should tell them, because they’ll find out,” she warned. “Everyone from school is talking about it.”

I hated that.

“Go do your homework,” I said.

I’d dated a little in middle school and up until we’d left Biloxi. Boys, exclusively, because neither of my parents were what you’d consider accepting. Mom had been raised a staunch ‘one man-one woman, no sex before marriage, church on Sunday’ Christian, and Dad was so focused on appearances that it was unspoken in our household.

And I was hardly a shining beacon in this household - if Dad thought I was in love with a girl, my life wasn’t worth shit.

—

My father hits me.

Actually, he punches me with a closed fist and pain explodes up the left side of my face as I tumble back onto the kitchen floor, the world spinning. Before I can catch my breath, my father grabs a fistful of my hair and half drags me before he stops and just kicks me, ranting and yelling.

His side of the family has always had anger issues. I remember my grandfather, a man who prided himself on his genteel manners and chivalry, once smash a decanter of whiskey over my uncle’s head because my grandfather took offence to a joke that my uncle told. I remember so much blood, and silence because no one was brave enough to call out grandfather, and then the ambulance came. And my grandfather got away with it because he was so prominent in society, so well liked. My uncle had recovered but he’d never been the same - so quiet and twitchy about people walking behind him. Grandfather always mused that he’d finally taught his son a lesson that he remembered, as if the entire thing wasn’t a terrible, nightmarish situation.

I can’t make out what my father is saying, as he stomps down hard on my leg and I scream - which just makes my father hurt me worse for making too much noise, blows landing on my face and head.

“Daddy! Stop!” I can hear Cynthia, and I want to ask her if it was worth it. If telling him about Jess and I was worth this.

—

I get myself two blocks away, to Main Street, where the good bus stop is - with the awning. I’m cold and my head is hurting badly; I’m wearing a tank top, some pyjama shorts, an old hoodie, and a pair of socks. No phone, no shoes, no purse.

There was nowhere for me to go. If Dad found me on the porch or in the garage, he’d hurt me worse. Most businesses were closed for the night. I hadn’t made friends at school except for Jessamine.

Jessamine.

I knew, roughly, where the Cullens lived. It was out of town, but I could walk. I had nowhere else to be.

Sighing, I pulled my hood over my hair and started walking along the main road.

—

The Cullens lived about ten miles out of town, off the main road. An easy drive, if you had a car. But as a walk it was a long trip. Especially in socks, after a beating. My knees were skinned and stung, my ankle was tender, and I had worn though my socks after the first hour.

I had started to sing, to keep myself company as I limped along. My head ached; Dad had hit me pretty hard.

—

It was the mailbox that drew me out of my fugue. Black and brass, with ‘1102’ and ‘Cullen’ on the front. I could have cried with relief. Except the driveway was so long, and gravel. I was exhausted and in so pain.

Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the front door, barely able to keep myself standing upright.

The door swung open, and there was a woman there. She looked so gentle, in a lavender sweater and grey pants, her hair swept off her face.

“Is Jessie - Jessamine - here?” I asked in a wobbly voice.

The woman looked at me curiously. “Why don’t you come in, sweetheart?” she offered. “I’m Esme Cullen.”

I nodded, sniffling.

I didn’t realise how cold I was until I stepped inside. The house was warm and light, with art and photographs. I was trying not to cry and shiver and I hurt so much.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” Mrs Cullen said, guiding me into the living room. “Please sit down.”

—

I was floating again.

“Esme?” A man in a green sweater was standing over me; I was slumped on the couch. He was checking my pulse.

“She arrived here looking for Jessamine,” Esme said, looking worried. “I went to get her a glass of water, and when I came back she was unconscious.”

“Let’s get her upstairs,” the man said, scooping me up. “She’ll need some clean, dry clothes.”

I watched as I was swept upstairs to a fancy study, with a corner devoted to medical items, including an old-fashioned wood and leather examination table, which was where I was settled. He quickly removed my hoodie, frowning at the bruises on my neck and shoulder - they were old ones, and barely hurt anymore. He checked over my arms, legs, and torso before he grabbed a first aid kit.

Mrs Cullen returned with some folded clothing and a basin of warm water. And over the next hour, he and Mrs Cullen washed my bloodied, raw feet, and my poor skinned knees. Then there were gels and creams applied - probably antiseptic - and finally, reams of bandages.

“Poor little mite,” Mrs Cullen smoothed my hair back. “She couldn’t have walked from town, could she, Carlisle?”

Carlisle. As in Carlisle Cullen, Dr Cullen. That made sense.

“It’s possible,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t she go to the hospital or to the police?” Mrs Cullen looked distressed.

“She could be scared. She might have been threatened,” Dr Cullen sighed. “And she came here looking for Jessamine?”

“She asked for Jessamine specifically,” Esme said. “She called her ‘Jessie’.”

“So we’re working off the assumption this is the infamous Mary Alice Brandon?” Dr Cullen said with a teasing smile flashing on his face.

“I suspect so,” Mrs Cullen said. “I’ll make up the sofa in my studio for her, so she can get some rest. She will be okay?”

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas Day 7: Human Jess x Vampire Alice

The girls are back! Jessamine/Alice in the class human/vampire formula because I am a sucker for human/vampire.

I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season and staying safe!

Warning: Suggestive Situations.

Back home, everyone knew the Whitlock girls. Five tall, blonde daughters that looked the very picture of their father. No one could mistake them for anything but Whitlocks.

The family joke was that the only way to tell the girls apart was their eyes - Ava, Lydia, and Hettie all had the brown eyes of their father, whilst Jessamine and Flo had been blessed with their mother’s sharp green eyes.

It was why Will Whitlock had struggled to look his two daughters in the eye afterwards. It had been too hard; he saw so much of Meg in them both that it had just ached, especially in the early days.

He hated himself for it now; Jess had noticed his distance, had noticed him comforting Ava and Lydia, snuggling with Hettie, and leaving herself and Flo in the cold. She’d immediately taken over fussing around Flo, making sure her little sister felt loved and supported after losing their mom. And it had built a wall between Jess and Will that now seemed impossible to break through. He’d tried to talk and apologise, had rallied extended family to make things easier on the girls, but Jess had settled into a new normal - mostly silent and moody, rarely letting anyone into her thoughts. Ava claimed that Jess was okay, she was just dealing with everything, but he wasn’t sure.

It wasn’t like none of them were unchanged by Meg’s passing. Ava had slid into the care-taker role, and Lydia had become prone to tantrums and bullying her sisters. Flo was a lot quieter and was becoming forgetful, whilst Hettie had become clingy and was more prone to dissolving into tears. And Jess had just become a gloomy shadow. All completely normal, apparently.

But he still felt like a failure.

It was late. He looked up in the rear-view mirror. The trip had taken nearly five days, to drive from Houston up to the tiny town near Seattle. None of the girls had been impressed they were driving, but it had been the most cost effective way to get across the country with the truck. Hell, the new truck was a gift from his parents when the old one blew up two weeks before they left. The backseat was meant to fit four, but it had been a squeeze, especially with how tall Jess was. The three youngest were asleep, as was Ava in the passenger seat, but Jess was still reading with her book-light.

“You doing okay back there, Jess?” he asked. They were only an hour or so outside of Forks now.

“Mm-hmm,” Jess said, without looking up.

—

Meg’s medical bills had financially crippled them. It was a fact. He’d been forced to sell the ranch to his brothers to cover the cost, and that was after selling every single thing he had at his disposal. Both Ava and Jess’s college funds had been severely depleted - something else the girls had never mentioned to him, and he hated himself for. By the time that the bulk of the bills had been paid, and he was looking at the wreckage of his life, they had one asset left - a house Meg had cosigned for her godmother. The woman had signed the house over to Meg entirely when she’d moved into a home, and it was just sitting there.

There was low cost of living in Forks, and abundance of hands-on jobs he was more than happy to take on. It had been a silly idea at first, but then slowly solidified when he realised that he didn’t want to live in his parents’ home, run around on the ranch that wasn’t his anymore. Watch his brother’s family move into Meg’s house.

The excuse he put forth was to spend a year up in the Pacific Northwest getting the old house up to snuff before selling it. A year of somewhere new for them all. His family - his and Meg’s - had loudly protested dragging the girls across the country but had finally agreed.

He had no intentions of it being a single year. Maybe a few. Enough to feel like he could breathe again, and that his kids could be kids again - even if Ava and Jess would be off at college soon.

He already had a job lined up on a farm outside town. Meg’s life insurance would pay out in the next month or two, and they’d be fine. Wasn’t like they’d ever been rich.

The house was tall and green, with ferns surrounding it. It had clearly been empty for awhile and didn’t look inviting. But it was now home.

There were only technically four bedrooms, but Will spontaneously decided to turn the den into Hettie and Flo’s bedroom to save them all from a Lydia tantrum if she were to be forced to share with Jess. Arrival became a dash to get everyone into bed as fast as possible - even if bed was just a sleeping bag until the moving truck arrived the next day. Hettie was scared of the new house, and of the wooden paneling in her new ‘room’ and it took him nearly forty minutes to get her to calm down and fall asleep, whilst Flo complained about how uncomfortable the floor was, Lydia’s bag had a jammed zipper, and Ava’s window screen was banging in the wind. When Will finally got to look in on Jess, she was curled up asleep in a corner of her small bedroom (he immediately felt guilty; that should have been Lydia’s room by dint of Jess being older).

—

Lydia’s bad mood had been rumbling all night.

“Why can’t we just say it?” Lydia sneered, pushing her food around her plate. “Mom knew it, why can’t we?”

“Know what?” Will asked, confiscating the dinner rolls from Hettie.

“That Jess is a dyke.” Lydia looked up, her face defiant, full-well knowing what she was saying and doing.

The scrape of knives and forks across plates was more of a screech as everyone froze.

“LYDIA.” Ava was gaping at her sister.

“Your room now,” Will said sternly. “Get up there, and I’ll be up in a minute.”

“I’m eating,” Lydia snapped back.

“You’re done,” Ava said coldly, reaching over to take Lydia’s plate away from her.

“Your room, now, Lydia,” Will said, standing up. “Be prepared to apologise to your sister, as well.”

Jess was already gone, and Flo was looking at the stairs and Hettie was tearing up.

—

One thing about taking the smallest bedroom in the house was that it had a lock on the door; one that still held decently. And the dark blue walls were better than the wood paneling or old-lady wallpaper the rest of the bedrooms had.

Pulling her headphones on, Jess closed her eyes and willed herself not to… not to cry. Just not to feel.

She’d grown up in fucking Texas. Being called names, being the butt of a million jokes, it wasn’t new. Lydia was trying to pick a fight, it shouldn’t have rattled her this much.

If her mom had known, Jess hadn’t told her. Jess had loved her mom, but it wasn’t… she wasn’t…

It was the idea that it was such an insult to her family, to her father.

It was the idea that maybe Alice Cullen, who was so damn beautiful and sweet and made Jess want something she couldn’t have, could think the same thing, could be as disgusted as her family, that made her stomach curdle.

It was the fact that just mentioning Alice Cullen as a classmate and potential friend had made her so fucking obvious that Lydia had seen weakness.

Her phone buzzed and she sighed, picking it up.

AVA 07:37PM: F & H are outside your door. You need to let them in before there’s a meltdown.

AVA 07:37PM: Tell me u aren’t ignoring them. That’s beneath you.

JESS 07:38PM: wearing headphones i’ll get them.

Rolling off her bed, Jess shedded the headphones, and walked to the door to find Flo and Hettie standing there with hopeful looks on their faces, clutching a plate with a brownie on it.

“We brought you dessert,” Flo said, and that made Jess smile, and reach out to smooth her sister’s hair.

“Thank you,” Jess said, as Hettie wrapped her arms around Jess’s waist.

“Why was Lydia being so mean to you?” Hettie asked, her eyes still watery.

“She’s just angry about Mom,” Jess said, motioning for the girls to come into her room, and both girls made a dive for the bed.

“Momma’s gone,” Hettie said, burrowing into the duvet.

“Lydia’s mad that Mom didn’t get well again, and she’s hurting, so she trying to make everyone hurt,” Jess said, putting the brownie on her desk. “Dad’ll take her to a special head doctor soon to help.”

—

Kissing Alice Cullen was like coming back to life.

God, fuck, damnit.

Her entire plan relied upon the fact that Alice was straight. Or not attracted to her. But if this was mutual, it was all over.

And as Alice pressed closer to her, one hand on Jess’s shoulder, it was beginning to feel very mutual. And like an opportunity that she didn’t want to give up.

Deepening the kiss, Jess found herself pushing Alice back into the pillows, cradling her face as she half rolled on top of the smaller girl, only pulling away in shock as Alice slid one thin knee between Jess’s legs. Alice smirked at her and pulled her back into another kiss.

Alice wasn’t Jess’s first kiss, wouldn’t be Jess’s first anything. She’d gone to concerts and clubs with her friends back in Houston, and there’d been a short period when her mom was sick where it had been good and fun to slip away into a crowd and find some pretty girl who was happy for Jess to test out new feelings and urges. She’d stumble home after midnight, never tell anyone anything, and never see the girl again. Easy.

But this was the first time that there had been feelings involved, and that made it feel new. Strange. Wonderful but very fragile.

Alice was pawing at her t-shirt now, and it seemed natural to pull away long enough to take it off and toss it away. When she looked back, Alice was positively staring, her eyes so dark, as one hand came up to touch the edge of her very plain purple bra.

“You are so damn gorgeous, Jessie,” Alice breathed, pulling Jess down into another kiss; and this time, Alice was grinding against her knee. Everything felt like it was going so fast, Jess’s own hands falling to the buttons on the front of Alice’s dress.

The girl was so thin, but perfectly formed, and gorgeous. And Jess’s mouth went dry as she saw the sheer white bandeau Alice was wearing as a bra; it hid nothing and implied everything and she was sure she whimpered when she saw it.

The next few moments were simply long, deep kisses, and hands sliding over exposed flesh, and it was like being drunk. It was perfect. Somehow, Jess’s jeans were unbuttoned, and Alice’s bandeau vanished and Jess wanted to live in this moment forever - especially when she gave in to every urge, and started grinding down on Alice’s thigh.

And then the bedroom door opened.

The one time Will didn’t knock before he walked in. Jess would murder her father later. Maybe they were getting too loud? In her mind, the heavy breathing and murmuring and gasping had felt loud.

For a moment, she thought that her father was going to have a stroke. He’d gone white at the sight of his daughter and her friend topless on her bed.

“Christ!” Will backed out of the room and slammed the door and left Jess feeling like she’d just been doused in ice water, and she pulled away from Alice to lean against the wall, feeling like a hunted animal.

Alice somehow had Jess’s t-shirt in hand, and had buttoned up her dress as she sat next to her.

“I’m sorry,” Alice said softly. “I didn’t come here intending for that to happen. Are you okay?”

Jess hook her head, pulling her t-shirt on. “He knows now,” she said, half to herself, and she heard her phone buzz.

AVA 05:29pm: Daddy’s got the whiskey out; he’s calling Gran and Aunt M. What did you do?

AVA 05:30pm: jfc jess

AVA 05:31pm: full on conference call now - Gramma, Aunt D, and Aunt R are on the line

AVA 05:32pm: Aunt M can’t stop laughing that he shut the door and left u both upstairs in a bedroom.

AVA 05:32pm: Gramma is wailing about great grandkids now.

AVA 05:33pm: wait is she still up there with u? i wanna meet her

Jess groaned. She and Ava were close, but Ava could be a lot - she’d scold Jess for not being able to wait til she moved out to start dating, and welcome Alice into the family at the same time.

“My sister is about to walk in,” she tossed the phone aside. “She wants to meet you.”

Alice beamed. “I want to meet her,” Alice said, shifting on the bed. “Jess, are you okay?” Jess looked over at her. “That was just a lot. We went from 0-60, and then your father… I need to know you’re okay.”

Jess shrugged. “Ask me tomorrow? About the dad thing,” she said quickly. “You and me? I’m sorry we didn’t make it to 100.”

Alice laughed at that, a sweet, girlish laugh and that’s when Ava knocked and poked her head around the door.

“Daddy’s a disaster. He just told Lydia to order pizza for dinner,” Ava said, almost cheerfully. “Hi. You must be Alice. I’m Ava.”

“Nice to meet you, Ava,” Alice said, still curled up next to Jess. “I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

Ava bit her lip, and reached over to Jess’s desk lamp to pluck Alice’s bra off where it was haphazardly hanging. “Um, this is probably yours,” she said, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Oh, Jess can keep that as a trophy,” Alice winked, but took the garment.

—

Will sat down next to Jess, on her bed. “So,” he began, and Jess hunched over, making herself smaller, her hair falling forward to hide her face.

“I’m really sorry about earlier. You girls are getting older and I should have knocked,” he began. “I invaded your privacy, and I’m sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”

Jess nodded, still not looking up.

“And I don’t want you to worry. We all mess around and experiment when we’re young. It’s normal, and you’ll get it out of your system by the time you finish college,” Will continued, reaching out to put his arm around Jess, but Jess had already moved away, looking at him in horror.

“Out of my system?” Jess repeated faintly, and shook her head.

“Well, yeah. Remember when Ava went through her goth phase?” Will chuckled. “And you should hear some of the stories of what your mom and I got up to in college. With all the chaos of the last couple of years, it’s totally normal to…”

Jess shook her head and grabbed her phone off the table. “I can’t do this,” she said softly before she turned and walked out of her bedroom.

“Jess?” She could hear her father calling her, and she span around, suddenly angry. “Jess, calm down. Everyone agrees, you haven’t really dealt with your mom dying, and you’re at the age where…”

“This is why I never said anything,” Jess spat, glaring at her father. Ava and Lydia both poked their heads out of their bedrooms at the sound of the argument. “Everything in this goddamn family is by committee! I grew up with it, all the jokes about the women on the ranch and how inferior they were, about how everything I liked and wanted to do I couldn’t because I was a daughter instead of a son, about how finding me a husband would be impossible because I wasn’t like Ava!”

“Jess,” Will held his hands up in peace.

“I’m fucking gay, Dad,” Jess snapped. “It’s not a goddamn phase or something I’m going to grow out of. And I’m not staying here to listen to you try to cover it up, like it’s something to be ashamed of.”

Spinning on her heel, Jess hurried down the stairs and headed straight to the front door.

“Jessamine!” Will was standing at the top of the stairs, and she could see Hettie and Flo on the couch, watching the scene with frightened faces. “Do not walk out of that door, we need to talk about this!”

Ignoring him entirely, Jess headed out of the front door, grabbing her sneakers that were outside on the porch and headed into the dark street before her father could come after her.

//

Alice’s bedroom wasn’t what Jess expected. She expected something ultra girly - maybe pink striped wallpaper and a chandelier and a princess bed with a canopy. Instead, it was painted soft blue and was airy and light, without a huge amount of clutter. There was a daybed under the window, with a side table and a lamp; a drawing table neatly arranged in one corner, and a dresser that held nothing more than a bunch of flowers and a handbag. There was a bookcase and an oversized armchair in the corner next to two doors that Jess assumed was the closet. The walls displayed a few recent family photos and some prints, but it was such a calm space.

Alice pulled over an ottoman from the chair and began to open the top, to reveal a fold-out bed.

//

Jess sat down on Alice’s bed, her phone in her hands.

AVA 09:19pm: where are u? i’ll come pick you up.

AVA 09:21pm: ???

DAD 09:22pm: you need to come back here.

LYDIOT 09:24pm: i’m sorry jess i didn’t mean anything by it.

DAD 09:26pm: we need to talk about this.

DAD 09:29pm: i can call aunt m and we can all talk thru this.

AVA 09:30pm: jess, where are you?

DAD 09:30pm: answer me.

AVA 09:34pm: daddy’s really upset.

AVA 09:36pm: l’s blaming herself, and f and h r freaking out

LYDIOT 09:41pm: please come home. dad + ava are yelling.

DAD 09:45pm: if u don’t respond in the next fifteen minutes, i’m calling the cops.

AVA 09:58pm: can u just tell me ur safe pls

“Why don’t we turn it off for awhile?” Alice said gently, taking the phone. “I can get Esme to call your father or your sister and let them know you’re staying here tonight.”

“Thanks,” Jess said softly.

//

A knock came at the door, and both girls looked up to see Esme enter.

“I spoke to your family, Jessamine,” she said kindly. “And just let them know you were here and you were asleep. They would like to talk to you tomorrow, but I said that was entirely up to you and I was merely the messenger to let them know you were safe. Your phone is charging in the kitchen - I’ll let you girls get some rest.”

//

Ava was waiting out the front of the school when Alice and Jess pulled up, holding Jess’s backpack.

“So,” Ava began, looking strained. “Weird night.”

“Yeah,” Jess said, taking the bag and shouldering it.

“Do you want to know or…?” Ava asked, crossing her hands over her chest.

“Tell me,” Jess said, after a pause.

“Dad called basically everyone and had another committee meeting. It’s a pretty even division between Team ‘Dad’s an idiot’ and Team ‘send Jess to a conversion camp’,” Ava said, frowning. “Aunt M basically said if Dad tries to ship you off, she’ll help Gran sue for custody. Uncle Dan is fully on team ‘straighten you out’, so I wouldn’t talk to any of the cousins for a while.”

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas Day 4: Korean Alice

Ugh, thank you all so much for the STL10 love. <3 I am exhausted and planning on sitting down to respond, sleep is just beating the internet on my priority list.

Today is Korean Alice; this started as an angsty one-shot and expanded into something with a plot. I also got an opportunity to do some vampire world-building because I reject the idea some old white dudes in Italy rule over the world absolutely.

M-rating; non-graphic sex scene.

It’s a hot as fuck night, an obnoxious kind of humid heat that left condensation on his skin. At least Busan is near the water. There are thousands of people around, and it is only the stench of sweat and body-odor and cooking food that dissuaded him from all the blood walking around.

Enough to put anyone off.

Carlisle had been upset when he booked his flight; and when the email had arrived. Just a string of numbers that he spent two days deciphering into a time and location. But Carlisle couldn’t fault his methods - if it wasn’t for the Night Markets and for Jasper’s willingness to do his dirty work, Pastor Cullen’s cross would be rotting in the ground somewhere.

The Night Markets are legendary, something that only happens every so often; there is no pattern to their appearance. They’ve moved all over the world, trying to find their safe place. But now South Korea has become their home for now.

And it isn’t a bad choice of location, upon reflection. No one is foolish enough to disturb the Chinese coven, who rule mainland China and Hong Kong with an iron fist. The Japanese covens had politely ejected the Night Markets, refusing to allow the influx of particularly unsavoury immortals into their lands. Singapore was too small. No one wanted to run afoul of the Volturi by risking Europe.

So it was in South Korea and had been for decades. The Pravat coven might not have claimed South Korea,

Jasper recognised Hala - he’d known Hala for decades, the lithe Saudi Arabian vampire had worked for the Pravat coven longer than Jasper had visited the Night Market. She was a mysterious woman with a sugar-sweet smile; she had been the official Escort of the Night Market for every visit Jasper had made.

“Miss Hala,” he ducks his head.

“Mr Hale,” Hala has no accent; he’s heard her speak Korean, Arabic, English, Thai, Vietnamese, and some French, and she spoke all of them like a native - even if her English was very formal and precise. “Have you made your entrance deposit, Mr Hale?”

“Of course,” Jasper reached into his jacket for the banker’s cheque. The price of entrance was twenty thousand euros; an obscene amount of money for eight hours. But it had always been worth it - some of the things he’d uncovered were worth far more than twenty grand.

“Thank you. Are you ready?” Hala tucked the cheque into her jacket and nodded at the door behind her. He nodded once, and she took out a key-loop.

There was a reason that Hala was chosen as the Escort, and why the Night Markets could never exist without her: her gift. Hala had the ability to erase recent memories. She’d been comfortable talking about it, on the occasions Jasper had asked - Hala claimed it was no different than wiping a smudge off a window. It’s why the Pravat coven had hired her - she would take them to the marketplace and she would wipe their memories of the journey, so they could never find it without her, and would never be to tell anyone else either.

Like Aro.

And just like that, as if no time had passed and he was still standing just inside the door, Hala motioned him forward and he stepped into the Night Market.

It was a thing to behold - it felt like it was underground, some kind of forgotten concrete bunker. Sawdust was scattered all over the ground and the noise was a steady hum; dozens of stalls and benches were crammed into the space. It wasn’t just vampires selling either - several human vendors had been granted special permission to sell their wares, usually with a retinue of bodyguards.

They didn’t need to worry. The Pravat coven protected all of their vendors, and the odd death of a human vendor was usually accidental; Jasper was unaware of any violent incidents from the vampire clientele - no one wanted to risk the wrath of the Pravats’ and be banned from the Markets.

Because it was more than the markets. The Pravat coven also dealt in information, and that was invaluable. The Cullens never needed to know that half of the things that Jasper ‘researched’ for them came via the Pravats’ contacts. Hell, without Niran, they wouldn’t have known about Jenks.

The stall is in the middle of an aisle, selling a mishmash of things - a lot of books, some clothing and jewellery, and a cage filled with gaunt-looking human girls in dirty shifts.

That’s the part that Carlisle cannot abide. The amount of human flesh that is sold at the Markets, both mortal and vampire. But the doctor assumes their purpose; just as many girls are sold to be messengers to the human world, dogsbodies, as they are for less palatable purposes.

And the vendors aren’t stupid. They can recognise a bleeding heart like Carlisle and Esme from a mile away. He can almost imagine Carlisle buying every single body in the place, and releasing them back onto the streets of Busan, unaware that he’s sealed their fate and it’s much, much worse than anything the Markets would offer them.

There’s another girl, perched on top of the cage with a book open in her lap, and the green and yellow lanyard of a vendor, not merchandise.

She was beautiful and he can’t drag his eyes away from her, in case she is an illusion.

She’s wearing a faded gingham skirt and top, and there’s a ragged loop of string around one ankle. Her black hair falls to her chin in uneven lengths, and her big eyes are so dark they are nearly black.

Nearly.

He can hear her heartbeat below the human girls’, like a desperate, dying hummingbird - a thunderous flutter and then a stillness.

She’s not a vampire.

//

Ratana isn’t lying about Aro of the Volturi (Ratana scoffs at that particular piece of vanity - ‘the Volturi’. She insists on calling him Aro of Volterra or Aro of the Italian Coven) and how dangerous he is. But Ratana isn’t lying - she’s seen what Aro is capable of in her visions. She’s met the refugees from Aro’s warfare that seek out the Pravats for protection.

Ratana often reminds her she could be one of them, if she doesn’t stay with them. That Aro lusts after power and gifts, and that she and Hala would be the crown jewels in his collection, chained and tethered to the Citadel in Italy.

She is a double-prize, with her gift and her biology. Aro would exploit that in dozens of ways, Ratana warns her. She must live quietly. She must stay safe.

It was Ratana who found her, who brought her back to Busan when she was young - who gave her back her story. The memories are gone, but at least she has the roadmap that got her here.

It’s nice of the Pravats not to remind her that, really, she is a refugee. She has no one and nothing without them. And if she was truly precious, truly family, she would be apart of their coven.

Instead, she belongs to Boon-nam and Narong. She’s never bothered to muddle out the lines of alliances amongst Ratana and her acolytes, or why Boon-nam and Narong. It’s unimportant. She is their dogsbody, their worker, and that’s all there is to it. Her and Jiao, a sharp-looking Chinese girl, are in their care. Boon-nam is older and generally irritated and disapproving, with little interest in her.

Narong is younger - she has often wondered if they were brothers or father and son, as humans, because of the resemblance. Narong is charming but stuck in the past. He makes lurid suggestions to her under his breath, a hand sliding over a hip…

//

The bowl of food has steam coming out of it, and the soup is bright red. He can almost taste the burn of the food. She eats quickly, heartily, but there is no urgency in her movements.

The soup stains her lips, and it’s too light to be blood but the image settles in his mind.

She tells him her story in bits and pieces - a young woman who trusted a beautiful man. Left behind, hidden, distrusted. He wants to comfort her, at the ghost of sadness and shame that drifts over her when she mentions her grandparents - the ones who hid her away when she was too inhuman to live in the real world. And then the fear grew too big and they threw her away.

“They died a long time ago,” she shrugs, as they wander down an alleyway that is dark and quiet - a blissful reprieve from the crowds. “Ratana found them for me, and they’re gone. I should be an old lady myself by now, I think.”

//

They’re barely on her unmade bed, and still half-dressed when he pushes inside her, and her nails bend as she grips his shoulder. He kisses her hard, contorting down to her tiny frame as they move against each other, and she tastes like burnt sugar and spices.

For some reason, it’s a desperate coupling; the kind he associates with a reunion and too soon she is crying out and arching against him, her exposed skin sticky with sweat. The neon lights that filter through her window throw bright colours over her skin that makes the entire scene feel like a dream.

She beams up at him, beginning to wriggle free of her remaining clothing, and he is entranced by her - there is tragic beauty in her jutting hip bones, in the shadows of skin between her ribs, in the hollow space of her collar bone; the evidence of neglect and suffering in what she’s become. Faint scars litter her body, and his fingers glide over them - a slash mark on her thigh, scratches on her belly, a burn on her chest… There’s a tattoo on her hip, except it doesn’t look like any tattoo he’s ever seen; it’s flush with the skin, as if she was for with the marking - two stylised flowers with some Hangul characters beside it. That he touches with reverence, and she giggles at him.

He makes love to her slowly the second time, trying to memorise every second and every single inch of her. The cadence of her voice encouraging him, the heat and sweat and scent of her. She holds him so close, and for a second, he wonders what comes next.

Does he call Carlisle and let him know that he’s going to stay in Busan for a while? Does he go home and prepare the family for the news that he’s found her, the person that makes everything fall into place, and make plans to bring home his bride? Does he beg her to come with him when he leaves in a day and let the chips fall where they may?

Will she even want to go to America with him?

This has to be love. He feels like a fool, falling so hard and fast.

//

It’s the same every single market that he attends. He arrives with no particular goal in mind, just to wander the racks and wares to find something he likes, something valuable. His eyes skim over the girls for sale, and he finds her.

They have their night, their five precious hours of stolen time, and he escorts her back to the market. Back to Hala, who smiles at them both and then takes his memories of the night, of ever leaving the markets in the first place.

Of dancing with her. Of laughing with her.

Of loving her.

He never remembers her. Nothing. He doesn’t sleep, so he doesn’t even dream about her. He asks the same questions, laughs at the same jokes, marvels at the same details. His hands fall on the same paths of skin, tease the same scars, kiss the same freckles.

She watches him after Hala takes his memories away - from a shadowed corner. He moves around the market, choosing items to take back to his family. She’s known him long enough to know what are sentimental purchases for the rest of his clan; what are for himself, and what are valuable items to stake a claim to.

He bought her something once - not here, but in the open-air markets of Busan. A string of beads; she picked the black and gold ones, and never took them off. Not until they broke. She’d tried to fix it, but too many beads were lost so it became a bracelet. And then an anklet, because she was grabbed by the wrist so often that the beads crumbled.

And then the beads fell off, one by one, until nothing but a grubby piece of string adorns her ankle.

She has one of the beads in her apartment, tucked inside a pouch. The last one left. The one she keeps safe and hidden. All through Busan and Korea, those beads are scattered and forgotten. But she managed to save one.

Most days, she can pretend that she’s not a prisoner here, that she is here for her safety. That Ratana is not a jailer, but a protector. That she is different to Aro of Italy, because Alice is allowed to live in her shitty apartment away from the coven. That she’s allowed to take her precious five hours with him.

But watching Jasper across the room, examining the spines of books, she feels trapped. She feels like a small creature in the maw of a beast with no way out. She feels like Ratana is no different than Aro, gathering up her gifted ones, sifting through the refugees to keep and to discard. With a snap of her fingers, Hala could steal every traitorous thought until she scrapes at Ratana’s feet, blank and biddable.

Hala could take Jasper from her in a second, and that is not something she will ever gamble with. That if seeing him whenever the Markets awaken is the only light in her life, then she will protect that tiny flame to her death.

Hala nods at her, and she ducks into the back rooms where the accounting books are stacked. Until Jasper Hale leaves the Markets for the final time, she cannot be seen. He’s rarely there for an hour or two after their return, and as soon as he departs, she’s allowed back on the floor.

She loves him enough that she lets him go. He doesn’t deserve the burden of taking her with him, of running away together. Of painting that target on his back, and that of his family. Of keeping her alive, with her strange biology. He has enough responsibility and stress, she never wants to add to it.

And in a way, she’s glad he doesn’t remember her. Remember them. Because she carries that sadness, that longing, and loneliness with her every single day of her life. Seeing him helps, but it is a bitter pill that every single time she has to pretend this is their first meeting. Have the same conversations.

(She knows if she told him what Hala will do, that he will be angry and everything will fall to pieces. So she doesn’t. She never tells him. She takes him back to the market and kisses him sweetly, and lets Hala approach him from behind. She lets him have those last few moments of unrestrained hope, all that she can give him. It’s over in a second, and then she goes into the backroom and cries into her hands.)

[goldeneyedgirl]

FicMas Suggestions Open

As for ‘19 and ‘20, I’m planning on Twelve Days of FicMas this year, and I figured that I’d ask if there’s anything people want? Continuations or missing scenes or more from previous years or from a different POV or just have a scenario they want?

Any prompts are good and valid, with the following conditions

- No Bella/Jasper or Bella/Edward, please and thank you. I’m best with Alice and Jasper, Emmett, Jessamine, Archie et al. 

- I’m going to pick what works for Ficmas; I need 12 prompts so if you have more than one, feel free to submit them.

- You can ask for new chapters, but I generally don’t update fics as apart of FicMas. 

So, hit me with them - I’ll be doing a lot of writing on WIPs and Ficmas for Nanowrimo this November, so now is the time to ask :)

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas Day 3: Shadow to Light Ch 10

I broke my own rule, because it's fun to do that sometimes. Instead of a snippet, have Chapter Ten of Shadow to Light, my loves. <3

Here on AO3 or below the cut

Ten. Wolves are less brave than they seem

The Cullen house is strange. Almost as strange as the Cullens themselves.

It’s loud and it smells. And it’s not just Isabella (blood-blood-blood, it has soaked into the couch and the cushions, every single step that her heavy, uncertain, human feet have taken through the house. She could draw a map of the places that Isabella has passed through, has lingered in the House of Cullen, just from the weight of blood in the air.)

No, it’s a hundred strange things that all pile on top of each other - the paper-and-paint scent of the wallpaper, the chemical sting of the wallpaper glue; thousands of footprints worths of dirt and debris in the weft of the carpets and rugs; the tang of lemon and chemicals that has gone into scrubbing the floors and windows. The odor of animal blood and death, of sick humans, aged books and antiseptic, of a million little things they’ve somehow trained themselves not to notice but she does.

(She wants to go home.)

And the sounds. Mexico wasn’t quiet, especially when the pits were full, but it was different. Neither was the city, but there she could escape it. Here, there’s the hum of the fridge, of a million buzzing gadgets. The rush and flow of the pipes (they used an old water pump and well back in Mexico. Or the ocean. The old house only had the most basic and simplistic of plumbing, and it had long since fallen out of use.) Of the odd and unnerving habit they have of calling out to each other from different rooms, as if they could not hear perfectly, even if they spoke normally.

It’s so, so much to take in and absolutely none of it is important. There are so many more important things to take note of, to consider and plan around, and yet they fade into the background every time she hears music play or the buzz of one of their tiny phones.

(She wants to go home, but she’s never had one before. She doesn’t know where that is. So she pushes it down, along with the worry and the misery and the feeling like she’s in the crosshairs, and holds her breath and does what she does best - she waits.)

—

It takes the Major a day or two to recover from the battle. She watches him, and tries to keep out of the way. It’s been so long since he’s seen battle, she knew it would be hard - even without the emotions rolling off his family. He was always agitated in the South after a battle, too. Sometimes that meant he would pace for hours or run boundary checks. Sometimes it meant that she’d be folded into his bed with a hard efficiency that she didn’t care for, at all.

(There was never a time she had wanted to say ‘no’ to him, especially in hindsight; but that was one mood where she wished she had had the power, wished she was safe enough in his affections that she could have said… something. But it was the closest thing she had to affection, the only touch and intimacy that she knew. The only one she had wanted. And he’d never hurt her. And even at the Major’s very worst, she never would have left him alone.)

He seems to come back to himself slowly, then all at once - after he takes off for a run. She considers following him, but she decides against it. If he’s going off alone, he obviously wants solitude and it’s not like he cannot take care of himself. Or that there’s still anything dangerous out there.

Except the wolves. They make her skin crawl.

(She finds the old scrap of paper when she visits his study, the one that she left in his pocket the day he left. It’s just a scrunched-up piece of yellowed Mexican newsprint from decades ago, and it’s long since lost its shape. She pockets it swiftly, without him noticing. She’ll refold it and put it back. A small task that feels a little bit like normal, even if she hasn’t folded paper in years and years.)

He seems more relaxed, more grounded when he returns, and maybe she lets out the final breath she was holding; that little stone of worry that one more battle would drag him back down to a headspace, to a place, that ate away at the peace he had found.

No, that’s not fair. He sought out that peace and worked hard for it. She knows that, she saw it. She never wants him to lose what he fought for, and the idea that maybe it would be too much, facing newborns down without a decent army, would take it all away from him is one that loomed large in her mind.

If she let herself, she would be relieved as he bounds across the back lawn and into the house, clearly more at peace than he was before he left.

She returns to the slant of the roof where she is hidden by the shadows thrown by a huge tree. It’s a still night; she can hear movement in the forest beyond the Cullen house, but she can’t imagine wildlife coming close to the house. The only creatures that came close to the house in Mexico were snakes, and even they didn’t linger long. The carrion birds tried a few times, but their instincts won out in the end. Even a good meal wasn’t worth getting that close.

Most of the noise she can hear is inside the house - the sound of the piano, of pacing, of water and electronics and motion. A specific kind of motion, and it’s unexpected that they are so quiet. But then, it was only the newborns that were excessively loud when they fucked, back in Mexico. It makes her… not tense per se, but aware and ill at ease.

(Maybe she listens extra-carefully for the sounds of protest, just for a moment. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s had to put someone down for not taking ‘no’ for an answer.)

She’s only distracted when she hears her name spoken - by the Major, it sounds like. She thinks about going inside, to get her orders, to make stiff conversation as she flicks through the correct response. She feels… well, she doesn’t feel anything, she’s made sure of that. But she stays on the roof and waits. If the Major needs her, he’ll call for her.

She is adrift right now. Being with the Cullens, being with the Major, doesn’t feel like she thought it would.

And frankly, she’s not sure if she would recognize it even if it did.

—

She slips back into the house at dawn, when the rest of the family have gathered downstairs, like the tableau from an old catalogue.

Rosalie has her long blonde hair in a messy braid, and she’s wearing a long fancy dress-robe garment, sitting with her legs tucked under her and a digital device in her lap. She’s just so beautiful - soft and glamorous. She’s wearing a shiny ring and Rosalie truly is the opposite of everything she gets to be.

She hopes that Rosalie appreciates it all, is grateful how gentle her second life has been. It hasn’t done any of the Cullens any favours, living this way, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t sometimes think about the life she could have had, unscarred and laughing. A soft life would have been… nice.

Everyone looks up as she slips in from the kitchen.

“Mary-Alice.” The Major stands and she manages a nod at him. She keeps her back to the wall, her hands at her sides as he comes to stand beside her. She wonders why; he probably could stop her if she was feeling aggressive but Isabella isn’t here (yet) and she has no reason to be. Perhaps to make the rest of the family more comfortable? That she’s guarded? “I was just going to come and find you.”

“I would have heard you,” she says with a quirk of her lips that isn’t quite a smile. “I’ve been staying close by.”

“Good.” Dr Cullen looks at her with a polite smile, and she supposes it does make the patriarch of the family feel better that she doesn’t stray too far. “Is there anything we can get for you?”

She shakes her head because no, there isn’t anything tangible that she needs. And if there was, she’d steal it herself. She’s certainly not above that. But she does wonder, slyly, if she demanded something difficult if the Cullens would provide. A diamond the size of a quail’s egg, a silk ballgown… enough human blood to drown herself in…

Edward shoots her a look and she nearly rolls her eyes.

These aren’t new thoughts; she’s had the same ones about Maria. How far can she push? Will correcting Maria’s plan get her hit or worse? Will Maria’s benevolence stretch far enough to hunting in the nearest town and a new dress? Will the Major snap if she slips just out of his grasp and plays dumb at his intentions?

It’s always better to know where the line is; for safety, yes, but for planning the future as well.

“When I spoke to Billy Black yesterday…” Dr Cullen begins, and her mind wanders a little. There’s a photo on the wall in a hand-painted frame, of the four Cullen ‘children’ on a beach. They are all smiling, almost laughing; Emmett has his arms thrown over Edward and Jasper’s shoulders, and Jasper has his arm around Rosalie. She knows photos like that, saw them in the waterlogged magazines that sometimes turned up around camp.

“…funeral is today, and the Pack have accepted the offer of a moment of memorial for Quill tomorrow, at the boundary line,” Dr Cullen finishes.

“Oh, it’s important. For them to know that we understand their loss,” Esme still looks strained but better, and she wonders how many people Esme has lost for her to care so much about a wolf boy and a stray newborn. Too many or too few? “For us to share our condolences. Quill’s poor, poor family.”

“It will be held tomorrow at ten,” Dr Cullen continued, resting his hand upon his mate’s shoulder. “I expect you all to be in attendance out of respect for Quill, the Pack, and for his family.”

She saw Rosalie frown, but there was no protest from anyone. And it made sense; it felt mean spirited to turn Dr Cullen down, to say that she wouldn’t be going anywhere near the pack again, in human or wolf form.

(She cannot say that she would expect them to attend such a thing if the Major had fallen, but that’s mostly because if that had come to pass… well, she wouldn’t have been welcome to linger in Forks a moment longer.)

“Will Quill’s family be there?” Emmett’s voice is heavy, and he looks genuinely sorrowful.

“His grandfather and mother, I believe, will attend,” Dr Cullen confirmed. “It’s important that we remain respectful and do not rise to anything… confrontational that might be said. Their loss is unimaginable.”

No it isn’t. She saw it all, flicked through every possibility before she came out of the shadows. Death and disfigurement for all of them; the wolves made the fight impossible to choreograph, of course, but planning a fight too precisely can be just as foolish as not planning at all. But she saw them all in pieces, mourning and stunned as a piece of them fell.

(She even saw the future where she had to play surgeon and nurse, piecing them back together because Dr Cullen and his kin might know human medicine, and the Major might have done his time in the armies, but she knows exactly and precisely what works to fit a vampire back together fast enough that everything still mostly works.)

Loss is never unimaginable. It’s an ugly, dark thought though, so she can understand why Dr Cullen doesn’t pursue it.

The family dissolves into a conversation about attire and prayers and flowers, and she wonders if such ceremony will be performed for the newborn Bree, who begged them to let her live, or if she just gets to be forgotten.

Edward glares at her from across the room, and she blinks slowly, unintimidated by the fact her thoughts are right there for him to hear. She’s not a fool; she keeps certain thoughts locked away from him but the rest, she doesn’t really care. She’s not afraid of any of them, not at all. There’s nothing Edward can tell the others that she’s thought that she will take own.

But the thought keeps nagging - if they are going to mourn Quill, then Bree deserves something. She was a child, too.

(She saw all the possible endings, even her own, and she’s not even a little disillusioned by how easily the Cullens would have shrugged off her demise. But she’s old, and seen more than a few battles. But some mostly-forgotten side of her knows that Bree was young and new and got no time at all. And they are no different from the hundreds of newborns she’s killed over the decades -manipulated, gaslit, or outright lied-to; most of them with one year before they either fell in battle or were dismantled each summer. And she’s frustrated that Bree is somehow different to any of those newborns, whose faces blur together.)

The bite on her thigh is itching again, nearly healed through, and instead of the fact that life is cruel and unfair, she focuses on Esme’s recitation of flower types and the unfamiliar curl of the rug beneath her feet.

—

The truth is that she’s never been to a funeral before.

(A flower for Bree, a gathering for Quill; it all feels like a children’s game in her head and ridiculously indulgent.)

Death has been her companion for so long, in so many ways, and she’s never witnessed a single one. They aren’t something that Maria ever believed in. Dead was dead, and there was nothing useful about standing around a pile of ashes or a lost limb saying prayers to a God that would certainly never listen to the likes of them.

Of course, that didn’t really matter back then, since no one she cared about had ever fallen in battle - Nettie and Lucy had been traitors; Peter and Charlotte had vanished; the Major had fled. And Maria was as steadfast as the mountain; unmovable and her shadow forever looming unchanged.

(It wasn’t just his death at the hands of Victoria’s army that she had seen. Maybe she had seen the moment a million times over, of the Major’s head parting from his body in battle; his neck willingly offered to Maria in some hazy future where he said now, and had stayed so long he had nothing left to give except his destruction. Maybe she’s seen Charlotte’s hysteria when the Major can only find a few stray pieces of Peter, hysteria that costs Charlotte her own life the next sunrise because nothing can be done with a hysterical newborn. Maybe she’s seen a million deaths folding over and over again, and she’s taught herself they are meaningless because she can stop them. She can take the blow, tear into the attacker, send the Major away, before any of it comes to pass. It’s just a terrible possibility, a story she was told, and never reality.)

She knows what a funeral is, of course - she heard some of the newborns talking about them when she was young. She’s not sure how much she likes the idea - but then, vampires don’t bury their dead, so maybe something is lost in translation.

The idea of the memorial is one that she struggles with, really. Dead is dead, and the wolf won’t know about the memorial or the prayers or the flowers. Bree won’t know she’s been half-forgotten and unmourned. In fact, the pack have had their own funeral; the one the Cullens have offered is superfluous and unnecessary.

She is pondering this when she notices Edward is looking straight at her, with something akin to pity on his face. “We aren’t doing this for Quill,” he says in a low voice, as the Cullens fuss around, getting ready - black clothing is produced, starched and ironed to a crisp. Esme has an armload of flowers in the sink, scissors and wires spread out before her.

She nods but she doesn’t like the way he looks at her, the way he says it. She doesn’t understand, she knows that. She’s never been to a funeral before. She’s never had someone she cared about fall and never get up again (even if she’s the one hauling them back to their feet before the inevitable).

They’ve been gone, but never lost. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t really understand.

—

She is rapidly losing interest in the concept of this memorial, as the Cullens put themselves together.

Esme and Dr Cullen had spent an hour pressing clothing; Esme shooting Emmett a dark look when he dared reach for sneakers. They are all prim and polished - the Cullens better than her, but she tried. Esme gave her a black sweater that is too long, and she had to push the sleeves up, but it is soft and clean. She has to go barefoot, because there are no shoes in the household that even come close to fitting her, even if they stuff the toes, and no one had had the time or inclination to seek her out a pair. It’s probably better this way; she feels more grounded with her toes sinking into the soft mud and dirt of the forest. She’s not sure what running in shoes would feel like.

But her hair is combed and the sweater covers the worst of the marks on her dress, so she considers herself suitable. She lingers in the living room as the rest of them get ready, examining the items scattered around the room (there’s another photograph she likes, of Rosalie in the driver’s seat of a shiny blue car with Emmett, and the Major in the backseat with sunglasses on. None of them are paying attention to the camera, and the edges are hazy, but she likes it.)

“Mary-Alice.”

The Major is standing at the foot of the stairs with something in his hand. He approaches her uncomfortably and holds out two rectangular pieces of black plastic.

“Rosalie suggested these for your hair.”

Faceted black plastic on metal pins. She hasn’t seen a hairpin in years; she’s never needed to do much more than brush hers out; some of the newborns fussed with pins - Maria had a silver set of her own that no one was to touch. But there were few of them to go around, and most of the newborns fell back to tightly braiding and knotting their hair out of their face.

She picks them up out of his hand and tries to push them into the front of her hair but it immediately bunches up her hair into a tuft and she frowns. She tries again, but she is too nervous about breaking Rosalie’s pins to get it right.

“Let me.”

The Major takes them back, and very gently slides them into her hair, the strand springing back into its loose curl underneath the clip.

She steps back as soon as his hands drop away, and moves over to the ornate little mirror over the console table to see herself. The same face, the same hair, the same scars. But it all sits differently, with her hair pinned back.

“Thank you,” she tells the Major and he ducks his head, and whatever he was going to say next is lost as Emmett and Rosalie join them in the living room, Rosalie immediately going to fuss over the Major’s necktie. Emmett sighs at her, and Mary-Alice feels like she’s missed something.

“Thank you for the hairpins, Rosalie.”

She doesn’t know what makes her say it, what inspires her to say it. Maybe it’s that she has bathed, and combed her hair, and changed her clothes more in the week or so that she’s been with the Cullens than she has in a whole month. She has nearly four outfits - if Esme gives back the clothing she arrived in. That’s more than she’s ever owned in her life.

Rosalie turns to look at her, a flat look on her face that softens as she studies Mary-Alice.

“That’s okay. You can keep them if you want.”

It’s not a warm sentiment, but it’s a generous one - one that might even inspire some ounce of… not affection or friendship, but perhaps a little understanding, between the two of them.

(Maybe she is a little jealous of Rosalie in her dress with the delicate lace of the skirt, with the shoes that have a fancy ribbon strap over her ankle, and the shine of her jewellery. She looks beautiful, and Mary-Alice wonders what it is like to be able to wear beautiful things, even in ugly moments. Her grey dress is still serviceable, but she’s been wearing it for three days and has never been allowed the luxury of fussing over her clothing. ‘Pretty’ is never a consideration; fit is the most important, and dark colours are preferable. Nothing else is important.)

“This is gonna suck,” Emmett declares suddenly, flopping down onto the couch and tilting his head back. “Quill was what? Fifteen? What do any of us know about dying at fifteen?”

“I was seventeen,” Edward comes back into the room, somehow looking more stiff and starched than the Major or Emmett, but with his hair still wild and unbrushed.

“Yes, but you were born a crotchety old man,” Emmett says dismissively. “Tinkerbell, how old were you?”

She blinks. Tinkerbell. A question that is meant to be so personal (according to others, at least. Death is a lot more intimate and disturbing when you remember what came before it, she supposes.)

“I was twenty, Rose was eighteen, the good doctor was twenty three, and Esme was hitting her twilight-years at the ripe old age of twenty six. You were what, Jas? Nineteen, twenty?” Emmett looks over at the Major.

The Major shrugs, from where he is leaning against the wall, his eyes fixed on her. “Either nearly or just twenty, I think. The weeks blurred together at the end.”

That makes her frown, and she remembers back to the dog tags she carried like a talisman. She remembers the barely-legible little disk saying Jasper M Whitlock. San Miguel, TX. If his human birth date had ever been listed on it, the numbers had long since been erased.

She almost regretted leaving the tags behind now, even if it had bought her her safe passage. Being able to hand them over, dirty and scratched and worn as they had been when they left her hand, would have been worth it

“So, Tiny Terror, how old are you? Were you?” Emmett looks at her expectantly and she resumes inspecting family photographs.

Tiny Terror?

“I don’t know.” She’s watching them out of the corner of her eye, because that it is always a sentiment that sparks a reaction. Disbelief, horror, discomfort, pity… she’s seen them all. Some newborns acted afraid of her, as if that lost past had cursed and condemned her all the way down.

Maybe it had. She hadn’t even known how to put a hairpin in properly.

“You don’t know?” Edward jumps on that and she sees them all exchange looks.

“I never remembered anything before I woke up.” That’s as much as she’s giving them, she decides, refocusing on a photograph of Esme wearing a lace dress that nearly perfectly matches the flowers behind her - it probably looks like a perfect match to a human.

“Nothing?” Emmett looks stunned, and Rosalie is frowning. “Not the burning or anything?”

The lace on Esme’s dress is in the shape of flowers.

“Well, you might be fifteen,” Emmett is scrutinizing her now. “You are small.”

The instinct to hiss at him is strong. He isn’t the first one to call out her size, to think she is lesser because she is small. She doesn’t know why she’s all bones, why she’s child-sized, and she never really cared. She is what she is, and there’s no changing that. And Maria always dismissed the idea she was young - too-young - because of her control, her rationality. But it also means that she is underestimated, quite often, and that might be half the reason that she’s standing in the Cullens’ living room.

She can’t resist a little grunt of irritation at that, and she knows that the Major straightens at that, as if she will take off Emmett’s face for the insult of it all. As if being called small was the worst thing that she’d ever been called.

Has enough time passed, down South, that the rumour of Maria’s Immortal Child has passed? It had made her angry, once, that that was what people thought of her - the aberration, evidence of a crime. Maria was vindictive and blood-thirsty, but not that shade of evil. Now, the rumour makes her feel… not tired, and not indifferent. Perhaps dismissive? It feels like a long time since Paulina taunted her with those rumours, with the threat of her destruction because of how she looks.

“Maybe a little older,” Emmett concedes. “Your eyes don’t look like a fifteen-year-olds.” Maybe she quirks a split-second smile at that, because her eyes are just red and black. They show how thirsty she is, how aware she is of her prey. Nothing else (it’s very easy to discern fear or disdain or irritation from someone’s eyes; she learned fast to let hers say nothing.)

“Jane doesn’t exactly portray herself as twelve, Emmett,” Edward says with no small amount of disdain, and she does hiss then - the memory of the pain is fresh enough, as are the memories it dragged up. She feels the Major’s gift seep against her skin and she shoves it way, glowering at Edward.

He grimaces at her reaction. “I know what it’s like; she inflicted it upon me too,” he offers, but it is less an apology than a reminder she is not special.

She knows, she doesn’t need reminding.

There is tension in the air, and everyone is waiting for some kind of response from her, but she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say? To agree with Edward that she could easily be an eternal child? To disagree and look like a child? To make some witty comment about her own past, her own biography? She’s never thought about it deeply. As far as she is concerned, wherever and whomever she came from is long gone and unimportant. She has always turned her gaze - both of them - to the future, to what could be, what could be changed and twisted to her advantage.

There was nothing good or worthwhile in the past.

She doesn’t owe them that explanation though. She doesn’t owe them anything - they owe her for even being in Forks.

No, she came for the Major. The Cullens owe her nothing, she did this entirely for the Major. And he owes her nothing, as well.

“Are we ready?” Esme appears, her flowers cradled to her chest. She looks so neat and nice, like the women they would stalk in on their way home from work back in the South - the ones with pepper spray in their hands and just enough misplaced confidence. Everyone is silent and Esme looks worried. “Is everything okay in here?”

“Everything is fine, Esme,” Edward says and for a moment she imagines telling Edward he shouldn’t pass judgment over the physical composition of others when it is abundantly clear he was wasting away before he was changed.

Then she gets a vision of him swinging around in anger at her insult, and the Major trying to defend her, and Esme getting upset…

She says nothing and dutifully follows the Major as they leave the house.

--

They were, of course, entirely unwelcome at the official funeral - Dr Cullen grimly reminds them all of this as they make their pilgrimage at a human pace.

And she thinks it would have been in poor taste if they were to attend even with a proper invitation, considering that without the Cullens, Isabella Swan would never have had a target painted on her back and required the assistance of the wolves. Quill would have been at home, safe. His spine wouldn’t have been snapped in five places, his neck wouldn’t have been in shards.

But from everything she’s gleaned, she’s still not sure that the memorial is ideal either - she’s pretty sure that the last thing the Quileute people would appreciate is a Christian prayer and a bunch of flowers from a coven of vampires.

(She remembers the Christian newborns, the ones stricken dumb by their dawning, new reality. The ones who thought crucifixes held power, and thought someone was listening to the prayers they babbled desperately over the remains of their kill. They never really lasted long, but not because they were weak. Because they were broken and they were hopeless. Maybe that’s why she finds prayer pointless; because in the end, it has never saved anyone.)

But they offered and the tribe accepted, and now they make their way to the boundary. Esme carries the flowers, so tenderly arranged, cradled in her arms. She knows that there are flowers left over, and from what she has overheard in the house, she is not alone in remembering Bree. Esme has lamented privately about Quill and Bree both, two children dying unnecessarily in a war they had no business being a part of.

Perhaps there will be a second bunch of flowers scattered to the wind amongst the ashes. Why that comforts her, she doesn’t know.

They’ve left Isabella behind, this time - only because maneuvering her through the forest in her casts would be awkward and painful. Isabella always stinks of fear when she sees Mary-Alice, so it’s better this way. It’s easier. And it makes the Cullens seem more genuine, in her narrow view at least.

The wolves are all in human form upon their arrival, and they look strange to her in that moment; just humans that reek. Solemn faced, tired-looking, and red-eyed. They aren’t in stiff black clothing; just normal t-shirts and jeans. It makes the Cullens look overdressed, even her, but it isn’t an attempt at anything more than respect and grief and acknowledging a sacrifice and a debt that can never, ever be repaid.

There are three men present - older than Dr Cullen, physically. There are two women, one half-crumpled into the other. They stand a good distance away, and their expressions are not welcoming or kind.

Esme lays the flowers against the boulder that marks the boundary gently, and surely no one can believe that this is a hollow gesture, not from the sadness and regret on Esme’s face. Not the way that Dr Cullen guides her back into the family line-up.

She stands between the Major and Edward, and stares at the ground as Dr Cullen speaks, sentiments of regret and horror over the tribe’s loss, the admittedly-soothing cadence of prayer for Quill’s soul, and the comfort of his family. She wonders if it is wrong that she automatically translates some of it into Spanish - she thinks she’s heard Maria say some of these things before.

Que estas en el cielo… Santificado sea tu nombre… Venga tu reino. Hagase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo…

Her Spanish is rusty, it’s been a while. But the minute she thinks it, she’s back South. She’s only a few weeks old, fumbling through as best she can in this new language. She’s months old, years old, listening to orders shouted across the barren landscape as another battle goes sideways.

(She’s in the Major’s bed, the hay mattress worn thin and scented with mold, as he stands across the room, looking out over Maria’s property, telling her about what is to come, what his - theirs, him and Maria - next plan is as she measures whether she can rise and get dressed or whether he will return to the bed before dawn.)

She blinks once, twice, her gaze fixed on the boulder with the flowers and she’s lost a few moments, because Dr Cullen has finished speaking and an old man and middle-aged woman step forward.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

The spell over the group is broken, and the woman is there with her hair pinned back too tight, her gaze set on Mary-Alice.

Her voice cracks with hours, days, of crying. Of exhaustion and grief and resentment and loss. Quill’s mother, evidently. She heard someone mention that he had a mother and no father, no siblings.

A mother, what a strange concept.

She’s curious at the idea of a mother, of someone who takes upon the role to care and love and protect another with no expectations or agreements. She has to assume that another version of Mary-Alice, the dead one with a heartbeat and a history, had a mother who cared about her. But in her memory, she’s never had another person love her. It’s not a sad thought or a resentful thought, more anthropological.

She’s lived through hellish experiences, ones she tucks into the back of her mind, and there was never anyone she could turn to for comfort, for commiseration, for aid.

Mary-Alice, alone.

(She cannot deny the Major cares in some fragmented way, and that they are utterly tangled together thanks to their history and her visions and sheer dumb luck. But the Major has never been her caretaker or bodyguard. In fact, she’s almost certain she’s taken care of him more than anyone has ever cared for her.

She wonders, for a moment, what it would have been like.)

“We are,” Dr Cullen says, and even she knows that Dr Cullen is purposely misunderstanding. The Cullens are neat and civilized and golden-eyed - even if the dark ochre colour indicates they are getting thirsty. Their clothing is scented with flowers, and their shoes are shiny and new.

She is the outlier, the waif and crone both. Her eyes are still red enough to be jarring against that of the Cullens - dark red, like overripe cherries.

“Her,” Quill’s mother points at her, accusingly and she wonders what the woman wants from this confrontation. A sacrifice, a confession, a face to pin the blame.

(Shall she spill the list of lives she’s taken, to make it easier for the woman? She can give names for some, but the rest can only be identified by descriptions, by hair colours and attire and in some cases, the memory of the shape of their broken bones, of the kind of grave she gave them. Should she be the face of the crime?)

There will be no confrontation because she’s tired of being a monster. She’d rather be a ghost. So she ducks her head and looks to the mud, and sidles behind the Major where she cannot be seen by the grieving family. She pulls her limbs tight against her, makes herself small and inconsequential.

(I sucked the blood from a dead man on the highway before I came here to help. He was cold and sour and gone. I have killed more than my share of people, madam, but none on your land. Not yet.)

Edward elbows her sharply, just as she recalls the hikers (she startled them, she did not murder them outright) and she doesn’t need to be a psychic to know that his resentment will boil over eventually, that he is not pleased that she was brought along with the family whilst Isabella was explicitly left behind. She doesn’t flinch at his action and meanly flashes to her last meal and that perfectly good, forgotten watch.

(She thinks about pyres, about laying down limbs in spirals and patterns, about methodically stacking bodies. She thinks about funerals that aren’t funerals, and bodies turned to ash on the wind instead of a burial. She thinks about memorizing body parts and anatomy and realizes that maybe she has been to a funeral before.)

—

The memorial ends with a whimper, not a bang, and the smallest of the wolves holds a hand up as a farewell before they depart. Another pilgrimage through the still forest, the birds and animals falling silent at their presence.

She likes the forest. More places to hide, to sit. She wonders if the army would have been so… tense and unpleasant to live in if she had had a place like this to escape to, to find sanctuary in.

Probably. But respite would have been nice.

The Cullens are quiet as they return home and Edward immediately leaves to find Isabella. She just trails after the Major, and leaves a damp, muddle footprint on the kitchen floor, a perfect shape.

She finds herself in the Major’s study, where her things are folded on the arm of the couch and she carefully strips off the sweater and folds it with the other clothing that the Cullens have given her.

The Major watches her, loosening his tie and taking off his jacket almost awkwardly before he decides something, and chooses to change his clothing entirely which is good. The suit is oddly stiff oh him, even if it fits right. It makes him seem more human, more vulnerable and further away, so she is glad to see the back of it.

She leaves her hairpins in because she has nowhere to keep them, and she doesn’t want to leave them. She hopes Esme returns her cat hoodie soon; the pockets zipped up, and it was as safe as anywhere to keep her things.

“I’m sorry.” The words sound tired and she turns around to see the Major buttoning up another shirt, but she still catches a glimpse of the old scar, the one that runs from his collarbone to his ribs, from the debacle with Emile just before Peter fled. She should have been faster, that night, should have been smarter. That scar is on her.

“Mrs Ateara knew about us but was given more detail in the wake of Quill’s death,” the Major looks down at his phone for a moment before looking back up at her. “I wouldn’t have let you go if I’d known she would try to confront you.”

He looks uneasy for a moment and she wants to laugh, that he assumes that she would pitch a fit at the accusation, a perfectly just one at that. She wasn’t Quill’s killer, but she was a killer with the rose-red eyes to prove it. She’s never had to answer to the survivors, to the family, before. Not humans, at least.

“You don’t have to apologize to me, Major,” she replies, her fingers tracing a scar on her left wrist absently. “Dr Cullen wanted us all to attend.” Would she have gone if Dr Cullen hadn’t said that? That’s two questions: would the Cullens have let her stay at the home alone and unguarded? And would she have gone?

“I would have spoken to him if you hadn’t wanted to go,” the Major presses and she doesn’t recognize the look in his eyes, but he’s looking for something, a special kind of response that she’s not certain she knows.

She shrugs again. What is there to say? She follows orders, she watches and learns and plans. She’d never been to a proper memorial before, and now she has. She got a new sweater and hairpins out of it.

Maybe she even wanted to see what the Cullens, as a family, were like.

“He shouldn’t have died,” is what she says, and when she looks up, she spots a photo of Peter and Charlotte, grinning at the camera. She idly wonders where they are now; there is no love lost between her and Peter, and Charlotte was terrified of her all those decades ago.

It’s not the response the Major was looking for, she knows, because he looks away and takes a seat in the chair by his desk, running his hand through his hair. “No, he shouldn’t have. But we can’t go back and change what’s happened,” he says almost irritably, and it feels like they aren’t talking about Quill anymore but she’s not sure what he is referring to.

She leaves then, spinning on her heel and slipping through the house and into the forest where the stillness is as constant, decipherable and reassuring as ever.

(It should be a comfort to know that even without knowing the could-have-beens and the maybes, the Major might have changed some things. That she’s not the only one with untouched history looming over her shoulder. Instead, it feels like failure, like she’s put something together in the wrong order and it’s too late to fix it.)

—

It takes another day or two, but when she realizes she’s thirsty, she wants to scream.

(At first, she dismisses it - she’s just tense and trying to find some manner of control over the unknowable. And then her traitorous mind counts backward, to the last meal, the one of the accident outside of Forks before she tracked down the Major. Days and days ago, especially with the battle in the middle. She’s getting thirsty, and that feels world-ending. She can exist in this in-between place, this unknowable purgatory, as long as she doesn’t need to feed. That’s when everything will fall apart.)

Her eyes are still red, though darker. Her throat is dry but not raw. If she lingers in the house a little more, in corners that held Isabella’s presence long enough to soak the air with human blood, she’s just making sure she’s still in control. No other reason.

She might prowl a little further into the forest, towards roads with sweeping turns, or to cliff faces that are one terrible mistake away from another dead. Just in case.

(If the skin is split, if the body is dying, she can take her fill. No one condemns a vulture for taking flesh, for the wild animal to take its share. As long as she isn’t murdering on this land, she has fulfilled her side of the deal. That she is almost confident in.

—

The trek to the hunting fields is akin to the one they made to the memorial but feels much more dire to her, at least.

She feels twitchy and hyper-alert as they walk - perhaps because the Major is in front of her, and it is Emmett at her back. She hadn’t complained but maybe she should have, insisted that if anyone was behind her, it had to be the Major.

Or Esme. She has nothing to fear from her.

They pause in a gully, forming a circle, and Emmett is next to her now. Better, but not ideal.

They stand, all neat and prim in fancy walking shoes and sleek pants and hiking clothes, looking at Dr Cullen.

If he tries to pray at them, she’s leaving.

(Edward gives her the dirtiest look when she thinks that, and she scowls back at him and wonders exactly what it will take to put him in his place. She’s so very, very dangerous and he’s treating her like a naughty child. Resentment is a dangerous emotion, if she allowed herself such things, and yet he still plays with fire…)

“We have free-range of this part of the national park,” Dr Cullen begins, looking directly at her. “There are no campsites or trails in this area, and a relatively safe range in the western half of the Olympic National Park. There’s a reasonable supply of animal life, as well.”

Dr Cullen should write an introductory pamphlet. Handing those out would be less awkward than this spiel. Not that she can read.

“Perhaps Jasper could accompany you, if you require it?” Dr Cullen is infinitely polite to her, and she doesn’t need anyone to explain that he wants someone to hunt with her, to make sure that she doesn’t go rogue.

As if Dr Cullen or his family could stop her doing exactly what she pleased. It’s almost cute and a little funny they think it’s possible.

Edward frowns at that thought, his eyes narrowing and body tensing, but she ignores him.

“I’m fine by myself,” is all she says, and the Major looks down at the ground and perhaps that was the wrong answer? Perhaps she was supposed to hunt with a partner? But they are an odd number, and the mated couples would go off together, so at least one of them will go alone and it should be her. She’s the outsider.

“Of course,” Dr Cullen doesn’t flinch. “We will meet back here when we’re all done. Please clean up once you finish, Mary-Alice. We don’t want to attract unwanted attention.”

She nods once, and darts deeper into the woods alone. As easy as it would be to run off, to find some solitary hunter or hiker, she doesn’t. She’s not an idiot, and maybe she’s even a little curious - the Major had been a vicious hunter in his day; even when the depression sunk into him, once he got into the frenzy he had not been a clean killer. But somehow, he had taken to this strange way of sustaining himself. It hadn’t been easy, she knew that, but he still managed it.

And she wanted to understand him-it better.

And she needs to do it alone. To know what her other-self would have known so intimately.

She scales a tree in her path, and waits. Bigger animals, that’s what she needs. She’s not entirely sure if Emmett was joking, earlier, when he suggested squirrels and rabbits because she’s so small. But she’s desperately thirsty, and a squirrel isn’t going to cut it. She’s not certain that they are deep enough in the park to find a really large animal (bears are a treat, according to Emmett, not casual fare. And the idea of dining on a wolf after everything seems unhinged.)

But it doesn’t take long for a herd of deer to flit into the nearest clearing. Blissfully stupid deer.

Flinging herself from the tree, she has one of the deer pinned against the ground in a second. It makes a hideous noise, as its ribcage snaps under her rough grip, and she hurriedly snaps its neck and sinks her teeth into its neck.

Waiting for that epiphany, that salvation, that clarifying moment.

Or just a meal to take the edge off.

Except…

The beast is vile. She cannot even swallow it. Sour and bitter and wrong, wrong, wrong. She tries to resist the urge but she gives up quickly, and coughs most of it back up - splattering the luminous green of the forest with a mix of blood and venom that bleaches and curdles the leaves as she rocks back to sit on the ground, stunned.

She’s never been one to be picky about her meals - most people insist on fresh kills, before the blood cools. She’s not above feeding from a body that’s been dead an hour or two, or with the taint of sickness or chemicals. It’s not desirable but it is a meal.

But this is an impossible task. The deer looks at her with sticky, dead eyes, and she knows that it has already spoilt beyond consumption - if it could be considered edible in the first place.

How did the Major manage this? From Mexico to this reeking, poisonous disaster? How does anyone think this is possible? It can’t be. There must be a trick to it, something she’s missing.

(She tries again, with a fresh deer and tries not to think as she splits open the artery. One, two mouthfuls is enough. It’s the most that she can manage, and for the first time ever, she has to wash her mouth out with water to banish the taste.)

She cannot manage enough to sustain her. And going hungry isn’t an unfamiliar thing - not in her post-Monterrey life, at least - but this is not the south. This isn’t even unclaimed land. This is a strange new world where she cannot, under any circumstances slip. And no matter how hard she looks, how hard she thinks, she cannot find a loophole, an alternative, a slight of hand just yet.

She’ll just have to be very, very careful. For how long, she doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know. There is just a deep well of … everything knotted up inside her, of panic and fear and misery and loneliness and she cannot let it out. Not now. Not here, with these people who watch her so sharply and treat her like some kind of filthy, feral atom bomb. People who don’t know anything, and have lived soft and quiet and don’t know that pain stretches but never seems to break, and that not being alone is the highest of privileges. That she cannot hunt like they do but that doesn’t make her weak and it doesn’t make her lesser, and she wants to go home.

(She lets the pain well and ebb then, back down where she keeps it so that no one will see. This will not be the thing that breaks her. The idea is ridiculous, that a bad hunt could bring her to her knees. No, she’s gone hungry much longer in the south. This is nothing.)

She buries the deer deep, and for a moment, she feels terrible at the sheer waste of the animals. Dead for two mouthfuls of blood because she is no more a vegetarian than she is a tree frog. She’s never once felt so bad for the humans in the pit, for the ones that she tore up and burnt. But they were never wasted, not by her.

When she returns to the clearing, mud on her knees and her dress, they have already regrouped and are waiting for her. The Major has a strange expression on his face when she returns; and she can tell by the way the family relaxes that she’s fulfilled expectations - dirt on her hands and blood on her face. If her eyes have lightened at all, it will fade within hours.

And then…

She’s too far gone for her fairy-tale ending.

(It is a distant thought, that of a version of herself that is watching this tableau with consideration. A truth that she will have to acknowledge some time.)

This isn’t going to work.

(In her heart of hearts, she knows this. She’s here on borrowed time. All that planning for nothing.)