This wasn't supposed to start posting for awhile yet, but Jill is a bad influence and Fran beta'd this in RECORD time, so here you go.

I'm gonna try and keep this one on the lighter side, but there will be a little conflict cause you can't have a story without it.

It's a drabble, so I'll post daily. No clue how many chapters it will be, it's my "fun thing to keep my creative juices flowing."

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. I don't own the FBI. I can neither confirm or deny in the existence of the Human Intelligence Division.


Adrenaline coursed through my veins unbidden. I had been preparing for this for months now. The evidence had been gathered, the timeline established, the motive discovered. I had seen all I needed to see about Miss Isabella Swan.

It didn't matter that she was beautiful, kind, sweet, and funny. It didn't matter that she spent so much time doing charity work and helping friends in any way she could.

It was all a mask.

A farce.

And it was the whole reason I got into this career, to begin with; to save lives people like her planned to end.

Weber takes my flank, following close behind as I make my way up the stairs to her apartment. I grip the frigid steel of my gun with both hands, arms straight, and eyes alert. The building has been quietly evacuated, she's the only one left, and she has no idea we're coming for her.

The hallway blurs, and I make it to her door before I know it. This is it. The moment that changes everything.

It's sitting ajar, just a tiny bit, and my blood runs cold. Did he get to her first?

I lean my shoulder into the dilapidated door, the hinges creaking to announce my arrival. Turning to Weber, I jerk my head to signal her to follow, her answering nod all I need to enter the apartment.

I'm expecting a bloodbath; her body spread in a macabre scene, riddled with bruises and stab wounds. Or his body, even.

I'm not expecting a small, wisp of a girl sunk into a bean bag chair, wearing only a thin T-shirt and a pair of white cotton panties with mother fucking flowers on him, slurping Ramen noodles from a saucepan without a care in the world.

Without a care, that is, until she sees us.

Her eyes triple in size, bigger and much more innocent than they seemed when I was watching her. Noodles hang like a strange waterfall, and she gasps, sputtering on them as she drops her fork.

It's a little gross.

"On your feet, now. Hands up," Weber demands sharply, her shouts more like a drill Sergeant than you would ever imagine at first glance.

Isabella, for I refuse to call her by her preferred moniker of Bella, jumps up immediately and shoots her hands high in the air.

I can't help it. It's unprofessional as fuck, but my eyes dart down to the thin line of flat stomach exposed between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her panties.

Weber holsters her gun and steps forward to pat her down, and I'm so caught off guard by how badly I wish it were me.

What the fuck.

"You're under arrest for Conspiracy to Commit Murder—"

"What?" Isabella squeaks, visibly shaking as Weber guides her wrists behind her back.

"Anything you say can and will be—"

"No, no, this is a mistake! I could never, I would never—" she rambles then pauses, her face lighting up like the light bulb going off in her head.

And then she bursts out laughing.

Great, she's cracked.

Guys. I'm so excited to see what you think of this. This is going to be so fun. See you tomorrow!