What exactly he was doing here all by himself Jasper really didn't know

AN: So sorry for the long wait! I've had this for weeks now and just haven't found the time to do anything about it (testing and such). But suggestions are welcome and reviews are even better. It's funny but I keep saying this will be the last segment of this work and I keep thinking of more ideas. I might do a piece of Jasper's proposal. But once again thanks to my Beta reader and all her fantastic work and I do not own Stephenie Meyer's work…except in paper back…and the movie (when it comes out) and just about anything else that comes out for it.

The Theory of Impossible Relativity

What exactly he was doing here all by himself Jasper really didn't know. All he knew was that he was tired. Not tired in the normal, human, conventional sense of the word, for that was impossible for him to know, but tired none-the-less. Bone weary of the pain, of the fear that was raising as sharply as a knife blade though his senses. Fear he had to try harder than he'd like to separate from himself, to remind himself it wasn't his fear he was sensing, it wasn't in his need to be afraid.

Ah, but there's the woe. It always led to the fact that no, the fear was not his. It was because of him and the comfort he could afford to offer them was the barest shell of peace; the fuzzy paw to cover the razor claws. Any sense of ease that brought them to death's embrace through him was a lie. His claws weren't retractable.

They truly had every right to be afraid.

All his life had been a storm of hell; one battle to the next. Kill or be killed. Pain was superficial. Pleasure, peace as incomprehensible as life he was so dead inside. There was nothing, absolutely nothing but a legacy that would make skin crawl if he so ever cared to masquerade it as a story by the fireside.

A monster. He was a monster. And he couldn't take it anymore.

That was why he was here.

All things considered he might be a different kind of monster than his beginnings had warranted. A tamer one in the most wishful of thinking, but, he had never been much of one for wishful thinking.Just because the blood slowed down didn't mean it stopped flowing… It was Peter who noticed it first. Realized, at least in part, what he himself could not, would not, acknowledge. Peter and his wife Charlotte, who were god-sends in every sense but a soul.

'It always gets worse after you hunt.' he had said.

At the time, Jasper had just shrugged 'I don't see much I can do about it then; I can't just not feed.' But he supposed looking at where he was now: in the daytime, in a quiet corner square of Philadelphia, alone, that somewhere in the back of his mind what little remnants of humanity he had left, his undying perfectionism and prickly southern pride had asserted themselves, without his conscious awareness, to the impossible: to, in fact, do something about it. To find a way out.

He sighed. Now if only he could figure out how. His eyes were dark, his stomach a knot of burning, worrying him a little with the fact that he was in public sight. Though, since he had come this far, he very much doubted fate would hand him any brilliant illuminations in the near future. In fact, he thought, glancing at the sky, fate didn't seem inclined to give out anything more than dampened clothing and spirits at this point.

He looked around quickly, spotting a classic little diner with water droplets already beginning to splatter onto its striped awning. Self-cautionary instincts honed by years of war, mortal and immortal alike, prompted him to the curb and across the narrow street. Inconspicuousness was the key to survival no matter what odd quirks of freedom the North warranted. Besides which, an hour here or there wasn't going to bring answers any closer. Aspects of a destiny didn't simply fall into place in ten minutes. It was impossible.

With that creed in mind, he stepped through the door; absently listening to the cheerful ringing of the tiny welcome bell above the doorway while taking in the dimly lit, sparsely crowded restaurant. Movement at the counter caught his ever-wary attention and a high stool swiveled in his direction.

She smiled. That was the first thing that struck him. It was radiant, beautiful, worlds…galaxies away from any such gestures he had seen before. It took him a blink to even register the fact that she was one of his own kind. She jumped down from the counter, her tiny frame absorbing the impact; moving toward him with the graceful litheness of a cat, a subtle, muted strength that seemed almost incomprehensibleto him. He had the sudden, odd compulsion to sweep her up in his arms and run out the door with her, to protect her. Though from what he had not the faintest idea and the urge was swept away almost as soon as it had come, by the curious sensation that time had whispered to a stand-still around the two of them.

The rain tapping on the rooftop, the muffled conversations, the clink of silverware, it all fell away in the wake of her eyes. Those strange honey colored eyes that were so peaceful, so piercing and knowing; like the fate of the world had been laid out at her fingertips and she had just been waiting for someone to share it with, the only one who could understand it all with her.

As she kept walking toward him, he felt a moment's confusion. What was she doing? Was she going to attack? Some brute practical side of him asked what else could she possibly be doing. But if that was so—why were her eyes searing his empty shell of a soul like—? Why was she radiating—her emotions were almost innumerable: relief, excitement, nervousness and…and something else he wasn't sure he could name…something he could not recall feeling, for a monster could not feel such a thing, that strange nameless something that started a warm, pleasant glow that had its epicenter in his hollow chest. A something that had the indescribable accompiment of rightness, like something in his dark cold world had slipped into place where he hadn't even know it was missing, had flooded him with a light he hadn't seen for centuries beyond count and hadn't realized he missed so much. A piece of his human self finding its way back to him at long last: Hope. Love. All this and she hadn't even spoken a word to him yet.

She stopped less than a foot away and looked up at him with an expression somewhere between bemused and matter-of-fact. Which, he was sure was more control than his face had managed.

"You're late," she said, "You've kept me waiting a long time." Despite the fact he was feeling more than a step or two behind this woman, he couldn't help but agree. He had been waiting for something for a long time too, and it seemed to have found him. But best to be cautious and when in doubt: be courteous.

So falling back on his southern heritage he ducked his head cordially, humbly, "I'm sorry ma'am." She laughed, Heaven had never heard such a sound, and offered him her hand…Warrior that he was, Jasper had learned long ago to trust his instincts. He knew as soon as he wrapped his palm into those exquisitely delicate fingers he wouldn't ever be letting that hand, or the person attached to it, very far out of his reach again.

It was impossible.