Disclaimer: these are stephenie meyers characters being mutilated. in case you were confused.

a/n: And thus we come to the end. Uh, sexual content below? Warning? Do you need to be warned for anything in this fic?


Jacob Black's Journal

Entry: The End

I go into town the next morning to get the newspaper the next morning, and all I can do is stare blankly down at the newsprint. The headline is as ridiculous as it somehow cosmically fitting:

Forks Examiner

HEADLINE NEWS: LOCAL SHERIFF AND DAUGHTER DISAPPEAR. MYSTERY SURROUNDING CABIN ARSON. ONLY GINGERSNAP COOKIE CRUMBS, A TORN WHITE DRESS, AND SYRINGES REMAIN. LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT SUSPECTS DRUG CRIME SURGANCE FROM HIPPIE HIKER TOURISTS.

For more see. P. A7

I have a shit headache. The headache is nine-parts from the mental screaming between Sam and Leah (She almost seems immune to his alpha voice—and honestly, I think Sam's half terrified to use it on her.) and one-part caffeine depravation. I almost think about doing the oh-so-teenage faux pas of going into the Quickie Mart and buying a two-liter Coke for breakfast. That always pisses my dad off, Coke for breakfast. For some reason, he gets madder about it than he does about the smoking and drinking on the rez. But anyway, dad is probably drinking this morning—what with his best friend being turned into a vampire and all.

Not to mention his best friend's daughter.

Right. That girl I had a crush on.

Bella's a bloodsucker—fuck.

God, this thinking is making my head hurt, but still I do the math and realize that even with the tip and the annoyance of the townies chattering around me—the all-you-can-drink-coffee urns at the diner will still be a better deal. Yes, it's only an eighty-seven-cent savings, but I need yet another pair of new shoes—and socks. The change jar is near empty again. I am currently padding about in flip-flops—and it's forty degrees and February—not that this matters (I'm always warm.), but people give me weird looks. Therefore, I trudge over to good ole Pine Steeple.

I stomp on in there and slide into one of the booths, and since no waitress is nearby I pull my napkins toward me and pen "COFFEE" in awkward letters over the paper pattern, and then push it to the table's edge, after which I am able to cross my arms with grumpy satisfaction and bury my head into them. My ears are tuned only to the clank of the coffee urn—and mug. All else is white noise.

Sometime later I heard the clunk of a mug. I look up to see not a waitress, but Lauren the blond bitch chick.

"Your napkin was annoying me," she says, holding out a full mug. "And there's only one waitress on shift this morning, and she is a total fucking moron. She was assigned to sit next to me in my math class last semester—I used to have to listen to her try to add."

I swipe the mug from her, before she can utter another sound—and drain it, letting the acrid black liquid kick down the back of my throat. The subsequent chemical pleasure makes me shiver when my brain finally registers the filling of the caffeine tank in the space behind my eye sockets. It feels so good I groan.

Laurent, before me, remains stoic.

"Uh, thanks for the coffee. I needed that—I still need more, but—"

We hear a clatter of plates and then the sound of glass breaking. We turn to see the waitress sprawled on the floor with scrambled egg sitting on top of her hair bun and tears dripping down her red cheeks. The line cook rushes over, and the waitress leans into him, weeping into the crook of his neck.

Lauren shakes her head. "The lengths some people will go to get laid."

I smirk—it's hard not to. Her bitchiness feels good right now. "Uh, what do you mean?"

"Like, you don't know. She was your friend." When I frown at her, she continues, "Everyone's playing at a big sob fest over Bella Swan. Like that waitress—she used to bitch about how snobby Bella was—but now she's pretending they were spit sisters or some shit."

"So… if you're so annoyed over the Bella Swan 'sob fest'—why'd you leave your friends to come sit with me? Her friend…"

"Easy. Your napkin was less annoying than my friends." She inclines her chin over shoulder in the direction of a booth full of solemn looking teenagers. "And… I suppose you looked less fake-sad and more resigned. Also, I think you're hot."

Rightie-o, then. "Uh, you're hot, too?"

"Yeah, I can tell you think so. You stare a lot."

"Sorry?"

"No." She purses her lips, like she's trying to make a decision, and then she asks, "Do you want to get out of here?"

"Uh…"

"Doesn't sex help with grief?"

"Oh, uh…" My jaw is hanging open as my brain tries to compute that this is really happening, and then it dawns on me that I'm getting propositioned, so I jump to my feet. "Yes. Yes it does."

"Jesus Christ… did I have to make that more obvious?" she asks as she grabs her purse.

We leave. That's how she ends up on all fours, and I no longer have feelings of inadequacy.

Or illogical sympathy for pickles.

Sue made me start a journal at the next pack meeting. She wrote it down on her list. She said I needed to "confront my emotions over our recent loses." Whatever, it was fine. At least she didn't make me bake cookies.

Thus, I have documented this tale of tail. (Pun. Pun. Pun.)

Word.


From: Myfraidypantzmateizavampire[at]vampadoodle[dot]com

To: cop_a_feel_baby[at]sexymanthangs[dot]net

Date: 2/19/2005 10:05

Subject: Closing In

Dear Laurent:

How are you?

How's "Charles"? (Snort.)

I'm currently in Rio, of all places—and it really is everything you said. Edward's hiding in the Ritz while he waits for Carlisle to call him back. Carlisle is not calling him back. I already talked to Esme, and she's mad as a tea kettle at Edward. So, yeah, zero calls will be returned—besides, I think she and Carlisle are having a good time on their "isle."

Really, this whole business is ridiculous. Edward thinks that by hiding from me in a tropical place, he'll somehow be able to evade me. Hah. It's amusing. He still doesn't know that I can now control my invisibility when I want to—even in the day time.

I've taken to leaving white scraps of dress for Edward to find.

Under his pillow.

Hanging from the shower hook.

Dangling from tree branches when he goes to hunt…

If there was any doubt in his mind that they're from me, it's always dispelled when he leans down to sniff them. I watch him. His back tenses every time, and he looks around, as if he thinks he'll be able to find me. Of course, he can't. But then, he also always pockets the scraps, like they're dirty panties or something.

(Pervert.)

At this point, I'm biding my time.

Love and kisses,

Bella


"It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible." —Oscar Wilde


Phone Log:

Text from Alice (907-340-5298) to Bella (212-288-7889):

He's going to walk the beach
tonight. There's a copse of
palm trees that you can wait
among. He won't detect you.

Bella (212-288-7889) to Alice (907-340-5298):

Roger that.
Also how's my dad?
I can't talk to Laurent about
him. L starts talking about
uniforms and glass dildos,
and well, EW. It's my DAD.
Also, C wasn't gay the last
time I saw him, so…

Alice (907-340-5298) to Bella (212-288-7889):

Well, honestly, I can't say
I'm that surprised either way.
Now that C's no longer color-
blind, he has fabulous fashion
choices. You have no idea how
seeing in grey-brown must
have been holding him
back. Also, I think he's "bi"
dearie. Your mom was a colorful
person, and well, Laurent is
nothing if not colorful.
Charlie thinks it's pretty cool
you can turn invisible.
And of course, he's excited
About his own power.

Bella (212-288-7889) to Alice (907-340-5298):

Wait.
His own POWER?
What?

Alice (907-340-5298) to Bella (212-288-7889):

Oh, I thought you knew
with Edward never being
able to read Charlie's thoughts
and all.

Bella (212-288-7889) to Alice (907-340-5298):

Edward NEVER told me that.
He made it seem like he could
hear Charlie.

Alice (907-340-5298) to Bella (212-288-7889):

Hmm. Interesting.
Well, those days are over for
Eddo after tonight.
Oh, and your dad
can make any one
be silent. Shut up
and stuff. It's why
he and Laurent work
so well.

Bella (212-288-7889) to Alice (907-340-5298):

Wow. That explains
everything.
Oh, and Alice…?

Alice (907-340-5298) to Bella (212-288-7889):

Yes, Bella?

Bella (212-288-7889) to Alice (907-340-5298):

I don't hate you anymore.

Alice (907-340-5298) to Bella (212-288-7889):

Oh, I know.
I knew it before you did.
Good luck tonight.

Bella (212-288-7889) to Alice (907-340-5298):

Over and out.


Bella Swan's e-Diary


In any ordinary fairy tale, it's the hero that tames the shrew—well, that, or karmic fate or some pink-puffed fairy godmother (which, now that I think of it—Laurent fits that role even better than he fits skinny jeans). Or in the reverse, the heroine's goodness is such that she sees through her own blinders and is able to discover the good in this "strange, dark (and handsome) misanthrope." She saves him at the last second—before the last rose petal falls or before the blinded Rochester can be swallowed by his own grief.

I am not a heroine. I was never one. I realize that now.

Because this was never about equality.

I thought it was. I just needed to be a vampire—like him. Equals.

No. I'm a vampire now, and I finally get it. Not equality—such a baby dumpling standard. This charade has been about predator and prey. About the hunt that never was. Edward wanted what he couldn't have—he wanted to test himself, to live on the edge—to delve in the mystery of my unknown mind.

I ask myself, as I sit on the beach with the palm fronds flapping above me, if this meant he ever really loved me.

Yes, I decide, as much as he knew how.

I know he still wants me.

The fabric sniffing tells that particular tale.

Which is not to say that he doesn't have much to learn.

He does.

I'm going to teach him.


I hear him long before I see him. As silent as his steps are, my ears pick them up easily above the gentle roar of the surf. When I see him, he's wearing a loose linen shirt, tied across his chest in knots. He has a hand combed into his air, gripping just above his temple—the grip looking too tight for someone just out for a walk. His steps are long and even, though. That makes me smile. Edward can't brood in place. He has to hunt or walk or run.

He's close to me. So very close when he freezes.

I see his side profile—I see his jaw tense and his nostrils flare. I can't help it. I feel like a cat incapable of not playing with her food. It wiggles too much not to poke it. I open my mouth. I inhale a breath, and then I blow it right at him.

He spins to face me, eyes not knowing where to focus, but he is taking in rapid breaths, and I can tell he's trying to trace me by scent, because he knows my scent so well. I half-expect him to flee, but he doesn't.

No, Edward whispers to the night, "Bella…?"

It makes me smile, hearing him say my name.

I don't respond back with words, instead I allow him to see me—almost. I let my profile shimmer ever so slightly with the light of the moon and the reflecting ripples of the sea.

Edward takes a hesitant step forward.

I take a step back.

This surprises him—clearly. He expected me to leap after him.

As if I would be so stupid.

"Bella?" he says my name again, but this time, it's not "Are you there?" This time it's an "I don't get it." I stare at him. I smile. His eyes are locked on mine. He looks so unbelievably frustrated.

Well, I am sorry, dear one, but you're not getting a verbal explanation.

I turn my back to him, and once again. I disappear.

I can feel his frenzy in the next instant. The energy and panic spills off of him, needles and pins down my spine. Edward seems to explode, unfurling and then snapping into motion like a sail in catching a headwind. He runs toward me, with a panic to him that says he thinks I've actually transported myself out of existence. That his Bella is really gone. But I still very much exist, and he confirms this when his finger pads brush across my shoulder.

I stay still, but where his fingers press, my skin is tingling, its transparency fluttering, so that we can both see the marbled skin there humming in the spot around his fingers.

Edward looks down at the spot, transfixed, and then he moves his hands across my collar bone. His eyes are wide and curious, watching with something akin to discomfort—his elbows are pulled tight at his sides—and yet his eyes don't leave the path of his hands, watching the skin appear then disappear in lines as his fingers trace.

"Beautiful," he whispers. His fingers stop at the cove between the two collar bones, and then his fingers start to trail downwards.

"Is it?" I ask, voice trembling.

"Not 'it,'" he corrects me. "You."

"You can't see me."

"Let me see you."

"You'll run away."

"I—" he cuts off as he recognizes his own instincts. "I'm sorry about that."

"I don't believe you."

His thumb which is trailing down my chest stops. He lifts it and brushes it against my lips. "Say it again," he begs.

"I said I don't believe you."

He watches my lips move, although this time, he's studying me. "Why?" he asks.

"You've run away twice now, left me alone when I needed you. Third time's the charm."

"I was afraid."

"Of me."

"No—of what I was doing to you."

"Not this last time."

"Or yes, because of what I did to you."

"That's cowardly."

He doesn't like that. His breath comes out in a hiss. My words don't fit with the image he has of himself, I know. He likes to think of himself as noble and self-sacrificing. He's probably justified his leaving after the fact by not "wanting to take advantage of an out of control newborn." Courage not cowardice, of course. My accusation has pissed him off, and I feel the thumb on my cheek press hard—vampire-hard in response.

But his strength is nothing to mine now. I smack his hand away. I pull his lips to mine. His teeth graze my bottom lip in the struggle and the stinging slice of his teeth burns. It hurts. I don't care. I ignore it, because we're bowled over on the sand—rolling just like bowling pins in our struggle. Edward is trying to spin me around. Trying to overpower me with wrestling moves—like I've seen him do with his brothers, but he can't read my mind, and even if I have no knowledge of technique, my newborn strength is too much for him—and with a final spin, a final snarl, a final shove, I'm on top of him, and my shape-sand covered, and Edward's mouth is open so wide I can see the venom coating his back molars.

"You're naked," he gasps, shifting his hips below me.

"You're not." But that's not hard to fix. I grab at the ties on his shirt and tug. It rips right off.

"You're covered in sand," Edward puts his sand covered finger in my belly button, and swirls it about, watching the sand powder an outline.

I take this moment to rip open the front of his pants.

But his bellybutton shit is a ruse, because while my hands are occupied he rolls us, and we spin like a barrel, rolling down the beach, stopping only when we splash into the waves. Then it's a struggle, because even vampires get slippery, frictionless skin and all, and Edward is pushing me down into the waves, and I'm kicking out his ankles.

It's not really a fight. Or can you call it a fight if every time he pins me, I let him have the victor seat for a second, enough to grind against me? Or if and when I have his hips pinned to the ocean floor, I can feel his mouth suck along my breast?

We're deep in the water, far from the roll of the waves, when I decide I've had enough. I have both of his hands pinned in a fog of demolished coral, and my knees pin his thighs into slimy kelp. Edward's head is still thrashing, trying to throw me off, when I press against him, and then I kiss him.

The kiss takes him by surprise. He freezes completely before he kisses me back. It's not rough this time. There's no sting of razor-sharp teeth. The kiss is soft, drastically sweet after our struggles. Now there's just the awkwardness of the water trying to infiltrate everything, just the cold escape of his venom into my mouth, and the feel of his hands sliding up my hips.

When I raise myself above him, his hands are adjusting the angle of my hips. His eyes are wide with pupils dilated, looking back into my own. When I press down, he presses up—and then we're gasping together, even as I realize we're floating, having somehow rolled off the shelf and into deeper, darker waters.

We have to use each other as leverage. My ankles dig into his ass. His hands grip my waist, my shoulder. We're twisting and twisting and rolling without angle until it's like we've formed a knot that can't be undone—and yet it's being pulled tighter and tighter anyway—so tight it hurts. In fact, I snarl in the water when Edward's teeth shrink into my shoulder, but I'm snarling for every other reason, too, because his hips have been meeting mine with a fury, and when he bites it's at the same time that I realize I'm pressed against the ocean floor, and looking up through the water, somehow still able to make out the moon through the surface tension, and yet, when the sting of the bite finally ebbs, I can't see the sky or much of anything else. The whole sky is white.

I'm limp, and Edward carries me to the shore.

He sets me down on the sand and lies next to me, pulling me close and nuzzling his face into my wet hair. We lie there silent and his fingers trace over me.

"I see you," he whispers after a while.

It's true. It's hard to think about invisibility when you're having an orgasm.

I smile at him, and then turn invisible again.

He laughs and says, "I still see you." This time his finger is tracing the crescent scar where he bit me. It shines even though the rest of me is transparent.

"Clever," I mutter.

He smiles with a look that says he is proud of himself—and for more than just the bite.

I laugh, but I also stand up and walk back to the copse of palms.

I heard a "hey!" called out behind me as Edward rises in pursuit. I still have time to dig my fingers into the sand. To pull out the phone. Edward's standing there in fully erect horror when I take the picture.

"Did you just…?"

I'm quick with the buttons. I send the picture to Laurent.

I get an "Image Sent" message just as Edward grabs my phone and crumbles it into bits of scrap.

"What the hell was that?" Edward asks.

I press up again him. I kiss him, catching him with my palm at the same time and earning a low groan. "Just fulfilling a promise is all," I whisper in his ear.

I know that somewhere, Laurent is laughing.


...Oh, my. Well, I'm sad to see this end. It's been fun, my lovelies.

So now, I'll be working on Yesternight, which is all angsty slash and has two chapters up.

Thanks again! I adore you all and I want everyone to know I wish you could have some of Leah's cookies. (hehehe)