Ficawesome Gift Echange- TAKE 2

Title: Free My Soul

Written for: Rebekah ~ Rebadams7

Written By: Ash ~ Skychaser

Rating: M+

Summary: Can a bird trapped in a cage find her wings and fly towards the sun which warms her? Bella is trapped in a world whose walls contain her spirit. Is her mysterious knight-in-shining armor enough to save her, or will she have to find the conviction to save herself? AH/AU - Entry for the 2nd Annual FFA Ficawesome Gift Exchange

Prompt(s) used: #4 - Meeting for the first time in an unexpected place/time AND #2 - A rainy afternoon and a couple taking teh time to discover sometihng new about themselves

If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the facebook group: Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps

Chapter One:
Hide and Seek

Spin me round again and rub my eyes, this can't be happening … Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth, mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut outs. Speak no feeling, no I don't believe.
You don't care a bit.

"Hide and Seek" – Imogean Heap



Stale hospital walls, for miles, as far as the eye can see.

They've bleached her vision, the pale yellow glare that looks more like peed-on snow, incandescent lights stretching past her, sterile, cold, filled with the bright reality of disease. The harsh, plastic seats are burying into her bones, the food eating away at her insides. The tubes eating away at her self.

Stupid, ignorant, possessive, needy, clingy, wrong … unfortunate.

She's been called every name in the book, sticks and stones rolling from her shoulders like water and ice. But she's been called names before. Now, it doesn't matter so much. All that matters is him.

And she has no idea how it's come to this.



Thin, white-washed smoke curls around her. Her gaze pierces his like hawks' eyes, feral, angry, and defenseless.

"Why are you here." The words slide from her lips, not a question, just a statement, honeyed death from between painted rouge, and she wonders what it's like to feel free. Not his freedom, not the blonde, polished shmuck sitting before her, lips tight, pants tighter. It's dark and it's dim in the seedy jazz club, and she can barely see the tremor in his fist, the light glinting off of the gold on his finger.

His hand lands, palm down, and then slides, flat, along the table, noises of metal against wood. Flesh lifts to reveal cold, purposeless silver and heavy, possessive diamonds. She smiles, ivory white against bold red.

"Really? Do you think I'm that easy?"

Her scoff lights up his eyes, fireworks in his veins.

"I am not a patient man, Isabella. I've given you two years. You've had your two years, now you're coming home –"

"To slave labor?" She fixes him with a cold glare, pulls the glass of amber colored liquid to her lips, faint bronze glinting off of smiling, ruby red lips. "Over. My. Dead. Body."

"Isabella –"

"Or, better yet, over yours."

He stops, frozen. The tremor returns, anger and rage eating into his bones, useless emotions for a woman who wears his whole world on a string, ancient men feeding from the palms of her polished pedigree hands. Lithely, she stands, two inches adding nothing to her mediocre height.

It's not the shoes that make her a memory. It's the hair, long and luscious, dipping to her waist; it's the eyes, deep and aged, a cache of memories to make the Godfather look tame. Slipping the silver-chained bag over her shoulder, she slides one hand through his curly, blonde locks. He tenses, tries not to retch, rivulets of resentment and apprehension a current under his skin.

"You know who I am. And I will not be a pawn in his petty games."

Her heels click against the polished wood, her body swirling through the smoke, foggy drifts hiding her from sight. He boils, ire inside of swarthy skin, flames inside of round, blue holes, devoid of hope, help, or concern.

A motion, barely seen, his fingers spin in the cloud of grey particles hanging dimly in the air, and they move in formation, hidden corners, separate from the shadows, wisps of smoke and murder.

She moves along the sidewalk; forever away, everything seems entrenched in misery. Even here, she isn't free, kept behind his lids, fingertips away from his grasp. Warmth spreads through the thin lace; the black tank rides against her hips, short stilettos never short enough. Breezes blow by, parting her hair, wafting past her senses, when she feels it. The creeping, never alone webs that spike through her shoulders, winding around her neck.

Ahead of her. Eyes cut right; they're that way too. They've surrounded her on every front, a gazelle in the gaze of a lioness, circling their prey.

But this prey is faster.

Her breath shortens, quick pants between pursed lips, face a perfect calm. She glances up; bright stars lifting the haze of night, warmth cutting through her bones. She truly has loved it here. Two years … the calm before the storm. A storm she had created herself.

A storm she would push through, embracing the thunder with the rain.

Side-stepping the lightning.

An open fence, darkly lit. She can see it from ten feet away, the entrance fading into curling, swarming black. The need outweighs the panic. Shadows of ghostly death close in. So much closer now, each step leading her towards and away. She can taste her freedom. Just one … more … step …

She bolts right, stilettos slipping from her toes, agilely springing onto the dirt, gritty grains beneath her, behind her. She pushes, sprinting faster, using her senses, her lessons, feeling her surroundings. Sliding, in and out of metal, till she can no longer hear the chase. Heart pounding through her throat, every instinct alive, awake, she runs towards her escape, her freedom.

They are there, ready to steal her every dream, vibrant shadows next to a pool of light, waiting, watching. It's a ready-set-go, a split-second decision, a sheer moment of panic. She darts further into the shadows, barely aware of her surroundings, straight into the looming object she prays is what she thinks it is.

The door creaks, a dead giveaway. She slips the metal latches together with a faint click. Stale stench swirls around her; the air reeks with malodorous waste and disease. Inhaling makes her feel faint, eyelids flutter closed. It's no less than insane she's sunk quite so low.

A construction site port-a-potty.

She places one hand, one ear, as close to the door as she dares, unable to hear a word. A huff of breath, irritation at unknowing, at this pawn-like existence, and she stretches out both arms, feeling for her surroundings. Rough plastic, hidden secrets she cannot and does not want to see. Now is the time to wait, but the wait is agonizing.

She slides backwards, struggling not to think of bare feet on this ground, thrusting her hands backwards to lower herself onto the edge, when something feels wrong.

It's warm, and firm, and rather flesh-like. She swallows hard, breathing in shallow gulps.

They've found her here, too. There is no escape, no freedom – but she won't give in without a fight.

She rears backwards, a frightened whorl, slinging a fist, aimless, anywhere, fleeting wishes that she hadn't gotten rid of her stilettos so soon.

"Ugh – fuck!" The words are a hiss, a shallow tenor, while arms faster than her movement wrap around her as simultaneous as her flails of dismay find purchase. She won't scream, but she bites at the hand that wraps around her face, large enough to smother her. His hiss ruffles the hair on the crown of her head this time.

"Shit – woman!" He pants once, pulling her lithe limbs and stiff strength closer, tighter, completely contained. "Do you want them to find us?"

She is still, and so very scared, an emotion she would never admit to. His breathing pulls at her hair, in and out, back and forth, tickling bits of her scalp.

"Now," he whispers, warm bits of breath leaking through her hair and running down her neck, "keep quiet, and I'll keep you safe. You promise not to bite me again?"

She nods, fighting back the tears and the hopes that he is true; she hasn't lost her freedom yet. He doesn't answer; instead, he relaxes his hold and leans her against him, warm, firm muscles and soft, supple skin. Minutes tick by, hours to her dizzy, tired, hopelessly hopeful mind, until he leans past her and gazes out.

"I think they're gone."

He pushes a hand toward the door. She snags it by the wrist.

"You had better be damn sure." The fear is rising again, forcing the words from her throat. "They don't give up easily."

"Fine then," he edges around her, steadying her with firm hands, "I'll go first."

The door opens and shuts, painting a quick portrait of her infuriating, kidnapping savior; messy, spiked dark hair, cut close, with a medium build and broad shoulders.

She is alone. The shadows creep in, closer than before. She misses his closeness, the warm resolve pressed behind her, feeding a silent strength. Moments pass.

She can't breathe.

The door swings open, sudden and wide, inviting grey shadows to invade the dark. A tall silhouette stands before her, beams of thin light filtering across a handsome face.

"Yeah, they're gone." He holds out a hand. "So, do you want out, or are you going to become a permanent fixture?" He smirks, eyes rake her figure. "I bet the construction guys would be rather thrilled to find you."

She scowls. "Are you sure?"

Laughter shines through a soft smirk. "I just hid with you in a port-a-potty for twenty-five minutes. You think I'm going to hand you over?"

She can see his point, but to take his hand requires trust. Something she hasn't given … ever. It won't be easily given now. But really … what other choice does she have? Staying here would be absurd.


She grasps his palm, thin, round, even spaces across a rough expanse, nearly twice the size of hers. She's never held anything so perfectly beastly before, calluses left to cling to dirt-streaked skin. Then she is out, highlighted by half-moon and a flickering street lamp, sweat-covered and grime-laden. She wipes the palms of her hands on her dark jeans and flexes her toes in the dirt, silently mourning the loss of stilettos.

She can't go back, only forward.

She must go home. Thoughts of despair, of her full-disclosure, of nothing hidden and nothing sacred, fill her mind before being pushed through. It's too soon … they can't have unearthed everything yet. She smoothes back her hair with weary, shaken hands.

"Thank you." She squares him off, erasing her debt, and walks away.

Silence for only a moment, followed by bursts of confusion.

"Hey, wait a second! Where're you going?"

She turns again. "Home."

"Okay." Hands through his hair, mussing the short cut. His jeans are smudged. "Why don't you let me walk you?"

"I'll be fine, thank you." Curt and sharp, she hopes to dissuade him.

"It's not exactly safe out there."

She clenches her jaw, grits her teeth. "I'm sure I can manage."

"What if they come back?"

He's right. She won't be as noticeable in a pair. One is vulnerable. Two is dependable.

He senses her hesitation. "I just stood in a port-a-potty. You have to give me more than a 'thank you.'"

Her lip twitches. "I don't have to give you anything."

He grins, an expression obviously prone to induce swooning and damsel-like fainting. He'd best be quick to learn – she is no damsel.

"Fine." Feet follow a well-known path. "You'd best keep up."

He falls into a familiar formation – to her right, angled behind for a better gaze upon the sway of her hips. The walk is silent. Warm, salt breezes drift in from the ocean front, the sway of heavy palm trees thick in the wind. She can hear the lap of the waves, beating upon the sand, drawing grains into its massive expanse, eating the land alive.

He speaks, once or twice, sentences thrown at her like those waves, aching to breach her, break her, find some piece of her willing to be drawn into him, but she isn't sand. She is a diamond, cold and hard, shiny and glowing with a strength he can't understand.

Her ears wonder elsewhere, plotting her path, her escape, searching for the last corner, when she can disappear as a wisp in the wind, a shade retreating to the night of a self-induced prison. These thoughts carry her further away, through alleys and nightmares, past oceans and evening skies, till a hard bar locks across her stomach, pulling her backwards, flying through air for only a moment, then trapped against the same warm, flesh-like surface.

"What the –" It spills before she can stop it, and his hand is firmly pressed against her face for the second time, his lips near her ear.


She's tempted to bite, but it doesn't seem fair. Because what she should have seen, he saw first.

They're there. There are no signs, but they aren't hidden. Shadows, deeper than they should be, line the walk of her small, square condo, waiting to spring, a trap of the most intricate deception.

Salt tears well in the corners of her eyes, spilling over, trailing down her cheeks and running over the grooves in his fingers. It's the last thing they could have found, the last they could have taken, and now it's theirs. She has nowhere to go, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

He's dragging her backwards, pulling her behind a wall and into the safety of the shadows that can only hide her for so long. He peels his hand from her lips, leaning as she slouches against him, fighting despair.

"What the hell do they want?" He looks down at her, confused and fierce. "What the hell did you do?"

Her hair quivers as she shakes herself, pulls herself tall, not bothering to remove the tears.

"Nothing. This isn't what you think."

"Then what is it."

"I took something they wanted." Silence. He won't speak until the truth is known. She glares, menacing as a beaten doe with tears sparkling and breath heaving in her chest. "I took my freedom."

"Come with me."

She looks up. They aren't the words she expected to hear. They're wrong, out of place, setting him on the edge of more danger than he could ever imagine.



She's so tired. She can't look him the eye, can't approach the thoughts which are brewing in her mind. It's one night. Escape, hope, and freedom ring in his words. He doesn't know what he's offering. But he doesn't have to know anything.

It's just one night.


"Good." An attempt at a smile, crooked, half-there and all wrong, but it doesn't matter. It's a chance. He holds out a hand, yet another offering made on no one's time. "Anthony Masen."

"Isabella Swan."

He takes her hand, warm and trusting. A sick writhing runs through her veins. She doesn't want him to trust her.

"It's nice to meet you, Isabella."

Not for long.

A/N - Woohoo! And now, the fun has started! There are actually about nine more chapters to this lovely little dabble of mine, but this is the longest of them all. :) I hope you'll join me as I post, once every hour or so, a tidbit more of Bella's story! And don't worry ... if you're lost, you won't stay that way for long (I hope)!

To Rebekah - I hope you enjoy it bb! Sorry if it's not what you expected, but give my mind an inch and well ... it tends to run a mile, LOL!

To Robrator and Mezzmerizeme - These two awesome ladies were my wonderful beta-team, keeping me in line and providing me the support I need! Love you!

To Puppymamma0909, Thisguiltyblood, Kd Masen, Bex-chan Fanfiction, Flappergirl, Zenoneness, Vampiremama, (and anyone else I may be forgetting, just yell at me if I am!) - THANK YOU ALL for the amazing WC's which helped my lazy self finish this thing in time! And without stress? You ladies are AMAZING!

I hope you check out the other gifts, the link is on my profile!

Much love!