Hello there.

I'm new to fanfiction, so this is my first time, but I have heard about it before. All Twilight characters belong to S.M, I'm just messing around with them a bit. This Edward will be dark and a bit strange, as Bella's "Uncle Edward". He'll be older and develops a pretty intense fascination with her. Please be kind as I'm new and not entirely sure what I'm doing. :-) Hope you enjoy though!

Crossing the Line

Chapter One

Ever since my mother Renee died of ovarian cancer, things haven't been the same.

I'm just not the same anymore. They tend to say that a loss of an important and cherished family member changes you; I guess they're right.

Although I knew my mother was ill, it still hit me unexpectedly when she died. Countless doctors tried to fix her up, hit her up some miraculous cure, only it was too late in the end. I was the one that found her when died. It was me, and I still have trouble forgetting what she looked like. Sometimes I even have nightmares over it.

My Dad, Charlie, left early in the morning for work. Apparently she died sometime after he left.

I dream of her all the life; Her lifeless, pale body as I found her laying there in bed, with the sheets over her waist.

At first, I thought she was just sleeping, because she looked so peaceful; With her long auburn hair spread out around the pillow, and her lips dry and crusted. I only realized when I snuck in beside her on the bed and couldn't hear her breathing. She had passed on, and hopefully the pain had finally left her for good. She's in peace now. Although I should feel somewhat relieved that she's in a better place, I still can't help but feel a sense of betrayal.

She's left me alone.

She was the closest person I had; We were even closer than I am with Charlie. My mother used to say it was just a girl thing. I guess she was right; There wasn't anything I couldn't tell her.

She would always listen to me with an empathetic ear, even sometimes when she was drowsy from her pain medication that the doctors had prescribed her.

She used to love the garden at the front of her house; It used to be her second home, almost. Many times when I arrived home from high school in the afternoon, I would find her in there, planting new flowers to grow, rain or shine. But after a few months, she slowly got worse with her cancer. Slowly I would begin to notice she wouldn't pay attention to her garden any longer. It wouldn't be rare to find her waiting for me to reach home in her wicker chair, covered in blankets to keep her warm, or upstairs sleeping off her pain.

My mother taught me how to play the piano. She taught me how to speak French. We could kiss each other formally on each cheek, pretending to be French countesses who hadn't seen each other in a while.

She would ask me about any boys I was interested in at school, and she would always help me out with my homework, while my father was away and busy working as Sherrif at the Forks Police Department.

Most of all, she was my best friend. She wasn't just my mother. She was someone I could confide in, tell her my deepest, darkest secrets. And now, she truly has taken them to the grave.

Although it has been three months now since she passed, I still miss her like hell. Sometimes I wake from a deep sleep early in the morning, expecting her to be in the house and greet me with her loving arms. It only fully registers that she's gone once I head upstairs to check in on her in the room.

It's bare and empty now, aside from the bed my father sleeps in.

Dad cleaned out the house and threw away half of her things. All the ugly paraphernalia she had for her treatments are gone. All her clothing has been removed from inside the wardrobes, leaving just my dad's old fishing gear and his shirts in there.

Dad even removed all the photos we had of her. I guess her memory hurt him too much.

Fortunately, I managed to steal something of hers before the spring cleaning happened. She always wore an old brass locket, with two pictures contained inside: One was a family photo of me, her, and dad, when I was a littler girl. The other one was one she cut out of a wedding photo, showing her and my Dad smiling happily, as a new bride and groom on their wedding day.

Now I always wear the locket, tied around my neck. I refuse to take it off. The brass locket dangles off the chain near where my heart would be, under my skin. In an odd way, it makes me feel closer to her.

When my alarm clock goes off, I click it off and climb out of bed.

First thing I do, is what I always do. I get changed for school, putting on a long frilly skirt that my mother always used to compliment me on that goes down to my knees, and a thick woollen sweater. I slip on my sneakers, comb out my hair, which my mother also used to tell me never to cut because it's too beautiful and wavy, and then I head downstairs.

I hear someone fussing around in the kitchen. My father, Charlie, must be home. Usually he never is. When I step in, I find him huddled over the toaster, waiting for his toast to cook. A plate of crispy toast already sits on the round kitchen table, spread with a generous amount of melted butter and marmalade.

"Hey honey," he says quietly, without peering behind his shoulder at me. He must have heard me as I came in, with my squeaky sneakers. "I got your breakfast ready for you."

"Thanks," I mutter, just as quietly. I pull back the chair and sit, staring down at the melted butter on my toast. I have definitely changed since my mother's death; I know that myself, and it isn't intentional. I've had trouble eating. It just doesn't interest me anymore. I don't have much of an appetite.

I'm still playing with my toast, crinkling it with my fingers and getting crumbs all over my plate, when he turns at last and pulls up a chair to sit across from me.

"You heading to school?"

"Yeah, dad," I say. "I am."

Finally, he looks at me. He looks a lot different from what I remembered; His skin looks sallower, aged. He has a hollow look in his eyes. "Has everything been okay?"

Charlie and I have never talked much, as I said. It has always been my mother I talk to, about things like school.

"It's hard to get through sometimes," I admit. "But I think I'm doing okay."

"Uh, honey," he begins awkwardly, rubbing his bristly moustache with his fingers, "We are going to be having somebody staying here."

"Really? Who?"

"Have I ever told you about my younger brother?"

I feel a small surge of emotion at that, the first in a very long time. I never knew my Dad had a younger brother. "You have a younger brother?" I ask, surprised.

"Yeah, I do. He's coming over to stay for a little while. I thought it might be... good for us."

"How come you've never told me you had a brother?"

"Well, it was just complicated, honey." Charlie smiles, but it doesn't really touch his eyes. It isn't all that sincere. "He's been out-of-town for a very long time. He's been travelling all over the world."

"Really? What kind of places has he been to?"

"Well, he's been to Paris..." he says, trying to put a little life and excitement into his voice. Charlie has always known how crazy my mother and I were with our fake French kisses. "He's been all over the place, Bella. I bet you'll like him. He'll be good for us. Maybe he can put some happiness in this place that's been absent."

"What's his name?"


Edward. I try to figure that name out in my head, wondering if it's vaguely familiar to me. Only it isn't. It doesn't spark any recognition in me whatsoever.

"Have I met him ever before?"

"He came around once before when you were a little girl. This was before he went away. You were pretty young, though. It hardly surprises me that you wouldn't remember him."

"So I practically have an Uncle I don't know about?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Slicing through his words, a car horn blares loudly from outside in the driveway. Charlie gets to his feet excitedly. "And he's already here," he says, his voice quivering with relief. When he reaches me around the table, he pats me on the shoulder gently. "Come on out, Bella," he urges me. "Now, you can finally meet the Uncle you don't remember."

Since I can't think of anything better to do, and since I most definitely don't intend to eat the toast Charlie prepared for me, I get to my feet and follow him out slowly.

I can hear laughter from outside and echoed, manly pats on the backs being shared between the two. I still can't believe I have an Uncle I don't know about. And he's been all over the world! He's been to Paris! For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I almost feel something close to excitement.

Maybe this month won't be so bad after all, with this Edward hanging around.

I'm not quite sure what to expect.

I guess I'm expecting my Uncle to look like Charlie; With a bristly moustache, and a beer belly. Short, and stocky, and a little rough around the edges. But as I push out the front door, all the assumptions I'm making fly out of the window completely.

He isn't old. In fact, he looks way, way younger than my father.

He doesn't have an unpleasant moustache either. And, to top it all off, he definitely isn't short or stocky in the slightest. I thought he would be dark-haired and in his forties, but he doesn't look a day over thirty. He doesn't look as if he is related to my father at all.

I catch them out in the act of embracing, as I slip out onto the porch. My father is laughing fondly in a way I haven't seen him do since before my mother's death.

My supposed Uncle meets my gaze suddenly over Charlie's shoulder and, along with it, I feel odd. It's unlike anything I have ever felt before; I actually feel like butterflies are fluttering away in my stomach. I even feel my pulse pick up a notch.

I don't know what this feeling is, but it's... strange.

But I know it's his eyes that are doing it to me; They are penetrating, arresting, like they have the ability to see through your skin, all the way to your bones. He doesn't blink one bit, while he watches me behind Dad's shoulder- at least, not in a noticeable way.

I watch my Uncle curiously as my father pulls away from him.

He isn't dark like my father, at all. His eyes are a greenish blue, and they flare at me momentarily in surprise, before he tears them away from me to look at my father. He's light-haired. He's around six-foot or so, and Charlie doesn't even begin to reach his shoulders. He's wearing a tight grey shirt that clings to his body, showing off lean muscles, and khaki trousers with the shirt tucked in at the bottom and a tan leather belt looping around them to hold them up.

"Is this her?" he asks Charlie, and I notice he sounds very shocked. "Is she that same girl?"

"She sure is," Dad croaks out proudly. "She's that same little girl you met fifteen years ago. Hasn't she grown?"

"She has. Jesus, where does the time go?"

Dad finally fixes his attention on me again. "Bella, why don't you come down here and say hello to Uncle Edward?"

My feet seem to move down the steps at their own accord, and then he is extending his right hand out to me.

Trying not to hesitate for too long, I make myself shake it. He has a surprisingly strong grip and maybe I'm mistaken, but it seems as if he doesn't want to let my hand go. I have to twist and pull my hand out of his, and he smiles at it, in almost a challenging way. I decide the way I'm feeling is only nerves. He makes me nervous, and I'm not entirely sure whether that is in a bad way or a good way.

"Bella's seventeen now," Charlie is saying, "And she's in high school."

Uncle Edward turns to look down at me again, and his lips press together tightly. I think he is trying to suppress a smile. "You probably don't remember this, but I visited here once when you were a little girl," he says. "I played hide and seek with you, and I chased around the yard, trying to find you. It's almost surreal how much you've grown." He brings his eyes down my skirt, even lower to my knobby knees and my sneakers. It's as if he can't believe his eyes.

I flush; Not used to the attention.

"And now, you're in high school," he goes on quietly, almost to himself. "I can't believe it. First time I met you, you hardly reached my knees, and now, look at you! You've shot up!"

"I... I don't remember meeting you," I confess, a little breathlessly. "I must have been too young to remember. Until five minutes ago, I never even knew my Dad had a younger brother. I never knew you existed, until now."

He laughs and even the sound makes me feel funny.

"Jesus, Charlie," he mutters incredulously. "Why haven't you told her about me? Honestly, I'm a little insulted..."

Dad looks a bit red around the ears. "Well, we've had quite a lot on our mind, what with what's... happened these past few months. It's been difficult."

"Technically I'm not your Dad's brother. Not by blood, anyway. I was adopted into the family, wasn't I, Charlie?"

"Yeah, and my mother loved you more than me. What did it matter that you weren't her real son?"

"Um, I've got to get to school, Dad," I say, breaking into their bantering. I glance up at Uncle Edward again, find him staring at me with his head cocked slightly to the side. There is something intense in the way he looks at me. Maybe it's because he can't believe I'm that same girl I was when he apparently chased me around the yard?

"Of course, Bella. You better get going, honey."

Eager to leave and stop the weirdness I'm feeling, I turn.

"Isabella?" I turn and I'm surprised to find Uncle Edward has almost followed me. His hands are tucked into his trouser pockets and he looks anxious for some reason. "Would you like a lift?" he asks.

"Nope, I'm good thanks."

"You sure?" He tilts his head back and looks up at the sky. "It's overcast. It'll probably rain soon. You might get wet."

And why should he care so much whether I get wet or not?

"I'm fine, thanks."

"All right, then. No worries." He smiles at me, showing his teeth, pulls a hand out of his pocket and extends it out to me again. What is with him and shaking my hand? Just to be polite, I reach over and shake it, noticing the difference in the size of our hands. His hands are entirely masculine. Nothing girly about them. "I can't believe how beautiful you are," he says, lowering his voice almost so Dad can't overhear him.

Losing it, I fling my hand free. "Thanks, nice of you to say, Uncle," I snap, and then off I go.

As I peer behind my shoulder to look at him quickly, I find he hasn't turned back to talk my father. No, he's just standing there with his arms crossed against his chest, watching me go.

What is his deal?