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cannibalisticskittles · 7 years

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an act of kindness, ch. 7

pairing: unknown/reader notes: [7/?] part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six part seven of the unknown route fic, 10,000+ words long. i’m gonna sleep for a week now, bye

Over the course of the next few days, you begin to understand the broader picture.

You get pieces of the puzzle one at a time, so there’s still much that’s unclear, but there’s at least one thing you know with absolute certainty:

Your boss fucking hates that redheaded hacker.

And he certainly doesn’t seem fond of the photographer with the expensive dyejob, though given how infrequently he shows up for a chat, you’re not yet sure if your boss’ hate for V is on the same level of what he has for the hacker.

But good god, does his mood sour whenever the hacker appears in the chatroom logs. And considering how often that seems to happen, this means that you’ve been dealing with a very grumpy Boss these last few days.

He reads pretty much all the messages with indifference, regardless of content, but the hacker could say the most innocuous thing, just… comment on the blueness of the sky, and your wonderful boss would immediately start to mutter under his breath and hunch in agitation.

Which… has pretty much already happened. Never seen someone get so angry just from hearing someone else say the stars look lovely.

“They’re traitors,” he says when you cautiously broach the subject, hoping to get some clue as to why he’s so affected by them, and then he tightens his arms around your waist and drops his chin sullenly to your shoulder.

You try some gentle prodding after that, during times he seems calmer – just in case knowing would be important or helpful to you later. Your efforts change nothing; he remains broodingly mum, and you get the feeling that whatever history there is there, he’s not keen on opening up about it, not now.

He is, at least, much more genial when it comes to the rest of this group – and oh, yes, wasn’t that a fine revelation? The girl in the apartment is meant to lure in a group called the RFA – Rika’s Fundraising Association.

Yes, despite the interesting composition of the group, it is a charity group that he – and by extension, you – are targeting. He’s been working up to stalking and kidnapping a charity group. That’s what you’ve been assisting him with.

Oh, and that random innocent girl. He plans to kidnap her, too. Can’t forget that. …if there is moral judging to be done of you someday, there is not a single aspect of this situation that will speak well of you.

He certainly doesn’t see it that way, though. No, he seems… genuinely excited when he talks about the plans to “bring them to paradise” – to allow them to attain true happiness at last and heal their pain.

Which is – well, horrifying, but illuminating. Whatever grudge he has against the hacker and the photographer doesn’t carry over to the rest of the RFA.

In addition to the two he seethes over, the group is composed of: an admittedly adorable college student and MMO enthusiast who seems to be sacrificing the former for the latter in every chatlog you’ve read thus far; a musical theater actor with an ego the size of a planet but a face like a god; a cat-obsessed businessman who fluctuates between awkwardly charming and painfully obtuse; and an extremely overworked assistant who you sympathize with immediately and who honestly deserves a week off from the usual bullshit, not more bullshit in the form of this cult trying to induct her into their ranks.

He points out all the strains and stresses of the members as you familiarize yourself with them, though he leaves out the other two, uninterested in delving into what their sorrows could be. They all, he says, are struggling with their own pain, suffering alone as they fail to be understood, as they wander aimlessly through life. Is a life spent mourning without resolution, or perpetually chasing a wish that still has not bore fruit, or failing to connect, or fading away, powerless, really living?

Wouldn’t they be so much happier if they had someone who could ease their burdens, show them the way to escape this world that harms them so?

And, lucky them, they can , because there’s a party soon to be held in their honor – an “endless” one. Set to coincide with with a party that the RFA has decided to throw in the next few days, without questioning the mysterious girl who dropped into the messenger or whether that could be at all suspicious.

Like, goddamn. You’re doing your best here but this might be easier if any of them were just a touch more cautious. Maybe wait two weeks before starting to plan a grand-scale party, not just a little less than one, huh? Unbelievable.

“So… hey, boss,” you ask after he’s finished filling you in, yet again, on how wonderful life could be after dragging this charity group to paradise. “As your assistant, should I be… involved in party prep? Y’know, calling caterers, ordering balloons and streamers? And, hey, what color should I go with? I don’t want anything to clash, but it should have a theme , shouldn’t it?”

“You wouldn’t even guess at mint? Magenta?” He chuckles. “A little off your game today.”

Shit, he’s right. Step it up, self.

“But no,” he says, “it’s not quite that kind of party.” He hums a low note and rests his chin on your shoulder as he continues to scroll through one of the more recent logs. “Though they will be just as happy. Any preparations to be made for that are already underway.”

“…yeah? Like what?”

“We’ve already taken most of the necessary steps for their initiation, and their elixir will ready shortly, as well.”

“Elixir?” That doesn’t sound good.

He chuckles. “You’ll find out what it is soon enough.” He still seems to delight in your moments of uncertainty sometimes. “Don’t worry–” He traces idle circles onto your stomach, and even with the barrier of your shirt between you, you shiver.

That barrier hasn’t been a constant, either. You’re not willing to say the new outfits were a mistake – on the contrary, having something clean to wear is life-changing, one of the few bright spots in the past few days of unpleasantness – but it does allow for slightly more intimate moments, skin-against skin when he wraps his arms around your waist as he works. Though while he has unquestionably been… touchy, he hasn’t gotten like he did at the thrift store, thank god for that. If there’s any trace of disappointment at that fact, you push it aside.

Now, though, he lingers so long after speaking, focused only on touching you, that you almost miss it when he continues, voice a little softer, a little more affection. “I’ve made sure that yours will be ready sooner, and then you can officially welcome them into paradise.”

“Sounds… wonderful, boss. Can’t wait.”

Though you can almost forget how ominous that statement is when you consider, well, just about every other goddamn sentence out of his mouth. It’s like he just gets more comfortable spouting off worrying new details about this place the more he – well, the more he thinks you’re genuinely going along for this? Which means this is working, and you suppose you’re grateful for any scrap of information you can get that you could use to get out of here, but this is just… a lot.

What makes it worse is how calm everything seems to become.

Sure, having to follow the girl to be sure she didn’t change her mind after getting the apartment’s address like you did – and possibly through the same route the he took when he tried to lure you in what seems like a lifetime ago but has really only been days ago – was nerve-wracking, but… she took the bait. She agreed.

Though there was a moment when she reached the door and got the code sent to her… she seemed to hesitate and your heart stopped. It wasn’t something you’d really let yourself think about before, just… sincerely hoped that wouldn’t happen – if she turned away like you did and he tried to drag her back to paradise, what would you do?

If you had tried to stop him, would it have worked? Would she have helped you to escape, too? If it didn’t work, what would happen to you, and even if it did, how long would that last? But it’s not like you could have just let it happen , let alone helped to intimidate her into the car that would take her to the cult you’re tangled up with.

But it didn’t matter, because a second later – maybe even just a half-second, really, extended by your fear – she input the code and stepped inside the apartment.

It wasn’t until you’d gone down the elevator and ducked into a little alcove outside the apartment that you’d thought with any degree of certainty that the plan went smoothly, and then it took reaching the car to know for sure. Lingering in the halls was apparently not the best idea now that someone else might start checking the security cameras and see the both of you.

Maddeningly, he’d checked his phone, made a soft little “hmmm,” and tucked it away again in order to take your hand and start towards the car. Once you were both in, though, you couldn’t help yourself.

“So? She is in, isn’t she, boss?”

When he looked up, his expression was immensely satisfied. “Yes,” he says, “she’s already spoken to everyone, and it seems they’ve accepted her.” He smirked. “They’re already sending selfies.”

“Well… darn, what a shame I had to miss that,” you said. But thank god, thank god, she would be safe in there for now, at least.

“Oh, you’ll have plenty of time to get to know them later.” And he remained in high spirits on the drive back to paradise.

The anxiety really only began to ease up when you were back in his workroom, watching the camera feeds. The distance made the situation feel marginally more manageable.

You just… need to figure out to keep her, and the RFA, away from him, and everyone here. And yeah, you have no fucking clue how you’re going to do that, but you’d have had even less of a chance if he’d snatched her up then and there, so technically you’re at an advantage, right?

And then you keep tabs on her – on all of them. It’s not too different from what you’d done before, actually, just… shifting focus a little.

He’s smart enough to keep from contacting her after setting her up in the apartment, save for a brief, ominous message after the pair of you returned to paradise.

“You’re not dangerous, are you?” she’d sent, and god, you hope not, you really do.

There’s not even much direct monitoring, or at least, not as much you were expecting. Though you do go through plenty of the chatroom logs with him, there’s very few that you see in real-time, and some that you, at least, don’t see at all. Lingering there while the redheaded hacker is there is too great a risk, it seems, too easy to be detected.

If he’s monitoring the rest of them while you sleep you wouldn't’ be particularly surprised, though he hasn’t deigned to share anything he learned during these early chats if that’s the case. Still, even with the incomplete picture you’re seeing, well. It’s insightful, to say the least. In a really weird way.

More than just getting used to their schedules, you get used to them. The chatrooms are far more intimate than scouring social media profiles – after only a few days, your voyeuristic monitoring makes it feel as if you know them.

It’s even kind of fun watching them sometimes, which is – probably pretty bad, if you think about it. You are not a known participant to these conversations, you were not meant to know any of this, and they would probably be uncomfortable as hell if they knew. Beyond uncomfortable.

And yet, the feeling persists.

You get used to Zen’s selfies, but you don’t roll your eyes at them as much as you might have before. Your perception of him seems to shift from narcissism to – well, okay, he still seems pretty up his own ass when it comes to his looks, but not to the point of ignoring others. Now he seems more like… a protective older brother to most of the RFA. Particularly to Yoosung, although Yoosung seems to be the baby of the group, anyway. Zen is just – a lot. Dramatic, and very romantic, but rooted, particularly when it counts the most.

Jumin, too, becomes more three-dimensional the more you see of him. Stoic still, yes, but oddly earnest at times, and you get used to bursts of affection in the midst of what had otherwise been a calm and collected conversation. Admittedly, this is usually – okay, almost always – towards cats, his own in particular, but there’s a quiet sense of protectiveness you get from him, too. Not as brash or overt as Zen, but… reading his responses, you get the sense of a man who is, at least, attempting to watch over them, always willing to offer advice or a guiding hand. And it always catches you off guard when he attempts to make a joke. Who knew a rich boy could be funny sometimes?

You get used to watching his moments of cat-adoration grow into ideas that he shifts over to Jaehee, too. He needs to give that poor woman a break and a bonus so she can actually enjoy her time off. Anything less than a week would be absolutely criminal, and if this has been going on for as long as you suspect, she deserves a month on a tropical island with HD copies of each of Zen’s performances. Her dedication is admirable, even if it’s running her ragged. You come to see the kindness behind her worries, and the warmth that she shares with the new girl.

You get used to hearing Yoosung rave about his LOLOL character and bemoan server maintenances, and you come to expect him in the early-morning chatrooms, kept awake by the need to finish just one quest more, or grind for an item he’s sure he’s about to get. And… you see how much of a shock this situation is, seeing this new girl suddenly take up his cousin’s responsibilities and becoming someone that the RFA turns to. It’s clear that Rika meant a lot to him, and he hasn’t quite healed from her loss yet – not that you can really fault him, given how sudden it seems her death was. He seems to blame himself for not knowing sooner and… well. How do you learn to be at peace with something like that? There’s no way to apologize or make amends for not seeing clues now, so maybe the obsession with games is just clinging desperately to distractions from the thoughts. He’s reading signs into the girl’s appearance, taking every parallel as encouragement from his cousin – that she’s with them still, perhaps.

(This, too, is a source of guilt for you. It feels like you’ve ripped the bandage off a still-healing wound and fucked up old healing, old progress. If you’re lucky, there will be more good than harm done here, but you haven’t had much of that lately…)

Even that hacker your boss hates – Seven. Or Luciel? See, there’s another sign that you shouldn’t know any of this, that doesn’t seem like a name that was meant for you to know – is, well, hard to dislike. A cosplay enthusiast, apparently, though you haven’t been able to look at any of the pictures he’s posted for more than a second – the boss gets huffy and scrolls past those whenever they come up. Overworked by his job, which sounds… interesting, and possibly nightmarish. And it’s not like you can fault him for finding humor in odd situations. You’d be a terrible hypocrite if you did. Affectionate, too, though he seems to have a terrible penchant for teasing poor Yoosung. You can tell – or you think you can tell – that there’s an abundance of fondness beneath all that, though.

And you still know jack shit about that photographer. Mr. Mystery, off on business trips and away from the messenger most of the time.

It’s probably for the best. You’re not sure your boss could handle it if V was there as often as Seven. He’s sullen enough already.

But he’s been – otherwise pretty relaxed. Very certain that all his plans will go well. In fact, as the days go on, there’s a shift in how he responds to Seven’s appearances – he still mutters darkly when the other hacker joins the chatrooms, even more than before, but he… recovers quicker. Although given how he’s now taken to murmuring about how ‘that traitor will finally be dealt with’ and ‘everyone will see his true nature,’ it’s clear what caused the change.

If he had any doubts as to the chances of success before, they’re gone now.

This certainty also seems to be the drive behind those smug, creepy emails – invitations to paradise.

It seems – well – a little like tossing up a flare to illuminate a trail of breadcrumbs that might otherwise go unnoticed, but you don’t try to dissuade him; if this gets the RFA to catch on to the real reason why all this is happening, then maybe they’ll be more prepared for whatever’s planned for them.

Instead, you kept your comments light, complimentary. You didn’t struggle to find something to say, though; they actually did look pretty damn nice, even if the method of delivery was creepy.

…he could have a pretty decent career in graphic design ahead of him. Well – design in general, you suppose.

He was smug when you pointed out how nice the invitations looked for having been nothing more than a rough mock-up just that morning, and all the more when he said that wasn’t exactly his first foray at designing.

“What,” you’d asked, “have you made… invitations to paradise before?”

He’d laughed softly, the smile on his face looking rather indulgent as he wrapped his arms around your waist. You’ve gotten pretty good at twisting to face him while sitting in his lap, and he’s gotten pretty good at holding you even as you shift around.

“No. At least, not like this. Any other guesses? You’ve seen it before. Often, even,” he’d teased, and you huffed at his tone.

“Not if you’re gonna be like that,” you muttered. You could feel yourself growing sulky as he continued to aim that satisfied look at you, but you couldn’t help it.

“Oh, don’t pout.” He’d chuckled and traced your lower lip with his thumb. “Even if it does look good on you.”

And, well. You were even more powerless against the heat that overtook your face.

He’d taken hold of your wrist to guide your hand up his arm to rest at his bicep, and – oh, of course. His tattoo.

“–wait, you designed this?”

He’d twisted a bit to allow you a better view, and you traced over the eye on his upper arm and the embellishments that scrolled further down.

Three guesses as to why that eye is there. Still, even with… obvious cult connections… it’s a solid design. “That’s pretty impressive, boss,” you’d said. And he wears it well, though you’ll be damned if you’ll admit that to him.

Even still, he’d preened all night afterwards – and his smugness only intensified when, in an attempt to distract him from the sullen hissy-fit you could sense coming after reading through an especially Seven-heavy chat, you’d asked if he was planning a design for you now that you’re here.

He’d perked up immediately. “Do I also get to decide where it goes?” His hands uncinched from your waist and moved to your hips, but you wriggled to displace him.

“Ah-ah-ah, boss, I wanna see some designs before you start scoping out where to put it; make sure I get some bang for my buck.” And then you’d shrugged languidly. “If you’re an expert at this, as you say, it shouldn’t take long, right? But it’s gotta be something I like, you hear me? Don’t go thinking I’ll let you stick me with just anything.” And then – well, it was probably a bad idea, but you couldn’t resist teasing, “And if I am satisfied with the design, well… you’re the artist, and it’s only right that you get to pick where to unveil your masterpiece.”

There was a dangerous glint in his eye at the challenge, but he was pleasantly content the rest of the night.

Really, you think you’ve gotten pretty damn great at getting him to simmer down, these last few days in particular.

…that’s something else you’ve been getting used to – how casual it’s gotten with him. Comfortable, if you don’t think about it. And that, more than anything else, is the habit you will have to break yourself of.

All the spying is intensely, emphatically invasive, a blot of creepiness in the midst of what you would like to think is an otherwise-unblemished record of non-creepy behavior, but there’s no chance of continuing this line of voyeurism if you ever get out of this place. No, this is situational-dependant assholery, and you would gladly wash your hands of it now if given the opportunity.

But it’s different with him. If you get attached, there won’t be any getting out of here. There won’t be an end to the surveillance, there won’t be an end to this ‘party’ he’s planning – you’ll just stay here. Forever, maybe.

And you can’t .

But goddamn if it doesn’t start to feel cheap just… doing what you can to learn more about this place, doing what you can to endear yourself to him, maybe get him on your side. Oddly like betrayal.

But it’s not your fault you were kidnapped. There’s nothing nefarious about what you’re doing to slow him down.

Yeah, the measures you’re having to take to avoid suspicion definitely strip your efforts to help out the RFA of any noble nature your plans might have had, but it’s sure as hell better than just passively watching, and way better than being the person who plans this whole kidnapping scheme in the first place.

…and still, it bothers you.

You can’t exactly say he’s been sweet to you, given how you got here, but it’s… close. Divorced from the context, very sweet, at times; you feel like you can carry actual conversations with him now without running into constant noncommittal non-answers from him, and he’s actually been trying to be funny, to go along with you when you make flippant suggestions and observations.

…you think that’s intentional, anyway. You don’t have a perfect grasp of why he does the things he does.

And the thought comes to you, unbidden, and lingers: he’ll be crushed if he finds out you’ve been using him this whole time – though he’s been using you for his plans.

But it’s all you can do.

So you… keep your eyes open. Try to learn as much as you can. And try not to think about what will happen if – when – you get out of here.

And it works somewhat decently.

Most of what you’re picking up outside of the chatrooms is of dubious use.

You learn that there are designations for some of the Mint Eye members. He does not have one; he is… special. You don’t know if you’re expected to get one, or if you, too, would somehow be special.

You learn that he does sleep, sometimes, and yes, in the bed in the little room nearby] And yes, you have woken up to an arm thrown over you, though only once. (And that is an unnecessary complication to an already-fraught situation. You suppose you’re lucky it was only the one time; with how rapidly your pulse had spiked at the realization of how close he was and the fact that your heart-rate only slowed after you managed to squirm carefully out from his grasp to avoid waking him, it would be better for your health to not have a repeat of the incident.)

Twice more, you’ve woken to the sight of him curled up tight underneath the covers, knees practically to his chest. By the time you made your way to the kitchens and back with breakfast he was awake – except the last time.

You can’t say it was particularly thrilling to just sit and wait for him to wake up, but it might do the circles beneath his eyes some good to get some rest.

“…should I start expecting breakfast in bed from now on?” he’d asked blearily, blinking at the oatmeal you’d set on the sheets beside him, banking on the hope that he wouldn’t knock it over when rising.

“Maybe if you care of yourself and get as much sleep as you’re supposed to, I’ll actually catch you in bed for once and have a chance to do this again.”

“I don’t need much sleep,” he’d protested, betrayed by the way he was rubbing at his eyes and frowning sleepily.

You’d shrugged at him from your position on the edge of the bed on the farther side from him, your own oatmeal in hand. “You can’t exactly get breakfast in bed if you’re not in bed, can you?”

He’d frowned more at that, but didn’t protest. This did not mean that the disagreement in semantics was over, however. In fact, you learned something else of interest from an offhand comment he made later that day after being reminded of your differing opinions on his sleeping habits, something you almost missed – said that if he really needed sleep, he wouldn’t be sleeping there , anyway.

Because that little room is not, in fact, his bedroom – or, rather, while the room is his to use as he pleases, and while he has chosen to use it as somewhere to go for brief moments of respite, he has an actual bedroom.

“For when I’m not as busy with the work that needs doing,” he’d explained. “As it is, there’s too much at stake to waste time on needless sleep.”

“Can’t imagine that gets much use then.” But – how long has he been focusing on ‘work that needs doing’ that he had found it necessary to have that nearby room all done up for him, even before you came here to help ? And how big is this place that it can allow that? Or, maybe, how important is he that he gets special treatment like that even if Mint Eye wouldn’t normally have so much extra space to toss around?

“Mmm. It doesn’t. But I can show you where it is when everything is in its place.”

You’d squinted suspiciously at him. “…I hope you don’t expect me to be making any late-night visits there, boss.”

He’d laughed. “So you can find me when you get your own, more permanent accommodations. …I’ll rest more when there’s time for it. Satisfied?”

“That’s just step one in what’s seeming like a long list of ‘ways you need to treat yourself better,’ but it’s a start, so… yes.]. But wait – I get a room? …my own room?” Is there space for that for everyone in paradise, or is this another perk of special treatment?

“Are you that eager to sleep somewhere else?” And you thought he was teasing there, but… the hint of a frown and a sudden wounded earnestness to his expression made you reevaluate that assessment.

Oh no. You made a sudden switch to appeasement. “Oh, no, boss, I’m just curious, that’s all. Have you ever heard me complain? I’m sure I’ll still be coming by to get on your case about sleeping even if our rooms are apart. Maybe that’ll be the start of that breakfast in bed habit, huh?”

He had nodded, seeming more content. …not for the first time, you wondered whether endearing yourself to him might be working a bit too well.

You are still frustratingly clueless about far too many things, and still don’t have a plan of action – no solid ideas on how to help beyond delaying him, no ideas for escape beyond making a dash for a random hallway and hoping for the best.

Still, you get the chance to ask him something else that’s been on your mind over – dinner? Late lunch?

You’ve been up for a while, and it’s the first and only meal of the day that you’ve actually taken the trouble to pause your work and focus on, so it seems like dinner.

Rice porridge with vegetables, for the both of you. Pretty decent rice porridge, though. You suppose they can’t really spring for anything elaborate when they’re feeding so many mouths.

You had to drag over boxes of files to act as makeshift seats and a table. Neither of you are using his chair after you protested that it was far too messy for you both to sit there and eat, and it’s just plain unfair for only one of you to take the chair. He suggested rock-paper-scissors to decide it, and when your eyes widened, he’d laughed and, even more surprisingly, agreed with your assessment and helped dragged over a box to sit on.

“So,” you say, waving your spoon in the air, “there’s definitely chefs here.” That nervous girl you startled days ago has to be one, at least. “Or… a chef? Is it just the one?”

“We have chefs,” he confirms. “Multiple. Not many, but more than one.”

“Right, okay, that makes sense. Where do you get the ingredients for that? Is someone assigned to getting groceries, or do you outsource that? Can you outsource that? Seems like someone making deliveries might take too much of an interest in us…”

“You can’t order take-out, if that’s what you’re wondering. Why so curious?”

“I just…” You shrug, and take another spoonful as you mull over how to explain it. “There seems to be a lot of people, or… more than just a few, and we’re planning to bring more, so what do they do ? ”

“What’s best.” You stare at him. He smirks, and somehow manages to make his next bite of porridge look smug. “…but everyone here is in paradise. They do what they are best suited to and help to bring others to happiness as well.”

“Uh…huh, so… the RFA will all have… roles to fill when they arrive that’ll they’ll be happy with and that will… support paradise?”

“Mmh.” Another spoonful. This may be the most you’ve ever seen him eat at once, and it still isn’t much. No wonder he’s so skinny. Might be malnourished, if the eating habits you’ve observed aren’t a new thing, unless he’s sneaking vitamins when you’re not looking. …well, it’s possible; he does leave for brief periods in the mornings, all those times he comes back seeming markedly more bright-eyed than when he left.

“…what was my role going to be? If I had – gone in. Not tried to back out of the apartment.”

“That’s decided by the savior. Whatever it was doesn’t matter now; you work with me.” He tilts his head, and regards you over the rim of his bowl. “…I like this role for you.”

“I–” You have to glance away, finding his gaze a touch too… meaningful. “–like this role for me, too.” But you’re not aiming for compliments here.

You mull over this new information. You… doubt that they’d be truly content with anything they could be given here, if only because you’ve yet to meet anyone with an actual name here, which does not bode well for how happy everyone already in paradise is.

The savior does as she pleases, and he does as the savior pleases but seems content to do so. Is that how it goes for the others?

But then, if not, why stay? What keeps so many people here? You are watched, and you have your own self-assigned duties to take care of before you can focus solely on getting out. But would they consider themselves happy? How did they come to be here, if not – and especially if they do, what brought them to the point that a functional cult seemed to provide the answers they lacked?

…it casts aspersions on him , too. What brought him here? Did he have a hand in the creation of this paradise, or did he find himself in a position of power, relative as it is, after the fact? He certainly thinks of himself as happy here, but…

And then you draw in a slow breath. That’s a thought for later. For now, you have to play along. So you ask, “What’s the rest of the RFA going to do?”

His answer is a touch mumbled by the bite he takes just as you ask. “As I said, the savior decides.”

“Right, right, of course. …but don’t you have any ideas? Suggestions, even, for some of them.” Something to give you a clue on how they’re viewed. How truly he buys into the vision of paradise, maybe.

He casts his eyes up to the ceiling. “…Zen might still perform,” he says at last. “We’ve got a stage.”

The next bite nearly misses your mouth as you lean forward in surprise. “We do ? ”

“Of course. I’ll give you the grand tour when we’ve finished preparing for the party.”

You give a low whistle in lieu of responding; as is usually the case, thinking about the possibility that you’ll actually get to that point and fail to help them or yourself is… an unpleasant prospect.

“Mmm, then how about… Jaehee? –oh, she’s not going to take my job, is she?” You splay a hand across your chest in mock-concern.

He gives an emphatic shake of his head. “No.”

“Oh, good, nice to have some job security. Let’s see, Jumin… has business savvy? That translates into something, right? Paradise still has business?”

He smirks. “Are you thinking he’ll budget for those grocery trips you’re so concerned about?”

“Well I wasn’t but I am now and absolutely he should do that.” There’s still a knot of guilt in your stomach – you shouldn’t be speaking so lightly about the roles that might be assigned to people targeted for kidnapped. But it’s so easy to laugh along with him, particularly with how pleased he seems to be with successfully amusing you.

He’s still scraping his bowl for the dregs of his dinner when you set your own bowl down on the table-box, finished. “You about done, boss? I guess we should take these back to the kitchen… Oh – I think there’s some wrappers left around the desk, hold on…”

You hop up from the box and make your way to the monitors, beginning to root around for any trash you may have missed earlier. “Can’t for the life of me think what Yoosung will do with his skills that’ll make him happy.” And then you shake your head. “Well, not something that translates well to, ah, running paradise, but I don’t mean to disparage the kid. What’s his major again? If he’s retained enough from classes, maybe that’ll decide it.”

“Veterinary science,” he says.

“No shit?” You hear him laugh behind you. “Huh. Well, I guess that could qualify him for… something. Let’s get a cat as a mascot, then he can take care of it, yeah?”

“You think that the most fitting path for him, the path our savior deems to be what he has been lacking all his life, is as a petsitter ?” You feel a measure of pride at hearing amusement in his voice, even if there’s probably some disbelief in it, too.

“Hey, I’m sure I could come up with something better if given the time, but c'mon, boss, we’re all about happiness, and what could be happier than cats?” And they’re a much better avenue of conversation than his plans.

“If that’s all you have in mind for him, wouldn’t you think the cat-lover would be a better fit?”

“Mmm, you’re right.” He hums a smug little note. “Back to square one for Yoosung. And… you’re already the resident hacker, that’d be too redundant, so I dunno, maybe Seven can–” And then you remember and you snap out of your joking tone. Right. Dangerous territory, too casual. Bad place to stray on autopilot. When you turn back, he’s gripping his bowl with white-knuckled hands.

“That traitor…” He has to draw in a breath to temper the venom in his voice, though it still shakes. “Has no place in paradise.” Oh, god, he does not look happy.

“No, of course not, I–” What to say, what to say? You can fix this, right?

You set the assortment of trash you were holding down on the desk and take tentative steps forward.

“We don’t need him,” he whispers, words sharp and brittle. “He doesn’t deserve the happiness of paradise.”

Another step. Back at the boxes now. He doesn’t seem to be upset by you drawing nearer, just by, well – thoughts of Seven.

He looks you in the eye as you take another step. Voice softer now, wavering but still bearing that sharp edge, he says, “The savior is so kind. She takes care of lost souls, brings them the happiness that’s been denied to them. Even the ones that he … ” His voice is hateful. “That he’s led astray. Lied to.”

His hands shake. You can see his fingers clench tighter around the bowl he’s holding. “We can still save them. We can make them get better. Heal them from the delusions he fed them. But he doesn’t deserve that kindness. He betrayed them all, he betrayed me–”

You’re still meeting his gaze, but his eyes are unfocused now, and he draws in a breath that sounds like a gasp. Like a sob. “He’s a liar, a filthy traitor, and–!”

You hesitate, and then, with movements shaky from trepidation, place your hands over his and try to ease his fingers away from the bowl. There’s a moment of rigid unwillingness, and then he releases it to you. Without turning away, you settle down onto the box-table and set the bowl beside you, then reach for his hands again.

“I–” You wait, but he doesn’t continue, just… stares at your hands, holding his.

“I’m…” Slowly, he raises his head. The focus is back, but his eyes are drained of the rage you’d seen there only moments before, and he just looks fragile.

He stares at you for a long moment, and then – pitches forwards, into you.

You draw in a sharp breath of surprise, and he wraps his arms around you. You freeze, then slowly return the embrace.

His fingers clench tightly into the fabric of your shirt and his breath comes out in little stuttery puffs against your collarbone. You raise a hand so that you can stroke his hair. He shudders, and his fingers tighten enough that you can feel his nails through your shirt, not painfully, but… there.

Cautiously, you begin to comb your fingers through his hair, and his breathing evens out in half-measures until he’s no longer trembling and his arms relax around you.

After a long moment, he pulls back, and you still your movements.

“I’m better than him,” he says at last, softly, pleadingly. He looks up at you, sad eyes staring into yours.

Your breath catches, momentarily at a loss for words. Given who he is, it’s – absurd to want to comfort him beyond what will keep you safe.

But you do .

He looks hurt and vulnerable, and you want to soothe him until the pain eases from his face and he no longer seems like a string pulled too taut, too close to fraying through.

“I’m sure you are, boss,” you say. “…you’re better to me.”

The relief that spills across his face makes your heart ache, and he leans into you, pressing his cheek to your chest as he wraps his arms around you again.

You fiddle with the ends of his hair, just to see if that’s what he’s after, if that would comfort him again, and he nuzzles into you.

You don’t get much else done that night, just… steady him.

The next morning brings still more surprises, as you find yourself taking a walk with him in what is rapidly becoming… a really nice-looking part of the complex.

There are actual windows here. And sunlight. Why does he have a workspace down in the dark, again?

It was a fairly sudden development – he’d popped out for a little while, as has become normal, but when he came back, he brought new information, and informed you of the change in plans. Apparently, he’s going off to work on a security system, and you are… not. No, you’ve got… a visit to make.

With the savior.

“Fill me in, boss. What kind of security system needs you to work on it in-person?” You’re keeping pace with him, which is a little surprising, given how much time you’re spending just looking around, trying to take in new sights as they fall out of view.

“Mmm, I don’t need to work on it quite that close, but I’d prefer to be there to maintain a strong connection with it, and monitor it.” His lips quirk up. “For luck, I suppose. It's…sensitive.”

“Sensitive enough that you don’t want me there to distract you?”

He actually stops so he can look at you, and you stumble a step in your haste to stop as suddenly. You think for a moment that something else has caught his attention, but there’s just a long stretch of hallway before you and no one else around, so you meet his gaze.

There’s something soft in his expression. “I’d gladly bring you along,” he says, and he reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering against your skin before he pulls away. “…but the savior would like to spend time with you.” And then, softer, “and this way, we don’t have to be apart any longer than necessary.”

Despite yourself, you can feel your face heat up. “…well boss, I’m flattered.”

His smile grows fonder. He begins walking again, and you follow in step. “But yes,” he says, “it is delicate.”

“How delicate?”

“Well, it’s a bomb, so… delicate enough.” He chuckles, but you’re already alarmed.

“A bomb ?” Your steps falter, and you trip over yourself to keep pace with him again. “I – I – I didn’t think we were gonna blow people up , I thought we were bringing them here, I –”

“Shhh.” He stops again, pressing a finger to your lips. “We are bringing them here. The bomb is just a… precaution. A deterrent, if you will. No one will get hurt. This will make sure of it. You understand?”

He waits until you nod weakly to take his finger away. “Good. Now… we’re just about there.”

He takes your hand to lead you now. If you are near, the hand-holding definitely isn’t necessary, but… it feels anchoring, somehow. Even if he’s the reason why you’re in need of anchoring in the first place.

But – wow. As soon as you round the corner you can see why the savior has chosen this place to meet, and you’re in awe even before you step out the glass doors and into the most magnificent garden you have ever seen.

“Oh… my god,” you murmur. It’s unreal how beautiful this is – more colors than you’ve ever seen in one place, the intermingling fragrances of the blossoms heady enough that you think you might grow dizzy if you stay too long.

Together, the pair of you wind through brick pathways that meander past bushes heavy with deeply blooming flowers. Roses seem to be a particular favorite here, blooming in a myriad of different colors and varieties.

You reach to brush your fingers against some petals as you pass, and you could swear their scent lingers on you even from that brief touch.

And then, there she is.

There is a trellis of bright-blooming wisteria above the point where the pathway widens to a circular area, and this is where the savior is seated at a table, delicately sipping tea. There is an empty seat just across from her, where you assume you are meant to sit, in time.

Her attire is not so elaborate today, though she is no less elegant – no less imposing – in her sundress than she is in her formal robes. She makes a fitting picture, framed against the flowers.

“My savior.” His voice is a low, reverent murmur, and he presses a hand to his chest.

She nods in response, and even this simple motion seems graceful coming from her.

“How wonderful to see you both. I trust the morning finds you well?” she asks.

“Very well, savior,” he says, and you echo him in a quiet, hesitant murmur. Her eyes wander from him to you, and you feel rooted to the spot.

“You know what you are to do?” she asks – addressing him, you’re sure, but still looking at you.

He doesn’t seem to notice, or at least, if he does, he makes no indication of it. “I do. I am eager to perform the work ahead of me. Soon their defenses will be down and we will be one step closer to bringing them to salvation.”

“Wonderful. I have every confidence in you,” she says warmly, and he practically beams at these words – though he does then glance over at you, and she does not miss this. A gentle smile graces her face. “They will be safe with me,” she says softly, and he ducks his head a little.

“Of course,” he says. “There is nowhere safer.”

“Return to us soon,” she says.

“For eternal paradise,” he murmurs, and does that little almost-bow again. You find yourself released from his grasp, though his fingers linger against your palm as if reluctant to pull away, but then he nods and steps back, breaking the contact. You are a little regretful of the loss.

You meet his eye before he turns away to leave and see the faintest hint of a smile cross his face, and then he is gone.

And it’s just you and her.

For a moment, you stand in place, unsure what to do, but she beckons you nearer with a wave of her hand. “Oh, don’t be shy, come and sit,” she says.

You do, but you’re sure she can see stiffness in your movements when you pull out the chair and take a seat.

“Are you nervous?” she asks. You twist your fingers together, trying to will yourself to appear relaxed. She laughs before you have a chance to speak, a high, sweet sound, and says, “There’s no need for that.”

The hell there isn’t. But you nod as if merely bashful.

“How are you settling into our paradise?”

Her gaze remains on you, curious but intense, and you nod slowly. “Well enough, I think. I'm… no longer getting lost. And I think I’m used to the routine enough that I’ve been far more helpful.” Unfortunately.

She hums a contented note. “It’s regretful that you have found yourself among us at such a busy time; there is much that you have yet to see, and much that I know you would delight in, but you have not been afforded the time to do so. Your diligence is greatly appreciated – indeed, the work you are doing is invaluable – but it’s a shame we’ve had to delay so much of your experience.”

“I’m just… happy to help,” you say lamely.

She takes a sip of tea, but when she sets her cup down, she shakes her head. “Forgive me.” Her voice is wry. “I have not had guests in some time, and it appears I have been so distracted by your presence that I forgot myself. Tea?”

“Oh… thank you, but that’s not necessary,” you begin, but she’s already rising and skirting around the table.

When she pauses at your side, she considers you for a moment, examining you. “These new clothes suit you,” she says at last. “He seemed pleased with the chance to provide you with these at last, and I can see why.”

She reaches for the teapot at the center of the table, and as she begins to fill your cup, you are suddenly grateful that you chose an outfit with more modest pieces. Floral and lacy; maybe she’s a fan of that, too.

She is… close. Very close. When she pours the tea, her arm brushes yours repeatedly, and you catch a hint of her perfume. You can’t tell exactly what it is – there’s vanilla there, you think? And something else, something sweet but not overmuch. Peach? Or… maybe not. Either way, its rich and almost… creamy in how smooth and sweet it is. It’s heady, like the intermingling floral scents in the garden pathways, but doesn’t seem at odds with it.

You find yourself watching her instead of the tea, and so you can’t pretend you weren’t staring when her eyes skirt to you.

“You know,” she says, tone light, “most would consider this an honor.”

Ah. Right. She is the savior, after all. You hasten to think of something to say, a sufficient apology for your oversight, but she laughs as she sets the teapot down.

“Don’t worry,” she says, and she runs a hand through your hair. Her touch is light, delicate, and she combs through the strands with gentle purpose. “You don’t have to trouble yourself. It would be unkind to offer and then demand thanks, hmm?”

She works her way through your hair until her hand comes to rest at your neck and lingers, fingers toying with the wispy strands of hair there as she says, “your initiation is soon, and the party will follow close behind, and you will have time to rest at last. Are you frightened?”

And even if you lied, you think she might be able to feel how your pulse sped up at her words, so you give a slow nod.

She hums a note. “Yes, it’s daunting to think how close you are to such perfect happiness at last, isn’t it? An end to the misery that has plagued you… It’s natural to hesitate before this possibility when it has long been denied you. But we will be here to guide you every step of the way. You need not fear faltering.” Her nails scrape gently against your skin, almost soothingly if not for, well – your general discomfort. “I’m sure you will be perfectly at ease here even when your duties with the party are fulfilled. And I look forward to getting to know you in the days to come. Perhaps you will find your happiness through working closely together.”

She angles her head, and the sunlight catches in her hair, enhancing the halo effect of it. So bright, and still you shiver.

She pulls away after smoothing down your hair one last time, and returns to her seat.

You focus on the tea in front of you so you can at least pretend that her gaze isn’t fixed on you. It’s – a very lovely shade of amber but your nerves are so high that you can’t register the taste of it in your mouth.

And for a while, you both just sit in silence, drinking tea. She seems to find more comfort in the quiet than you do, looking perfectly relaxed.

When you’ve drained your second cup of tea, she speaks up.

“You know,” she says, “you do look even lovelier in the light,” she says. “Perhaps you would care to take a walk through the gardens with me? Take in some of the sunlight.”

And what are you to do but say yes?

She guides you to the path opposite the one you came from, pace slow and leisurely, perfect for taking it all in, if only you could dispel some of this nervousness and focus on the sights to see.

“Look,” she says, indicating roses a shade of rich blue. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” She traces over the outer petals, then runs her fingers down the stem to rest over a thumb. “Guarded, but beautiful.”

“How do you get them to grow in that color?” you ask.

“Patience,” she says, and nods in a way that you assume means it’s time to move on, “and nurturing.”

She makes little comments as you continue, pointing out particularly lovely or unusual blooms – enough to keep the bubbles of silence down to only a few moments, but not enough to truly occupy your thoughts.

There’s too much to worry about – bombs and plans and parties – and they plague you too much not to think of them, and finally you blurt, “Why is he so affected by that hacker?”

You don’t bother clarifying. You’re not sure you should have even risked it in the first place.

She tilts her head. “Why do you ask me and not him? Or… do you ask what he has already said he will not answer?” Her tone barely changes, if at all, but suddenly you feel laid bare, placed before the glare of a spotlight.

You fumble with your words. “I don’t – want to upset him. Of course. But I don’t always know what to ask, I don’t always know what’s going to upset him, except… that. The other hacker. That always upsets him. And…” You offer a nervous smile and twist your fingers together, feigning interest in the new blooms you pass – violets? – in the hopes that this will at least build the illusion of confidence. “We have – the endless party to prepare for, and I’d like to do my part as best I can. I don’t want to be ignorant of anything that might be important to know for that, but I… don’t want to strain him by forcing him to confront what’s obviously upsetting him.”

“Mmm… yes, Saeran can be… temperamental. Not without reason, but…” She pauses to examine a large orange rose, dipping her fingers into the petals. “I imagine he may well become… emotional, if pressed on this.”

There is, at first, only relief that she hasn’t found your explanation worthy of further inquiry, but then her words hit you, and your next breath stutters in your throat.

“ Saeran? ”

She gives you a look of mild surprise, turning away from the blossom to regard you. “You didn’t know?” And then she inclines her head. “I suppose it isn’t too surprising. He is… not fond of his name.” Her expression is sorrowful, if still prettily composed.

“I… see.” You don’t know what else to say. “No, he didn’t tell me.”

“Mmm, it might be best to remain calling him… whatever you used before, then. If he hadn’t told you already…” She trails off meaningfully.

“Of course,” you say. It feels – ill-gained. You don’t know if he ever planned to tell you, or if you would have learned this eventually, but now you have a name to put to him besides just boss and that’s – well – not something you were expecting.

“Perhaps you can ask him about this, and about the intensity of his feelings regarding the hacker.” She rests her chin on the back of her hand. “But… after the party?” It’s phrased like it’s a question, though you know it’s not.

“…of course, my savior.” So you won’t get an answer to this question, much as the curiosity burns at you. “But then, if he – if… Saeran… hates the hacker so much, why focus on the RFA?” Connections? Influence? Jumin is the son of a business magnate, probably worth an absurd amount of money – but the rest of them?

“They are… particularly wounded.” She releases the bloom,and a petal comes with it. She clicks her tongue, rolling the petal between her fingers. “Lost. If we don’t help them now, I fear that they may remain tangled in doubts forever.” She pinches the petal tightly suddenly, and when she lets it go, it falls crushed from her fingers.

That's… an answer that doesn’t manage to answer anything. You hesitate, then ask the question at the heart of everything.

“Why do you do this?” The frustration you feel bleeds into your voice, and you continue in the hopes that this will amend that. “You… care for people. Heal hurt. You go to such lengths to find lost people – why ?”

And she laughs.

You’ve never heard someone with a bell-like voice until you met her. Clear and bright and musical – and distant. “My dear, what else would I do?” She reaches to place a hand at your face, thumb ar your jaw and fingers splayed against your cheek. “If you see someone in need, don’t you ache to do something?” She brushes against your cheekbone in a motion that is probably meant to be comforting. “Have you not wished desperately for a guiding hand when you were lost?”

There is amusement in her gaze – even, perhaps, affection – which you suppose you should be grateful for. Seems safer than the alternative. But you don’t want to be coddled. Not here, not like this.

“…yes,” you say at last. “I understand.”

Her smile is warm. “I’m glad. But I am always here to help if you have any more questions. [We wouldn’t want you to feel lost in paradises.”

“Thank you for your kindness, my savior.” Your heart thuds hollowly in your chest.

“Now,” she says, “have you anything else to ask, or would you care to see more of the gardens?”

And you can’t imagine you’ll get a satisfying answer to any of the other questions that plague you – why me, why a bomb, why, why, why? – and so you nod.

When he returns, he finds you still winding through the gardens, by a wall of swaying sunflowers this time, and your breath catches as he comes into view.

“It is done, my savior.” You wonder idly if you should have been making those half-bows like he does this whole time, but you can’t focus long enough on this thought to care.

He has a name .

Saeran . Not your nameless boss.

It makes him – not more real, exactly, because you’re not sure you’ve fully processed it, but it definitely changes something .

You just… don’t know how much yet.

And you have, it seems, missed out on some of his report, because when you snap back into focus, he’s already begun to explain how it went.

“–notice a thing, and went off without a single hiccup. By the time they realize anything has changed, it will be too late; they’ll have no chance to counter the security system, and the extraction will be unexpected and seamless.”

At some point, he’d come closer, and she places one hand on his shoulder. “Very good,” she praises, “I would expect nothing less from you. And the connection is still stable from here?”

He nods, and she gives him a warm smile.

And now she steps back and he comes to stand beside you.

The savior clasps her hands together. “Now, much as I cherish the time I am able to spend with you, there is work to be done.”

What does she do when she’s not instructing him, or… examining you? But, this is a clear dismissal. You incline your head when he does, this time.

And that’s that.

You start off in silence through garden pathways that you’ve already grown sick of. Almost immediately, his hand brushes against yours once, twice, three times, and you glance over at him. Has he been made shy by the savior’s compliments? He had no trouble taking your hand earlier. You flex your fingers against his, and this seems to give him the go-ahead to lace your fingers with his.

You’re still radiating nervous energy. “I'm… glad it went well,” you say. Better to talk than be left in silence with tumultuous thoughts. “And that you’re back.”

He hums a contented note. “I’ll show you the new feed when we return. And…” he says, “the savior seems pleased with you. Maybe… we could spend time together like this soon.”

You force yourself to smile, and his hand tightens around yours.

You and Saeran and the savior. What a picture that would make.

#saeran #saeran choi #mystic messenger saeran #mystic messenger unknown #mystic messenger #mine #saeran route fic tag

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gaysparklepires · 7 years

Text

3. Motives

The sun was so deeply buried behind the clouds that there was no way to tell if it had set or not. After the long flight—chasing the sun westward so that it seemed unmoving in the sky—it was especially disorienting; time seemed oddly variable. It took me by surprise when the forest gave way to the first buildings, signaling that we were nearly home.

“You’ve been very quiet,” Edward observed. “Did the plane make you sick?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Are you sad to leave?”

“Sad, yes. A little relieved, though.”

He raised one eyebrow at me. I knew it was useless and—much as I hated to admit it—unnecessary to ask him to keep his eyes on the road.

“Renée is so much more… perceptive than Charlie in some ways. It was making me jumpy.”

Edward laughed. “Your mother has a very interesting mind. Almost childlike, but very insightful. She sees things differently than other people.”

Insightful. It was a good description of my mother—when she was paying attention. Most of the time Renée was so bewildered by her own life that she didn’t notice much else. But this weekend she’d been paying plenty of attention to me.

Phil was busy—the high school baseball team he coached was in the playoffs—and being alone with Edward and me had only sharpened Renée’s focus. As soon as the hugs and squeals of delight were out of the way, Renée began to watch. And as she’d watched, her wide gray eyes had become first confused and then concerned.

This morning we’d gone for a walk along the beach. She wanted to show off all the beauties of her new home, still hoping, I think, that the sun might lure me away from Forks. She’d also wanted to talk with me alone, and that was easily arranged. Edward had fabricated a term paper to give himself an excuse to stay indoors during the day.

In my head, I went through the conversation again…

Renée and I ambled along the sidewalk, trying to stay in range of the infrequent palm tree shadows. Though it was early, the heat was smothering. The air was so heavy with moisture that just breathing in and out was giving my lungs a workout.

“Beau?” my mother asked, looking out past the sand to the lightly crashing waves as she spoke.

“What is it, Mom?”

She sighed, not meeting my gaze. “I’m worried…”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, anxious at once. “What can I do?”

“It’s not me.” She shook her head. “I’m worried about you… and Edward.”

Renée finally looked at me when she said his name, her face apologetic.

“Oh,” I mumbled, fixing my eyes on a pair of joggers as they passed us, drenched with sweat.

“You two are more serious than I’d been thinking,” she went on.

I frowned, quickly reviewing the last two days in my head. Edward and I had barely touched—in front of her, at least. I wondered if Renée was about to give me a lecture on responsibility, too. I didn’t mind that the way I had with Charlie. Lectures on responsibility had been pretty common between my mother and I time and time again in the last ten years.

“There’s something… strange about the way you two are together,” she murmured, her forehead creasing over her troubled eyes. “The way he watches you—it’s so… protective. Like he’s about to throw himself in front of a bullet to save you or something.”

I laughed, though I was still not able to meet her gaze. “That’s a bad thing?”

“No.” She frowned as she struggled for the words. “It’s just different. He’s very intense about you… and very careful. I feel like I don’t really understand your relationship. Like there’s some secret I’m missing…”

“I think you’re imagining things, Mom,” I said quickly, struggling to keep my voice light. There was a flutter in my stomach. I’d forgotten how much my mother saw. Something about her simple view of the world cut through all the distractions and pierced right to the truth of things. This had never been a problem before. Until now, there had never been a secret I couldn’t tell her.

“I wish you could see the way he moves around you.” She set her lips defensively.

“What do you mean?”

“The way he moves—he orients himself around you. When you move, even a little bit, he adjusts his position at the same time. Like magnets… or gravity. He’s like a… satellite, or something. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She pursed her lips and stared down.

“Don’t tell me,” I teased, forcing a smile. “You’re reading mystery novels again, aren’t you? Or is it sci-fi this time?”

Renée flushed a delicate pink. “That’s beside the point.”

“Found anything good?”

“Well, there was one—but that doesn’t matter. We’re talking about you right now.”

“You should stick to romance, Mom. You know how you freak yourself out.”

Her lips turned up at the corners. “I’m being silly, aren’t I?”

For half a second I couldn’t answer. Renée was so easily swayed. Sometimes it was a good thing, because not all of her ideas were practical. But it pained me to see how quickly she caved in to my trivializing, especially since she was dead right this time.

She looked up, and I controlled my expression.

“Not silly—just being a mom.”

She laughed and then gestured grandly toward the white sands stretching to the blue water.

“And all this isn’t enough to get you to move back in with your silly mom?”

I wiped my hand dramatically across my forehead, and then pretended to wring my tank top out.

“You get used to the humidity,” she promised.

“You can get used to the rain, too,” I countered.

She elbowed me playfully and then took my arm as we walked back to her car.

Other than her worries about me, she seemed happy enough. Content. She still looked at Phil with goo-goo eyes, and that was comforting. Surely her life was full and satisfying. Surely she didn’t miss me that much, even now…

Edward’s icy fingers brushed my cheek. I looked up, blinking, coming back to the present. He leaned down and kissed my forehead.

“We’re home, sleepy head. Time to awake.”

We were stopped in front of Charlie’s house. The porch light was on and the cruiser was parked in the driveway. As I examined the house, I saw the curtain twitch in the living room window, flashing a line of yellow light across the dark lawn.

I sighed. I couldn’t blame Charlie for being antsy.

Edward must have been thinking the same thing, because his expression was stiff and his eyes remote as he came to get my door for me.

“How bad?” I asked.

“Hm?” His eyes flickered to mine, “Oh, Charlie’s not going to be difficult,” Edward promised, his voice level with no hint of humor. “He missed you.”

My eyes narrowed in doubt. If that was the case, then why was Edward tensed as if for a battle?

“Beau,” he whispered, stopping me from climbing out of the car. “Are you still angry with me?”

“Angry?” I blinked, confused.

He laughed darkly. “You were very angry with me a few days ago. And…” his eyes dropped. “You had—have—every right to be.”

I thought back to our fight before the trip, when he had disabled my truck to stop me from going to La Push to see Jacob. I hadn’t let him come in my room that night, or the next, for that matter. I had also insisted on driving myself to school every day leading up to the trip. On the night when I finally let him come in after Charlie had gone to bed, he spent most of our time together begging for my forgiveness and whispering apologies into my ear. If I couldn’t hear the absolute sincerity in every word I would have thought he was putting on a show.

I thought for a moment before answering, “I was very angry with you,” I said slowly, and he winced, “but I’m not so angry now. I’m more disappointed in the situation, I guess.”

I could have told him I hated him and his reaction would have been less severe. His face looked excruciatingly pained, he took my hands in his, and his eyes bore into mine.

“I need you to know, Beau, that I only stopped you from going because I love you and I couldn’t let anything happen to you.” His voice was low and urgent.

“I know, you thought you were doing what was best.” I said, solemnly.

He sighed, and lifted my hands to his cold lips. He kissed each of them again and again. “Perhaps, what I think is best isn’t always the wisest course of action.” He muttered between gentle kisses.

“Now you’re realizing this?” I teased, leaning forward to kiss his forehead.

Before I realized it, he had swiftly lifted his head, and caught my lips with his own. His hands moved to either side of my face, and he kissed me deeply. My head spun from the surprise and the intensity of the kiss.

He slowly pulled away, “I’m sorry, Beau.”

“Mmm…” I mumbled. “Yup.”

He laughed softly.

“Let’s get inside before Charlie comes out.”

My bag was small, but he insisted on carrying it into the house. Charlie opened the door just as we reached the porch.

“Welcome home, kid!” Charlie shouted like he really meant it. “How was Jacksonville?”

“Moist. And buggy.” I laughed.

“So Renée didn’t sell you on the University of Florida?”

“She tried. But I’d rather drink water than inhale it.”

Charlie’s eyes flickered to Edward. “Did you have a nice time?”

“Yes,” Edward answered in a serene voice. “Renée was very hospitable.”

“That’s… um, good. Glad you had fun.” Charlie turned away from Edward and pulled me in for an unexpected hug.

“Impressive,” I whispered in his ear.

He rumbled a laugh. “I really missed you, Beau. The food around here sucks when you’re gone.”

“I’ll get on it,” I said as he let me go. “I think I missed my calling as a chef.”

“Would you call Jacob first? He’s been bugging me every five minutes since six o’clock this morning. I promised I’d have you call him before you even unpacked.”

I glanced at Edward, he was too still, too cold beside me. The tension I had detected in the car was nothing compared to now.

“Jacob wants to talk to me?”

“Pretty bad, I’d say. He wouldn’t tell me what it was about—just that it was important.”

The phone rang then, shrill and demanding.

“That’s him again, I’d bet my next paycheck,” Charlie muttered.

“I got it.” I hurried to the kitchen.

Edward followed after me while Charlie disappeared into the living room.

I grabbed the phone mid-ring, and twisted around so that I was facing the wall. “Hello?”

“You’re back,” Jacob said.

His familiar husky voice sent a wave of wistfulness through me. A thousand memories spun in my head, tangling together—a rocky beach strewn with driftwood trees, a garage made of plastic sheds, warm sodas in a paper bag, a tiny room with one too-small shabby love-seat. The laughter in his deep-set black eyes, the feverish heat of his big hand around mine, the flash of his white teeth against his dark skin, his face stretching into the wide smile that had warmed my heart from the inside out.

It felt sort of like homesickness, this longing for the place and person who had sheltered me through such a dark time in my life.

I cleared the lump from my throat. “Yes,” I answered.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Jacob demanded.

His frustrated tone instantly got my back up. “Because I’ve been in the house for exactly four seconds and your call interrupted Charlie telling me that you’d called.”

“Oh…” His tone became repentant, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Now, why are you harassing Charlie?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I assumed that much, Jake. Go ahead.”

There was a short pause.

“You going to school tomorrow?”

I frowned to myself, unable to make sense of this question. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”

Another pause.

“So what did you want to talk about, Jake?”

He hesitated. “Nothing really, I guess. I…” he trailed off, and I heard him sigh deeply on the other end. “I wanted to hear your voice.”

“Jake… I’m really glad you called me. I…” But I didn’t know what more to say. I wanted to tell him I was on my way to La Push right now. And I couldn’t tell him that.

“I have to go,” he said abruptly, his voice sounded torn.

“What?”

“I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“But Jake—“

“I’m sorry, Beau.”

“Jake, wait—“

He was already gone. I listened to the dial tone with disbelief.

“Well, that was short,” I muttered.

“Is everything all right?” Edward asked. His voice was low and careful.

I turned slowly to face him. His expression was perfectly smooth—impossible to read.

“I don’t know. I wonder what that was all about.” It didn’t make sense that Jacob had been hounding Charlie all day just to ask me if I was going to school. And if he’d wanted to hear my voice, then why did he hang up so quickly?

“Your guess is probably better than mine,” Edward said, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Mmm,” I murmured. That was true. I knew Jake inside and out. It shouldn’t be that complicated to figure out his motivations.

With my thoughts miles away—about fifteen miles away, up the road to La Push—I started combing though the fridge, assembling ingredients for Charlie’s dinner. Edward leaned against the counter, and I was distantly aware that his eyes were on my face, but too preoccupied to worry about what he saw there.

The school thing seemed like the key to me. That was the only real question Jake had asked. And he had to be after an answer to something, or he wouldn’t have been bugging Charlie so persistently.

Why would my attendance record matter to him, though?

I tried to think about it in a logical way. So, if I hadn’t been going to school tomorrow, what would be the problem with that, from Jacob’s perspective? Charlie had given me a little grief about missing a day of school so close to finals, but I’d convinced him that one Friday wasn’t going to derail my studies. Jake would hardly care about that.

My brain refused to come up with any brilliant insights. Maybe I was missing some vital piece of information.

What could have changed in the past three days that was so important to Jacob that would break his long streak of refusing to answer my phone calls and contact me? What difference could three days make?

I froze in the middle of the kitchen. The package of icy hamburger in my hands slipped through my numb fingers. It took me a slow second to miss the thud it should have made against the floor.

Edward had caught it and thrown it onto the counter. His arms were already around me, his lips at my ear.

“What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, dazed.

Three days could change everything.

It had been on my mind endlessly the last few weeks. If things changed, if I changed my mind or it became a necessity. I had been dwelling on how impossible college would be. How I wouldn’t be able to be anywhere near people after I’d gone through the painful three-day conversion that would rob me of my mortality. The conversion that would make me forever a prisoner to my own thirst…

Had Charlie told Billy that I’d vanished for three days? Had Billy jumped to conclusions? Had Jacob really been asking me if I was still human? Making sure that the werewolves’ treaty was unbroken—that none of the Cullens had dared to bite a human… bite, not kill…?

But did he honestly think I would come home to Charlie if that was the case?

Edward shook me. “Beau?” he asked, truly anxious now.

“I think… I think he was checking,” I mumbled. “Checking to make sure. That I’m human, I mean.”

Edward stiffened, and a low hiss sounded in my ear.

“If it does come to that,” I whispered. “We’d have to leave, and be so far away so that it doesn’t break the treaty. We won’t ever be able to come back.”

His arms tightened around me. “I know.”

“Ahem.” Charlie cleared his voice loudly behind us.

I jumped, and then pulled free of Edward’s arms, my face getting hot. Edward leaned back against the counter. His eyes were tight. I could see worry in them, and anger.

“You had a long flight, kiddo, I can just call for a pizza,” Charlie offered.

“No, that’s okay, Dad, I already started.”

“Okay,” Charlie shrugged. He propped himself against the doorframe, folding his arms.

I sighed and got to work, trying to ignore my audience.

“If I asked you to do something, would you trust me?” Edward asked, an edge to his soft voice.

We were almost to school. Edward had been relaxed and joking just a moment ago, and now suddenly his hands were clenched tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles straining in an effort not to snap it into pieces.

I stared at his anxious expression—his eyes were far away, like he was listening to distant voices.

My pulse sped in response to his stress, but I answered carefully. “That depends.”

We pulled into the school lot.

“I was afraid you would say that.”

“What do you want me to do, Edward?”

“I want you to stay in the car.” He pulled into his usual spot and turned the engine off as he spoke. “I want you to wait here until I come back for you.”

“But… why?”

That was when I saw him. He would have been hard to miss, towering over the students the way he did, even if he hadn’t been leaning against his black motorcycle, parked illegally on the sidewalk.

“Oh.”

Jacob’s face was a calm mask that I recognized well. It was the face he used when he was determined to keep his emotions in check, to keep himself under control. It made him look like Sam, the oldest of the wolves, the leader of the Quileute pack. But Jacob could never quite manage the perfect serenity Sam always exuded.

I’d forgotten how much this face bothered me. Though I’d gotten to know Sam pretty well before the Cullens had come back—to like him even—I’d never been able to completely shake the resentment I felt when Jacob mimicked Sam’s expression. It was a stranger’s face. He wasn’t my Jacob when he wore it.

“You jumped to the wrong conclusion last night,” Edward murmured. “He asked about school because he knew that I would be where you were. He was looking for a safe place to talk to me. A place with witnesses.”

So I’d misinterpreted Jacob’s motives last night. Missing information, that was the problem. Information like why in the world Jacob would want to talk to Edward.

“I’m not staying in the car,” I said.

Edward groaned quietly. “Of course not. Well, let’s get this over with.”

Jacob’s face hardened as we walked toward him, hand in hand.

I noticed other faces, too—the faces of my classmates. I noticed how their eyes widened as they took in all six foot seven inches of Jacob’s long body, muscled up the way no normal seventeen-and-a-half-year-old ever had been. I saw those eyes rake over his tight black V-neck shirt—short-sleeved, though the day was unseasonably cool—his ragged, grease-smeared jeans, and the glossy black bike he leaned against. Their eyes didn’t linger on his face—something about his expression had them glancing quickly away. And I noticed the wide berth everyone gave him, the bubble of space that no one dared to encroach on.

With a sense of astonishment, I realized that Jacob looked dangerous to them. How odd.

Edward stopped a few yards away from Jacob, and I could tell he was uncomfortable having me so close to a werewolf. He drew his hand back slightly, pulling me halfway behind his body.

“You could have called us,” Edward said in a steel-hard voice.

“Sorry,” Jacob answered with a smirk. “I don’t have any leeches on my speed dial.”

“You could have reached me at Beau’s house, of course. Or his cell phone.”

Jacob’s jaw flexed, and his brows pulled together. He didn’t answer.

“This is hardly the place, Jacob. Could we discuss this later?”

“Sure, sure. I’ll stop by your crypt after school.” Jacob chuckled darkly. “What’s wrong with now?”

Edward looked around pointedly, his eyes resting on the witnesses who were barely out of hearing range. A few people were hesitating on the sidewalk, their eyes bright with expectation. Like they were hoping a fight might break out to alleviate the tedium of another Monday morning. I saw Tyler Crowley nudge Austin Marks, and they both paused on their way to class.

“I already know what you came to say,” Edward reminded Jacob in a voice so low that I could barely make it out. “Message delivered. Consider us warned.”

Edward glanced down at me for a fleeting second with worried eyes.

“Warned?” I asked blankly. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t tell him?” Jacob asked, his eyes widening with disbelief. “What, were you afraid he’d take our side?”

“Please drop it, Jacob,” Edward said in an even voice.

“Why?” Jacob challenged.

I frowned in confusion. “What don’t I know? Edward?”

Edward just glared at Jacob as if he hadn’t heard me.

“Jake?”

Jacob raised his eyebrow at me. “He didn’t tell you that his big… brother crossed the line Saturday night? The big one with the dark hair?” he asked, sarcasm in his voice. Then his eyes flickered back to Edward. “Paul was totally justified in—“

“It was no-man’s land!” Edward hissed.

“Was not!”

Jacob was fuming visibly. His hands trembled.

“Jacob, breathe, please.” I shot him a look. He nodded his head and sucked in two deep lungfuls of air.

I turned back to Edward. “Emmett and Paul?” I whispered. Paul was Jacob’s most volatile pack brother. He was the one who’d lost control that day in the woods—the memory of the snarling gray wolf was suddenly vivid in my head. “What happened? Were they fighting?” I demanded. “Why? Did someone get hurt?”

“No one fought,” Edward said quietly, only to me. “No one got hurt. Don’t be anxious.”

Jacob was staring at us with incredulous eyes. “You didn’t tell him anything at all, did you? Is that why you took him away? So he wouldn’t know that—?”

“Leave now.” Edward cut him off mid-sentence, and his face was suddenly frightening—truly frightening. For a second, he looked like… like a vampire. He glared and Jacob with vicious, unveiled loathing.

Jacob raised his eyebrows, but made no other move. “Why haven’t you told him?”

They faced each other in silence for a long moment. More students gathered behind Tyler and Austin. I saw Mike next to Ben—Mike had one hand on Ben’s shoulder, like he was holding him in place.

In the dead silence, all the details suddenly fell into place for me with a burst of intuition.

Something Edward didn’t want me to know.

Something that Jacob wouldn’t have kept from me.

Something that had the Cullens and the wolves both in the woods, moving in hazardous proximity to each other.

Something that would cause Edward to insist that I fly across the country.

Something that Alice had seen in a vision last week—a vision Edward had lied to me about.

Something I’d been waiting for anyway. Something I knew would happen again, as much as I might wish it never would. It was never going to end, was it?

I felt the gasp of air pull through my lips, before I realized I had reacted. I managed to keep myself very still, despite my rising panic. My vision blurred only slightly around the edges.

“He came back for me,” I choked out.

Victor was never going to give up until I was dead. He would keep repeating the same pattern—feint and run, feint and run—until he found a hole through my defenders.

Maybe I’d get lucky. Maybe the Volturi would come for me first—they’d kill me quicker, at least.

Edward held me tight to his side, angling his body so that he was still between me and Jacob, and stroked my face with anxious hands. “It’s fine,” he whispered to me. “It’s fine. I’ll never let him get close to you, it’s fine.”

Then he glared at Jacob. “Does that answer your question, mongrel?”

“You don’t think Beau has a right to know?” Jacob challenged. “It’s his life.”

Edward kept his voice muted; even Tyler, edging forward by inches, would be unable to hear. “Why should he be frightened when he was never in danger?”

“Better frightened than lied to.”

I tried to speak, but no sound came out. I couldn’t help but picture him—I could see Victor’s face, his lips pulled back over his teeth, his crimson eyes glowing with the obsession of his vendetta; he held Edward responsible for the demise of his love, James. Victor wouldn’t stop until Edward’s love was taken from him, too.

Edward gently rubbed my back.

“Do you really think hurting him is better than protecting him?” he murmured.

“Beau’s tougher than you think,” Jacob said. “And he’s been through worse.”

Abruptly, Jacob’s expression shifted, his eyes seemed to focus on something that wasn’t there, like he was remembering something.

I felt Edward cringe. I glanced up at him, and his face was contorted in what could only be pain. For one ghastly moment, I was reminded of our afternoon in Italy, in the macabre tower room of the Volturi, where Jane had tortured Edward with her malignant gift, burning him with her thoughts alone…

The memory of the Volturi, the reality of what they represented snapped me out of my panic.

“What’s the matter with you?” Jacob asked, raising an eyebrow. “Wait…”

Edward winced, but smooth his expression with a little effort. He couldn’t quite hide the agony in his eyes.

Jacob laughed, “That’s funny,” he smirked as he watched Edward’s face.

I glanced, wide-eyed at Jacob.

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

“It’s nothing, Beau,” Edward told me quietly. “Jacob has a good memory, that’s all.”

Jacob grinned, and Edward winced again.

“Jacob, stop! Whatever you’re doing.” I snapped.

“Sure, if you want.” Jacob shrugged. “It’s his own fault if he doesn’t like the things I remember, though.”

I glared at him, and he smiled back impishly—like a kid caught doing something he knows he shouldn’t by someone who he knows won’t punish him.

“The principal’s on his way to discourage loitering on school property,” Edward murmured to me. “Let’s get to English, Beau, so you’re not involved.”

“Overprotective, isn’t he?” Jacob said, talking just to me. “A little trouble makes life fun. Let me guess, you’re not allowed to have fun, are you?”

Edward glowered, and his lips pulled back from his teeth ever so slightly.

“Knock it off, Jake,” I said.

Jacob laughed. “That sounds like a no. Hey, if you ever feel like having a life again, you could come see me. I’ve still got your motorcycle in my garage.”

This news distracted me. “You were supposed to sell that. You promised Charlie you would.” If I hadn’t begged on Jake’s behalf—after all, he’d put weeks of labor into both motorcycles, and he deserved some kind of payback—Charlie would have thrown my bike in a dumpster. And possibly set that dumpster on fire.

“Yeah, right. Like I would do that. It belongs to you, not me. Anyway, I’ll hold on to it until you want it back.”

A tiny hint of the smile I remembered was suddenly playing around the edges of his lips.

“Jake…”

He leaned forward, his face earnest now, the bitter sarcasm fading. “I think I might have been wrong before, you know, about not being able to be friends. Maybe we could manage it, on my side of the line. Come see me.”

I was vividly conscious of Edward, his arms wrapped protectively around me, motionless as a stone. I shot a look at his face—it was calm, patient.

“I… Jake, I…” the words kept catching, I wasn’t sure what to say.

Jacob dropped the antagonist façade completely. It was like he’d forgotten Edward was there, or at least he was determined to act that way. “I miss you every day, Beau. It’s not the same without you.”

“I know and I’m sorry, Jake, I…”

He shook his head, and sighed. “I know. Doesn’t matter, right? I guess I’ll survive or something. Who needs friends?” He grimaced, trying to cover the pain with a thin attempt at bravado.

Jacob’s suffering had always triggered my protective side. It was not entirely rational—Jacob was hardly in need of any physical protection I could offer. But my arms, pinned beneath Edward’s yearned to reach out to him. To wrap around his big, warm waist in a silent promise of acceptance and comfort.

Edward’s shielding arms had become restraints.

Jacob’s eyes met mine and he smiled sadly. “I’ve got loads of time.”

The words triggered a surge of emotion in me, and I wanted nothing more than to run to him. But what could I do?

“Okay, get to class,” a stern voice sounded behind us. “Move along, Mr. Crowley.”

“Get to school, Jake,” I whispered, anxious as soon as I recognized the principal’s voice. Jacob went to the Quileute school, but he might still get in trouble for trespassing or the equivalent.

Edward released me, taking just my hand and pulling me behind his body again.

Mr. Greene pushed through the circle of spectators, his brows pressing down like ominous storm clouds over his small eyes.

“I mean it,” he was threatening. “Detention for anyone who’s still standing here when I turn around again.”

The audience melted away before he was finished with his sentence.

“Ah, Mr. Cullen. Do we have a problem here?”

“Not at all, Mr. Greene. We were just on our way to class.”

“Excellent. I don’t seem to recognize your friend.” Mr. Greene turned his glower on Jacob. “Are you a new student here?”

Mr. Greene’s eyes scrutinized Jacob, and I could see that he’d come to the same conclusion everyone else had: dangerous. A troublemaker.

“Nope,” Jacob answered, half a smirk on his broad lips.

“Then I suggest you remove yourself from school property at once, young man, before I call the police.”

Jacob’s little smirk became a full-blown grin, and I knew he was picturing Charlie showing up to arrest him. This grin was too bitter, too full of mocking to satisfy me. This wasn’t the smile I’d been waiting to see.

Jacob said, “Yes, sir,” and snapped a military salute before he climbed on his bike and kicked it to a start right there on the sidewalk. The engine snarled and then the tires squealed as he spun it sharply around. In a matter of seconds, Jacob raced out of sight.

Mr. Greene gnashed his teeth together while he watched the performance.

“Mr. Cullen, I expect you to ask your friend to refrain from trespassing again.”

“He’s no friend of mine, Mr. Greene, but I’ll pass along the warning.”

Mr. Greene pursed his lips. Edward’s perfect grades and spotless record were clearly a factor in Mr. Greene’s assessment of the incident. “I see. If you’re worried about any trouble, I’d be happy to—“

“There’s nothing to worry about, Mr. Greene. There won’t be any trouble.”

“I hope that’s correct. Well, then. On to class. You, too, Mr. Swan.”

Edward nodded, and pulled me quickly along toward the English building.

“Do you feel well enough to go to class?” he whispered when we were past the principal.

“Of course,” I whispered back, not quite sure if it were actually true.

Whether I felt well or not was hardly the most important consideration. I needed to talk to Edward right away, and English class wasn’t the ideal place for the conversation I had in mind.

But with Mr. Greene right behind us, there weren’t a lot of other options.

We got to class a little late and took our seats quickly. Mr. Berty was reciting a Frost poem. He ignored our entrance, refusing to let us break his rhythm.

I yanked a blank page out of my notebook and started writing, my handwriting more illegible than normal thanks to my agitation.

What happened? Tell me everything. And screw the protecting me crap, please.

I shoved the note at Edward. He sighed, and then began writing. It took him less time than me, though he wrote an entire paragraph in his own personal calligraphy before he slipped the paper back.

Alice saw that Victor was coming back. I took you out of town merely as a precaution—there was never a chance that he would have gotten anywhere close to you. Emmett and Jasper very nearly had him, but Victor seems to have some instinct for evasion. He escaped right down the Quileute boundary line as if he were reading it from a map. It didn’t help that Alice’s abilities were nullified by the Quileutes’ involvement. To be fair, the Quileutes might have had him, too, if we hadn’t gotten in the way. The big gray one though Emmett was over the line, and he got defensive. Of course, Royal reacted to that, and everyone left the chase to protect their companions. Carlisle and Jasper got things calmed down before it got out of hand. But by then, Victor had slipped away. That’s everything.

I frowned at the letters on the page. All of them had been in on it—Emmett, Jasper, Alice, Royal, and Carlisle. Maybe even Esme, though he hadn’t mentioned her. And then Paul and the rest of the Quileute pack. It might so easily have turned into a fight, my friends against my friends. Any one of them could have been hurt.

I shuddered.

Carefully, I scrubbed out the entire paragraph with my eraser and then I wrote over the top:

What about Charlie? He could have been after him.

Edward was shaking his head before I finished, obviously going to downplay any danger on Charlie’s behalf. He held a hand out, but I ignored that and started again.

You can’t know that Victor wasn’t thinking that, because you weren’t here. Florida was a bad idea.

He took the paper from underneath my hand.

I wasn’t about to send you off alone. With your luck, not even the black box would survive.

My previous worry was suddenly overshadowed by his response and the annoyance it caused. Like I couldn’t fly across the country without bringing the plane down. Very funny.

So let’s say my bad luck did crash the plane. What exactly are you going to do about it?

Why is the plane crashing?

He was trying to hide a smile now.

The pilots are passed out drunk.

Easy. I’d fly the plane.

Of course. I pursed my lips and tried again.

Both engines have exploded and we’re falling in a death spiral toward the earth.

I’d wait until we were close enough to the ground, get a good grip on you, kick out the wall, and jump. Then I’d run you back to the scene of the accident, and we’d stumble around like the two luckiest survivors in history.

I stared at him wordlessly.

“What?” he whispered.

I shook my head. “Unbelievable,” I mouthed.

I scrubbed out the disconcerting conversation and wrote one more line.

You will tell me next time.

I knew there would be a next time. The pattern would continue until someone lost.

Edward stared into my eyes for a long moment. I wondered what my face looked like—it felt cold, serious, and intense.

He sighed and then nodded once.

Thanks.

The paper disappeared from under my hand. I looked up, blinking in surprise, just as Mr. Berty came down the aisle.

“Is that something you’d like to share there, Mr. Cullen?”

Edward looked up innocently and held out the sheet of paper on top of his folder. “My notes?” he asked, sounding confused.

Mr. Berty scanned the notes—no doubt a perfect transcription of his lecture—and then walked away frowning.

It was later, in Calculus—my one class without Edward—that I heard the gossip.

“My money’s on the buff guy with the bike,” someone was saying.

I peeked up to see that Tyler, Mike, Austin, and Ben had their heads bent together, deep in conversation.

“Yeah,” Mike whispered. “Did you see the size of that Jacob kid? I think he could take Cullen down.” Mike sounded pleased by the idea.

“I don’t think so,” Ben disagreed. “There’s something about Edward. He’s always so… confident. I have a feeling he can take care of himself.”

“I’m with Ben,” Tyler agreed. “Besides, if that other kid messed Edward up, you know those big brothers of his would get involved.”

“Have you been down to La Push lately?” Mike asked. “Lauren and I went to the beach a couple of weeks ago, and believe me, Jacob’s friends are all just as big as he is.”

“Huh,” Tyler said. “Too bad it didn’t turn into anything. Guess we’ll never know how it would have turned out.”

“It didn’t look over to me,” Austin said. “Maybe we’ll get to see.”

Mike grinned. “Anyone in the mood for a bet?”

“Ten on Jacob,” Austin said at once.

“Ten on Cullen,” Tyler chimed in.

“Ten on Edward,” Ben agreed.

“Jacob,” Mike said.

“Hey, do you guys know what it was about?” Austin wondered. “That might affect the odds.”

“I can guess,” Mike said, and then he shot a glance at me at the same time that Ben and Tyler did.

From their expressions, none of them had realized I was in easy hearing distance. They all looked away quickly, shuffling the papers on their desks.

“I still say Jacob,” Mike muttered under his breath.

#3.03 #Eclipsed Revamped #The Twilight Saga Revamped

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