Rating: M

Warnings: Child neglect, alcoholism, mention of underage sexual activity and abortions, copious cursing, bad role models, casual dismissal of vegetarianism.

Summary: Harper Winchester has finally pissed off her dad enough to get sent packing - back to Forks, Washington. Now she's got a chance at a real life, as long as she keeps her uncle happy, and that means no drinking, fighting, or casual sex - harder than it sounds, frankly. And what's with all these stupid angels?

ANNO MUNDI

Forks sucks. I'd burn it to the ground if I could, never mind the ensuing death and destruction and forest fires.

And now I will die here. Fuckity fuck fuck fuckers. How do I do this? How do I keep moving forward, watching my death move towards me? I don't want to die here, in this fucking place which I hate, for these people I can't stand.

Except Cas. I'd die a million deaths for him, each more horrible than the last.

God forgive me, I will not let them take him now.

CHAPTER ONE

I was born here, Dad told me, beneath this smothering carpet of greens and grays. I was two weeks late, and caught Mom and Dad by surprise, and so the paramedics delivered me in the back of an ambulance on a lonely stretch of highway in Forks. The doctors at Forks Community hospital checked me out, and I was back at home before sundown.

I did not leave Forks until more than four years later, with my mother's death and my father's ensuing breakdown. Our house burned in the middle of the night, some electrical thing. Dad handed me Sammy and told me to run, to get out and not look back. That's the first thing I can remember, when I throw my mind back to my time in Forks.

Dad went back for Mom, but he couldn't get to her. She burned. And I sat on the hood of a cop car, holding Sammy, while Dad screamed and raged at the firefighters, and the paramedics, and himself, until he couldn't yell anymore. And then he put me and Sammy in the backseat of the Impala, and we never went back to Forks again.

We went a lot of places, mostly shitty ones. Hot places, with little humidity and less mercy. Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, Southern California. We'd barely finish up a school year before Dad decided to pick us up and move us again.

I didn't mind. I couldn't remember Forks, but I knew what Dad was thinking: don't put down roots. Don't love anything you can't fit in the backseat of your car. Be ready to run. If the kids at one school didn't like me, I didn't give a shit. I'd be gone in nine months or so. If I made a friend, so what? They'd leave one way or another, it was probably better if I left first.

These are the things my father taught me. These are the things I remember.

There are other things I remember, things he taught me with more reluctance. How to hustle pool, how to win a fist fight, how to win a knife fight, how to open a beer with my teeth. Until I was eight or so, he tried to keep me out of it, his barfly, minimum wage life. I was the blessed eldest, the precious daughter, and he wanted me safe, protected. When I was eight, a man broke into our motel room looking for the money Dad had beat out of him at pool. Dad was half-asleep and mostly drunk and Sammy was four, but I knew where Dad hid his Colt .45.

So after I shot my first man, Dad figured that keeping me sheltered was more or less a lost cause. He taught me to shoot without hurting myself, how to fight, how to run, how to make money, how to spend money without raising suspicions. How to lie, cheat, and steal my way across the desert wastes of America.

So frankly, the situation I'm in now is pretty fucking baffling.

There's no way to say this that doesn't sound sort of fucked up, but I didn't really care that much when I got pregnant. I mean, yeah, I was a little worried about it, but more like, "Oh no, who will drive me home from the clinic?" and "How much will I have to hustle at pool in order to pay for this?" But I always knew what I was going to do. I was going to get to the clinic, come hell or high water, and they were going to vacuum the little fucker out of my uterus. I knew my life, and I knew what I wanted, and frankly, a kid did not figure into it.

I didn't have many friends in Phoenix, but I had a few, and one who I trusted enough to pick me up from the clinic: Renee. She was tiny and delicate, with a short attention span and a loud laugh, and an essentially decent personality. When I coaxed her away from her easel and paints long enough to tell her my problem, she teared up, threw her arms around me, and said, of course she'd pick me up and drive me there, and if I wanted to spend the night at her place after I certainly could.

The father's name was Garrett. I didn't know his last name. I'd met him in a Seven-Eleven one night, and we'd bonded briefly over a mutual love of Slim-Jims and Dr. Pepper. I saw him again four days later, while looking for my dad at one of his usual watering holes. That night Garrett brought me back to his place, and we had satisfying, if uninspired sex. We repeated this process over several weeks, until I got bored, and he got suspicious of my background (namely, was I really overage?).

So on a Tuesday in May, Renee drove me to Planned Parenthood, and I got an abortion. It kind of sucked, the whole place smelled like antiseptic, but it got the job done, and that night I went home to Renee's, groggy and sore and definitely not planning on returning to my dingy motel room for a few days.

This plan was derailed the next morning when I got a call from my Dad, asking why he'd gotten a call from Planned Parenthood following up on me.

I told him it was an STD check. He asked why I needed one of those. I said, because I've been fucking my way through Phoenix, you asshole.

Looking back, that was probably a mistake.

When I did return to the motel, Sam was sitting on the stoop outside. "Dude," he said, "Dude, Harper, I think Dad finally went batshit."

I snorted. "What, just now?"

The door flew open. My father, a huge bear of a man, stood there, looking me dead in the eye. "Inside, now."

I went inside. I was an obedient daughter.

The fight that followed was horrifying. He yelled for a while about my irresponsibility, and how I couldn't let myself be seduced, and how he'd kill any man that laid a finger on me, and I was lucky there weren't any permanent consequences.

That only made me angry, so I screamed that it hadn't been an STD check, it had been an abortion, and I hated him and wanted him to die.

That's when it got scary. He stopped talking, just looked at me with his big black eyes, and I felt sure he was going to strike me or spit at me or something. His hands were shaking. And then he walked out of the room.

And now I'm on a plane, flying into Port Angeles, because Dad doesn't know how to deal with me anymore. Because I could be perfect, if only I acted like a proper girl, or had the equipment to be considered a son. But I wanted to curse and drink and fight and be my father in all ways, and so here I am.

My mom had two brothers, one older and one younger. The older one was my father's idol, and he drank himself to death not long after Mom burned. Dad would have followed him to the grave if he didn't have me and Sammy to look out for. The younger one made something of himself, though - he's a doctor at Forks Community Hospital. Apparently he's a suitable role model for a young woman.

This is what I gathered, listening in on my Dad's hushed phone conversations with him. I didn't much care, except that I still wasn't sure what Dad would do with Sammy now that I wouldn't be looking after him anymore. Would he leave him with Pastor Jim in Los Angeles? Or send him to Bobby, up in Sioux Falls? Or maybe he'd get to stay with Dad forever. Maybe he would be the chosen one, now that I was persona non grata.

I wanted to set the damn motel room on fire and run. But I didn't. I stayed, silent and sullen, through the rest of the school year (going into my junior year, and I was already a fallen woman). And then I stayed through June, and I thought, maybe I'm safe. Maybe he's not sending me away. True, he stole all my IDs, and never let me go out to bars anymore. I spent a lot of time with Sammy that summer, never sure if the next day would be the last time I saw him for years.

But it was early in July when he came home with a battered set of luggage, and told me to pack up, because my flight was the next day. I did a little screaming and crying, but mostly I had already resigned myself to this. Sammy cried, and I think if he'd tried a little harder Dad might have broken. But he didn't, and Dad remained resolute, and the next day I left our motel before he got home from work. Sammy and I took the bus to the airport, and I boarded with my one real ID and a single suitcase worth of clothing. And close to two thousand dollars that I'd stolen from Dad before I left, but he'd figure that out the next time he dipped into his repair fund for the Impala.

"I don't want you to go," Sammy said. His voice was funny and thick, and I wanted to spare him the indignity of crying in public.

"I know," I said, and I pulled him in for a hug. He was mine, my brother, and I didn't want to leave him alone with our father. Dad never taught Sammy the things he taught me, about fighting and stealing and lying, and I didn't want Sammy to have to know those things now. I could keep him safe, if Dad would only let me. "Listen," I said, when Sammy quit sniffling, "Here's some money. Don't let Dad know you have it." I peeled five hundred dollars out of my pocket. "If shit gets too crazy, and I know damn well it will, you take a Greyhound up to Bobby's first thing. Don't wait for Dad, don't bail him out, don't spend this on the Impala. Just run. I'll come for you, I promise."

He nodded, eyes wide. "You gotta promise me the same thing," he said, very firmly. "If Uncle James is a weirdo or a perv, you'll run too, right?"

I smiled. "First thing. Well, first thing after I kill his skeevy ass."

And then he laughed, and then we cried, and I hugged him tight again. "I'll get you," I said firmly. "You have my email, you have my number. You need anything, just let me know."

"I don't want to bug you."

"You wouldn't be bugging me. You're mine. My brother. And I want you to know that somebody out there loves you, and would kill pretty much anything on two legs for you." He smiled, finally.

And then I left. I walked through security, and over to Gate 32, and I waited three hours for my flight - I'd left the house early to avoid Dad. I still pretty much wanted to burn him alive. That would really be poetic, I felt.

I landed in Seattle around eight, and took a puny-ass puddlejumper across Puget Sound to Port Angeles. Dr. James Campbell, my maternal uncle, would be meeting me there. I knew I'd met him before, but like all my time in Forks, the memory had dissolved in the wake of the fire. I'd heard a little of him from my dad, of course. He was tall and slim, and apparently a pretty-boy. He worked in the ER at Forks Hospital. He'd loved my mother, and me and Sammy. I knew nothing else.

The plane touched down on the one clearing in a vast sea of green. We were escorted off the tarmac and into a tiny airport. I didn't have any baggage checked, so I strode out the door towards the small waiting area in front.

There were maybe four or five people waiting. An older woman, a young man with dreadlocks and a nose ring, an elderly man, a guy in a suit - wait. I looked closer. Suit-guy and I made eye contact. He looked young, but he was tall, and fit, and surprisingly handsome. He was related to Mom, I reasoned, he could very well be a good-looking dude. I moved in, and Suit-guy closed the rest of the distance. "Harper?" he said, unsure.

"You got it," I said, trying to smile, or at least not scowl at him. He seemed nice. He had black hair that was just starting to gray at the temples, and dark eyes - the same dark eyes that Sammy had inherited from Mom.

"I'm your uncle James," he said, returning my smile.

"Yeah, I sorta figured," I said, eyebrow raised.

There was an extremely awkward hug. We left, chatting intermittently about the weather, and what Forks was like, and if my flight had been okay. His car was a new silver Volvo, and I couldn't suppress my smirk, which he caught.

"Is your dad still driving that Impala?"

I laughed. "Oh yeah. Still in showroom condition - that thing is his baby."

"I remember when he bought that thing," James said. "It was just before he starting dating your mom actually. She always said that if she'd gotten her hands on him a day sooner, she'd never have let him buy it."

I snorted. So Mom was an actual person, instead of a ghost Dad had been fleeing for twelve years. "No shit," I said, and then fell silent. Who knew how James felt about cursing. Half my vocabulary could be verboten here.

"Oh she hated that thing. Well, she hated the competition, I think." And then I had to laugh. This might not be completely horrible.

Home was a tri-level Victorian on a bluff above the Quileute, on a street with several similarly expensive-looking homes. When we pulled up, James refused to let me carry my bag in - the least he could do, he said. Inside was what they call "tasteful but elegant". It looked like a damn interior design magazine. If I'd known this was the end result, I'd have gotten knocked up years ago.

"Have you eaten yet?" James called, and I realized he'd disappeared into another room. I followed his voice into the kitchen, which was large and airy, painted in white and blue and gray.

I shrugged. "I had some food on the plane."

James grinned. "I'm not sending you to bed with a stomach full of airplane food. You a vegetarian?"

I laughed. "Hell no."

"Great, I've got beef stew. You don't mind leftovers?" God, he seemed genuinely concerned about this. How the hell had this guy ever put up with Dad as an in-law?

"It'll probably be the healthiest thing I've eaten in months," I said nonchalantly.

James didn't say anything, but he pulled a huge covered pot out of the fridge. Even cold, it smelled delicious, like meat and carrots and potatoes. And I didn't have to share a goddamned bite, I realized. I could probably even have seconds if I wanted.

"So, I wanted to talk to you about school," James said, once the pot was simmering on the stove. I tensed immediately. School was never my strong point - except for math and science. But two classes out of six didn't impress very many people. "Now, your dad sent some of your paperwork up - "

"I have paperwork?" I asked, astounded. "Dad kept track of my paperwork?" That was even more baffling. James gave me a strange look, and I fell quiet. The less he knew about life with Dad, the better, frankly.

"You seem very bright," he said, "But I know high school is a tough time for everyone, even people who don't move every school year." That was the fucking understatement of my year. "I thought I'd give you a choice. You can start at Forks High School in the fall, with your peers, or - " Get my GED? Go to trade school? Be homeschooled? "Or you can start at Peninsula College in Port Angeles instead. They've got this Running Start program where you earn your high school diploma and college credits at the same time."

I looked at him, suddenly wary. "That would be expensive, wouldn't it?"

He shrugged, stirring the stew. "The high school district covers tuition. And I'd be happy to pay for books or anything else you need."

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. There was some catch here, and I was about to get boned big time. I could feel my palms start to sweat. "Um - I don't - "

James stepped away from the stew, and took a seat across the counter from me. "Listen, Harper. You're smart - you can't hide that. But whatever you were doing in Phoenix, it wasn't working for you. Whatever got you to Forks, you're here now, and I want to help you do more with your life than hustle pool and destroy your liver with booze."

Ah, here it was. A series of rules and restrictions. I could work with rules. And by "work with", I mean, completely ignore.

"Your dad basically wants me to lock you in your room and let you out for school and feedings. Now, I don't have any kids, but I figure that is the fastest possible way to alienate you." Great, my hands were sweaty and shaking. This was going very well. And then James turned away for a moment, and turned back with a bowl of stew. It smelled even better hot, and I couldn't stop myself from inhaling deeply. He pushed the bowl towards me. "Eat. I'll go put your bags in your room. We can talk about this tomorrow."

James walked out of the room. As his footsteps faded away, I choked down the lump in my throat and put all my concentration into my first full meal in ages.