A/N: SM owns Twilight; this is just for fun. Many thanks and much love to winterstale and Viola Cornuta. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
This piece was originally written for the Fandom for Preemies fundraiser. A huge thank-you hug and kiss to everyone who donated and to everyone who helped organize the event. More than $5k was raised for the March of Dimes.
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The music is sultry. Strings twang and drawl like the voices of the people who live down here along the gulf. Notes trip and drip and linger like the condensation on the outside of his beer bottle. Like his tongue on the inside of my thigh.
"Let's play a game."
Jasper looks up from his guitar and eyes me with a considering gaze. I watch him look me over from head to toe, and I notice where his slate gray eyes linger. My newly shortened hair that I chopped off for the summer because Texas in August is even hotter than I expected it to be. The strap of my sundress that's fallen off one shoulder. My bare feet. My eyes.
I look at him also. He's wearing too-long jeans that ride low on his hips. They are so old and velvety-soft I would steal them in a heartbeat if they fit me. And if they didn't look so sinfully delicious on him. He's not wearing a shirt. I can see his golden brown skin and the muscles of his chest and arms moving as he strums and picks, fingering the frets, fondling the steel strings. His feet are bare too, peeking out from beneath cuffs that are frayed to all Hell from dragging on the floor.
My body is humming with anticipation; it's almost as if the dense, damp air around me is vibrating with the tension under my skin.
It's been a while since I initiated a new game.
Months, in fact.
Not since the day I had lunch with Jasper's mom and saw that picture of us gazing at each other tacked up on her refrigerator. The one his Dad took when we weren't looking.
That's when I knew.
It just took me this long to make sure I was ready.
"What's the game?" He brushes sandy blonde hair off his forehead. It flops back into the same exact spot, but he ignores it.
"I ask you a question, and you answer it. Then you ask me a question, and I answer it. Ten each."
I'm feeling intense. My brain is buzzing, and I am trying to keep it under wraps, but I think my unwavering gaze is giving me away. He looks at me thoughtfully. It sounds so innocent. Mild. Almost dull. My games usually involve a little more daring and adventure.
He's not deceived though. The stakes are high this time. And though I haven't said anything, I think he senses it.
He blinks once, slowly, and I've seen that expression before. That's when I know.
He'll play.
He always plays.
"Sure, Ali. Let's play a game." His words are slow as blackstrap molasses. Like it's too hot to speak more quickly and we have all the time in the world and time means something different down here anyway. And maybe it does, but he always speaks like that no matter where we are. Sometimes, like this time, it gives me chills.
I take a seat on the floor across from him, tucking my feet under me to the side. He carefully places his guitar in its stand at the end of the couch and slides down to the floor with me. His legs are out straight in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other next to my hip, and he waits for me to start.
I give him an easy one first. "What's the first thing I ever said to you?"
His soft pink lips curl in a smirk. He's amused, wondering. His smirk says is this some kind of test?
I narrow my eyes at him. Only if you don't pass they reply.
He huffs out a chuckle. Okay, okay, keep your skirt on it mutters.
"You walked up to me, in that dress there if I'm not mistaken," he nods towards the thin layer of cotton that is the only thing I can bear to wear in this heat, "and you said, 'You've kept me waiting a long time, cowboy.'"
My belly does a little flip flop as I remember what he looked like that night. Simple grey t-shirt that stretched across his back as he reached out for his drink. Blue jeans held up by a heavy buckle. Dusty, scuffed, and definitely worn-to-do-real-work cowboy boots on his feet. Shoes say a lot about a man.
There's a smug emphasis on the word cowboy when he says it. He's teasing me. Just a little. But I don't mind at all.
"Your turn now," I say simply. It's enough. He knows he got it right.
Jasper lowers his head a little and tucks some stray hair behind one ear before peeking at me from under his long blonde lashes. He follows my lead, still working out the rules to this game. "What did I say back?"
"You ducked your head and looked up at me, just like that if I'm not mistaken, put on the thickest, sexiest drawl I've ever heard, and said, 'I surely am sorry, miss. It's not in my nature to keep such a lovely lady waiting.'"
My shaking head says what a line, you player.
His wink and the way his lips are pursed trying to hold back his grin say you know you started it, missy.
I toss my head a little, and it's strange not to feel my hair sweep over my shoulder like it used to.
"What's the only thing I'll get up early for on a Saturday morning?" I ask him.
He quirks an eyebrow at me. Another easy one, babe?
My shoulder shrugs. For now…
He waggles his eyebrows and his voice drops in register. "When I bring you fresh coffee and a danish from the bakery on my way home from working the night shift, of course."
Of course my grin plays along. He knows that I like it even better when he skips the bakery altogether, slips into bed to wake me, and makes love to me at dawn. Much, much better. I squirm a little, subconsciously rubbing my thighs together, and a bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck, tickling the skin between my shoulder blades.
Jasper notices me fidgeting, and I straighten my legs out in front of me, crossing them at the ankles just like his.
Just trying to cool off my legs say nonchalantly.
He picks up his beer from the side table, watching me even as he tips it up and takes a long drink. I watch the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows. Why is that so sexy? I don't know, but it is.
When he's done drinking he rests the cold glass against the inside of my ankle. I think I can help you with your little problem. His pinkie strokes little circles on my skin.
I flap the fabric of my skirt a little bit, pushing the air around and giving him a glimpse of my thighs.
Not fair say his furrowed brows.
I know say the fingers innocently twirling the short hair by my ear.
He pulls at the short scruff on his chin as he considers his next turn. "What's my favorite spot in the whole world?"
I have to think about this one for a minute. Is he asking for real, or is this innuendo to get back at me for teasing him? And if he's asking for real, is it someplace we've been together? Or someplace he's only written about in his journal when he back-packed through Mexico after dropping out of college?
I realize I'm fidgeting with the hem of my dress again, and I draw it slowly up my thigh an inch or two. Jasper's eyes drop to my lap but pop right back up to meet my gaze. That's when I figure it out.
He's not thinking about some remote waterfall outside of Guadalajara during the rainy season or his childhood room in his mama's house or even the place between my thighs.
"Anywhere with me," I reply confidently.
Jasper pats my calf, "Too right, pretty girl."
Then his hand snakes up the back of my leg and tickles the underside of my knee. I shriek and jerk away. I'm so incredibly ticklish it isn't even funny.
"What is the quality I like most in a man?" My bitch-brow says you'll be sleeping on the couch tonight if you keep that up.
Jasper's eyelashes flutter an innocent who me?
Bitch-brow is joined by pursed lips. Yes you, now answer the damn question.
He leans forward and crooks his finger at me. I sit up and meet him halfway. His hand cups the back of my neck and his honey-twang voice is low and husky in my ear. "When a man can talk just dirty enough to turn you on with his voice but without getting raunchy."
After the shiver skittering down my spine runs its course I scrunch my face at him. It's not what I was thinking of when I asked the question, but it just might tie for first place. It's a fine line between turn-me-on dirty talk and raunchy-cheesy-porn talk after all. He's the only man I've known to get it just right every time.
"I'll give you that one, I guess."
He releases me and we both sit back again before he copies me by asking, "What is the quality I like most in a woman?"
"Besides enthusiasm in bed?"
"Mmm," he hums his agreement, and it's almost a purr. "Besides that."
I think of my original answer to the same question and how important the quality of honesty has been since we got back together. It's been roughly a year since he left me for Maria. Eight months since he came back to me and we moved down here to Galveston and started over.
And we have.
We've started fresh, taken everything we once knew about each other and learned it again, better this time.
It took time to trust again, time and honesty and…
"Forgiveness," I say out loud, finishing my thought.
He closes his eyes when he hears it, not in pain or guilt but in acceptance. There's a grace in his smile when they open again and a warmth in the feel of his hand on my shin that simply says thank you.
I pull at the frayed threads hanging off the ankle of his jeans. You earned it.
We sit for a moment, just quiet like that. Just mindful and listening. The clock on the wall. The crickets. The slow hypnotic whir of the overhead fan.
The moment winds down, settles in like the heat on our skin, moves on.
"What talent would I most like to have?"
"That's an easy one," he scoffs but he's grinning. "You'd love to be able to tell the future. I know 'cause you can't stand suspense. When we go to the bookstore you always flip to the end and read the last few pages first. And I don't think I've been able to keep your Christmas or birthday presents a secret from you since, well, ever."
Jasper begins to laugh, the sparkle in his eyes say I remember this one time…
Then the gleam turns devious, a dare. "If I died and came back as an object, what do you think I would be?"
"You'd be a dime store mood ring," I tease.
"Don't go selling me short now," he chuckles.
I shoot a new question at him. "What song makes me cry?"
"A Man Needs a Maid by Neil Young. The recording with the orchestra backing him up." He fires back immediately. He looks down for a moment. "Or when I sing it solo."
He's right. The loneliness in that song gets me every time. And when I think of Jasper ever being so lonely…
I look up at the ceiling and blink back threatening tears. "You're five for five, Jazzy," I say when they are under control.
He wiggles my baby toe to ask smile for me? When I do, he gives me my next question. "What book most changed me?"
My sad smile turns wry, saying you're making this too easy, mister.
"Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. You read it first when you were seventeen, and every few years you read it again to see how much you've changed."
His lips quirk fondly. His eyes are far away for a moment and then come back to rest on me. They say you change me, and I change you.
The curl of my lips agrees with him yes, I like that about us, too.
"Your turn, Ali."
"What do I dislike the most about myself?" I wonder if he'll pick a physical attribute or personality trait or something else, and I curb the impulse to straighten my dress and rub my hand over my nose.
"Oh, I'd say it's more like a regret than a dislike really," he muses. "You wish you had more living family around."
My reaction to his answer is a confusing mishmash. I'm vainly delighted that he didn't call out some imperfection in my body or character, and I'm poignantly saddened by the truth of his insight. It's just like Jasper to make me feel such a strange concoction of emotion all at once.
Just as quickly he diffuses it with a challenging grin. "Who's my favorite super hero?"
I don't even have to think. I know this one like I know my own hand. "Batman. Because he's not an alien, or a mutant, and he doesn't have any special powers. He's just a regular man wrestling with his demons."
Jasper's smile falters for a second – just one – and I know it's because he's thinking about his own past. But his eyes never shift away from mine. They are a clean, clear gray and the trouble that used to be there has been gone for a long time. My heart pangs with all the love I feel for him, and though the smile on my lips is a small one, I know he sees it. Feels it. I know it because the corners of his eyes are crinkling, and one side of his mouth is curled up higher than the other, and he's reaching out to squeeze my foot.
His face says you know me so well.
Yes I do mine replies.
"What's my favorite way for you to show me how much you love me?" He better know by now it's not buying me things or bringing me flowers.
The way his eyes darken as he wets his lower lip is all the reassurance I need that he's getting this question right. I squirm again, and he kneads the bottom of my foot with his knuckles.
"Don't you want me to show you right now?"
We'll never finish this game if we start that one. I pull myself together and arch my brow at him. "This is my game, Jazz."
"Alright then." His serene smile says we've got all night.
"It's your turn," I point out.
He cracks his knuckles one by one. They say gimme a minute now, will you?
My crossed arms say don't make me wait forever but the way my foot presses against his hip says I've waited this long, haven't I?
He looks pleased, and he taps his chin as he thinks.
His eyes have a calculating look about them when he asks, "What is my most treasured possession?" And I know he's trying to trip me up. I'm on to him, but don't let him know it just yet.
"Are we talking objects or people?" I pretend to clarify.
An expression of tenderness suffuses his features at the implication, and his hand circles my ankle tenderly. "Ali," he breathes and his face beams I need you, I treasure you, I love you.
I laugh from my heart, and the tinkling sound chimes I know and it's the same for me and always. And I'm happy, so happy, but we're not done here yet. Not nearly. And the only way out is through.
I scoot across the floor and climb into Jasper's lap. "Name something I lost once that broke my heart."
He'll answer.
He always answers.
His forehead touching mine says I'm sorry. His hands on my waist say I was a fool. And with his suddenly ragged breath he answers simply, "Me."
My hand smoothes his hair away from his face it's done now. My finger traces the soft hairs of one eyebrow just don't forget.
"Name something I'd give up only for you, Ali."
I know what he's thinking. Air. Sunlight. A heartbeat. The thought makes me shudder.
"I don't want you to give up things for me, Jazz. I want you to have everything with me."
I feel his breath on my lips before he kisses me. His hands clutch me almost hard enough to bruise. I won't lose you again.
You never lost me my lips divulge, giving and melding with his. I'm here, I'm here they say. Reassuring. Persuading his grasp to soften into caress. l wait until his breath slows down again. Kiss the corner of his mouth one more time.
"What is my greatest fear?"
"Spiders? Mice?" he jokes weakly, knowing full well I'm not such a baby. But he needs this. Needs to know he can make me smile and laugh as well as break and cry.
"That's right, stud," I giggle and rub my hands over his biceps. "I need my big strong man to save me from the itty bitty spiders."
It's a silly little fib, and it serves its purpose. His body feels more solid, more certain under my hands.
"How can you tell when I'm lying?" he asks, and that makes me laugh for real.
"Is that your question?" I snicker.
"Yes ma'am."
"You never could bring yourself to lie to me, Jazz, not really." He nods, and his grin is boyish, joyful. I don't know why, but it's true.
"You do tap your fingers on your thigh when you have something to say that you don't think I want to hear." Then I pat his chest, smirking. "Your poker tell, though, now that's a secret I'm keeping."
His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. I don't have a poker tell!
I stretch my arms overhead. I'm like a satisfied cat that just got the cream. The arch of my back says gotcha!
Jasper's eyes narrow playfully and he swats my ass. "Guess that's nine for nine, Mary Alice. You always did play to win."
He's more right than he knows tonight. "What do I need most when I'm angry at you?" I ask, resting my hands lightly on his shoulders.
He wraps his arms around me, gathering me against him softly but securely. "For me to hold you. To know I still love you no matter how bad we're fightin' or how pissed I might be back."
It's true. There's nothing that doesn't get better, no matter how mad I am, if he's touching me. When he holds onto me, when we've got our arms around each other, I know we can solve any problem. Survive any heartache.
"How do you know when I'm sad?" he asks the top of my head.
"You hide behind your hair. Your face gets long. Even when you try to smile at me I still see the frown lines around your mouth." Raise my head to look up at his face. Trace my finger gently over his bottom lip. "And you don't eat right." He nibbles the tip of my finger then gives it a soft kiss.
"I think that was all ten questions, wasn't it?" He's confused but patient. Yes, we've each asked and answered ten questions, but I'm still feeling intense, and he can tell. He can always tell.
He's knows I'm not done.
"I've just got one more question."
He always seems to know how I'm feeling, and sometimes before I even ask him a question I know what he'll decide. But the stakes are high this time because I honestly don't know. This is something we haven't spoken about since we got back together. This one, this is a gamble.
My heartbeat surges with excitement and stutters with nerves. "Jasper, will you marry me?"
"Alice," he murmurs, falling into me, rolling us down onto my back. Forearms on the floor and framing my face he hovers above me, eyes meeting and melting with mine. "Yes, Alice. Always yes."
Then eyes closed, I smile against his neck and whisper, "I win."
His breathy chuckle is at my ear. "We both do."