Disclaimer: I own nothing publicly recognizable. No money is being made from this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: This takes place after the van incident, but before the whole "everybody ask Bella to the spring dance" thing. Also, pepper spray and the pet cactus are mentioned, though I know they're not book canon.

Biting the Bullet

"Char—Dad, I'm not sure this is such a good idea," I said as we exited the police cruiser.

"Bells, we've been planning this for over a week now. I'm not keeping my gun locked up, and I need to know that you'll be safe," Charlie said, his tone giving no room for argument. He turned around and started up the gravel path that led, I assumed, to the shooting range. I threw my coat hood over my head, took a deep breath, and followed him.

This was my first visit to the Forks Sportsmen's Club, and I had a sneaking suspicion that it would be my last. Whether or not I'd be alive to make the unlikely second visit was my main concern.

The path twisted up a small, tree-covered hillside, and I scrambled to keep up with Charlie, managing to trip myself up on every bump and muddy dip. After a few minutes' hike, the trail opened up into a large clearing. An elongated pavilion sat closest to us, and there were long chains leading from it to rows of metal targets. A sandy hill rose up behind the targets, and I could see bullet holes dotting the wet, clumping sand.

"Is this even legal? I didn't think that other people were allowed to use your gun," I said. I knew that this was my very last hope. My heart sank as he laughed.

"You won't be firing my service weapon. And really Bells, this is Washington. Everyone owns at least two guns."

"Two?" I asked with trepidation.

"Well, I have five, myself."

"Five?!"

"Yes, five. Now get up here. And grab your muffs, but don't put them on yet."

I sighed and stepped up and into the pavilion. The battered wooden floor was covered with shiny bullet casings, and I stifled a groan, knowing that the likelihood of me falling on my butt was high. I could just see myself, arms flailing, gun shooting off everywhere as I slipped and slid over the casings like I was strapped to miniature roller skates.

This day just kept getting better and better.

I somehow managed to make my way over to Charlie without slipping. He'd chosen to have us shoot from the middle of the pavilion, and I briefly wondered why before shrugging to myself.

Eh, whatever.

He unzipped one of the soft cases he'd brought up with us and pulled out a black, shiny handgun. My eyes stayed glued to the thing, and I felt my heart speed up.

I mean, it's one thing to see Charlie hang up his gun belt every day, but it's completely another to know that you'll have a gun in your hands, that you'll be shooting it, and that it has the ability to severely injure and kill people.

Why had I moved to Forks again?

Charlie launched into an explanation about the weapon, gesturing to different little doodads on it. I should've paid attention to it, really, but my brain was turned to the 'off' position. Instead, a phrase from a song I'd heard Phil play on his radio ran through my mind.

'Click, click, boom.'

I let out a breath, and Charlie gently tugged my hand out of my pocket to lay the heavy steel on my palm. It was cold and felt slightly greasy from when he'd last cleaned it. I was hesitant to curl my hand around it. I didn't know how sensitive the trigger was, and the last thing I wanted was for it to go off accidently.

"Could you, uh…could you shoot it first so I can watch you?" Anything to stave off my impending doom.

"Yeah, that'd probably be best," he agreed. "Put your muffs on and stand behind the line." He gestured to a line of tape running the length of the pavilion. I pushed the gun back into his hands, pulled my hood off, and quickly covered my ears with the muffs. I got behind the line. Way behind the line. It's not that I didn't trust Charlie; I'd just had an overabundance of bad luck ever since I'd moved to Forks. Between my Bio partner giving me the stink eye and nearly getting flattened by Tyler's hippy van, I hardly had enough time for homework. Trigonometry homework, anyway.

My gaze flickered to Charlie's face. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, and I didn't think I'd ever seen him so serious. It really hit me then. For all that Charlie was my quiet, almost bumbling, loving dad, he was also a professional, and he took his job seriously and did it well. It was an entirely new facet to the man I called Dad. Well, Charlie in my head.

I tried to brace myself for the shots. I wasn't sure how loud they'd be with the muffs, but I knew they'd be loud enough. In Phoenix, I'd lived in a less than happy area, and I'd heard plenty of gunshots from afar.

The first shot took me by surprise, and I jumped a little. My hands flew to my ears, and I was instantly glad Charlie had insisted on the muffs for the both of us. That thing was loud.

I was better prepared for the shots that followed, and I couldn't help but be impressed as I heard each target give a pinging sound before falling over. My dad was a darned good shot. With any luck, it was a genetic trait. After all, I did have his antisocial tendencies. Who's to say I wouldn't have his mad gun skills?

All too soon, Charlie was out of ammo and targets. He laid the gun on the railing in front of him, and I could see a thin tendril of smoke wafting up from the barrel.

Crap. My turn.

He pulled a new clip out of his bag and exchanged it for the empty one. My heart sped up with every muted click from the weapon, and my hands grew clammy. I tried unsuccessfully to wipe the sweat off on my jeans. Charlie pulled the chain hanging on the railing and reset the targets upright. I jumped at the muffled clanging sound.

Crap, I'm gonna die. Goodbye, Charlie. Goodbye, green trees and moss. Goodbye, Edward. At least you'll have your own lab table again.

I stepped up to the railing. Charlie picked up the gun and placed it in my hands.

"You'll do fine, Bells," I heard him say. I gulped, my mouth suddenly drier than the desert.

I should've made a will…at least the pet cactus needs minimal care. Charlie probably won't kill it.

I raised the gun, and I was thankful when I felt Charlie behind me helping to adjust my grip. Maybe I wouldn't die. Yet.

Charlie stepped back though, and everything around me faded away. It was just me, the gun, and the mocking little targets, which weren't so little now that I looked at them. In fact, they were the largest on the range. I felt a sudden pang of gooey emotion towards Charlie. He knew I'd suck and wanted to give me a fair chance.

I tried to line up the sights like I'd seen Phil do on his Xbox games. He was a Call of Duty fiend and had tried to get me to play with him, but the multiple buttons messed with my already horrible hand-eye coordination, and my playing was pretty pathetic. He'd finally given up on me after I'd managed to kill my character too many times to count.

Dread swirled through me. If I couldn't shoot for crap in a video game, how was I supposed to do it in real life?

Just shoot it already!

I squeezed the trigger quickly, and at the last second remembered that guns kicked back, so I tried to compensate for it by leaning forward. The gun went off.

I overcompensated.

I managed to throw the gun away from me as I fell headfirst over the railing. Luck was with me. I heard it land somewhere off to the right of me without going off again, and I somehow managed to tuck my head down and flip myself, so I only landed on my tailbone instead of my head.

Really, not too bad for me.

I scrambled to my feet and looked at my butt.

Crap. Mud.

Really, really wet mud.

Good thing the cruiser has leather interior.

"Bella! Are you okay?" I heard faintly.

I cocked my head to the side, trying to figure out why Charlie sounded so far away before remembering my muffs. I pulled them off my ears, wincing when they pulled out a few hairs. I turned around to face my visibly worried father.

"Yeah, Dad. I'm good. Did I hit it?" I asked, already knowing the answer was a big, fat 'no'. I walked over and pulled the gun out of the mud. It didn't seem as frightening now. I set it on the railing and Charlie hastily slid a doodad thingy over on the side of it, which I guessed was the safety, before cleaning it off with an old rag and stashing it in his bag.

"Well, you were close," he replied. He held out his hand and helped me back over the railing. "Nobody hits it their first time."

"Did you?"

"I'm not really sure. I started shooting .22s when I was a kid, so when I moved on to handguns, I'd already had some experience."

"How old?"

"For what?" he asked.

"How old were you when you started shooting .22s? And what's a .22?"

Charlie's eyes widened in disbelief. "What has Renée been teaching you down there?"

"How to cook and pay bills. She takes more of a 'hands off' approach."

He shook his head and snorted. "I guess I should've explained more before taking you out here. I thought you'd know what a .22 is at least."

"So, how old?"

"Uh, ten. And .22's the size of the ammunition the gun takes." Charlie walked over to a beat-up table and chairs towards the back of the pavilion and sat. I followed, knowing that my shooting lesson was about to turn from practical to theory. Letting out a deep breath, I slumped into a seat. I waited for him to continue. And waited. And waited. The silence stretched on, and I could feel it building a wall between us, brick by brick.

"Do you want fish for dinner?" I asked suddenly.

"Sure, Bells. Sounds good." He paused. "Do you want to try again, or do you think you're done for the day?"

Options, he's giving options! Run with it!

I sighed. As much as I wanted to say 'let's blow this joint!' I knew that I wouldn't. My lesson wasn't over until that stupid clip was empty, and both of us knew it, though it was thoughtful of him to offer to cut everything short.

"I think I'll give it one more try," I said steadily.

Charlie grinned at me. "Atta girl." He then launched into a longwinded explanation of why I hadn't hit the target, complete with lots of hand gestures, a few random physics equations, and even a Mariners reference. My eyes glazed over a little, but I managed to catch the gist of it.

Don't overcompensate for kickback, dummy.

He reached the end of his lecture, slapped his hand on the table, and stood up. "Ready?"

I blinked. "Yep." I tried to sound excited but failed miserably. The brightness in Charlie's eyes dimmed a little. I plastered a smile on my face and, mustering every bit of enthusiasm I could, hopped up out of my chair. "Let's do this!"

"All right," Charlie affirmed. He pulled the gun back out of his bag and walked over to the railing. Suddenly timid, I followed him slowly. While I'd gotten my initial borderline-panic out of the way, I was still pretty wary. I could practically hear the low drum beats as I shuffled to my doom.

I pulled the muffs back over my ears and took a deep breath. Charlie flipped the doodad over on the side of the gun and handed it to me. I lined up the sights and took aim.

Here goes.

Slowly, I squeezed the trigger. I was used to the sound the gun made by then, so its loud retort didn't phase me. What did phase me was the pinging sound the target made as it fell.

Holy crap, I hit one.

My mouth dropped open in shock. Then I preened a little.

Little jerk never stood a chance.

I briefly wondered whether I should continue to tempt fate, or just call it quits right then and end on a good note. I turned my head to look at Charlie. He beamed at me. I gave him a little smile and turned back around. Finishing the clip it was.

Might as well go for a big finale.

I quickly fired four shots in succession and was pretty shocked when two more targets fell. The expression on my face quickly turned from goofy smile to a visage of crazed glee. If Charlie could see it, he probably would've taken the gun right out of my hands. I fired. Again, and again, and again, and again, and "click, click!"

What the heck?

"It's out, Bells," I heard Charlie say. Slightly disappointed, I laid the gun down on the railing and turned to face him. I pulled the muffs off of my ears, feeling smug when no hair was snagged.

"How'd I do this time?" I asked, though I knew the correct answer was 'totally awesome job, daughter-o-mine'.

"Not bad for your first time out," he replied. My glee died a little, but I shook it off and moved aside so Charlie could pick the smoking gun up off the railing and remove the empty clip.

I walked over to where we'd sat before and sank back down into the chair while Charlie continued to mess with the gun. "Are we going home now?" I asked.

He snorted. "I've still got to log some practice time. I'll tell you what though, I'll do one more, and then we'll go home, okay?"

I instantly perked up. "Sounds good!"

Charlie motioned for me to replace my muffs, so I grudgingly placed them back over my ears. The things were starting to give me a headache. He started firing off rounds at a rapid pace, and not wanting to get hit with any casings, I sprung out of my seat and stood far back behind the line and to Charlie's side. Though I'd already had one minor incident and had actually done well shooting, I still wasn't about to let my guard down. Bad luck and klutziness could strike at any time.

I watched as Charlie shot the targets down, one by one. He really was good at that. To think I'd actually thought there was a chance I'd end up with a bullet in me.

"Ow!" I exclaimed as something small, sharp, and hot as hell hit my chest.

He shot me, he shot me! I'm gonna die! I'm dead!

Belatedly, I realized that while I hadn't been shot, something had managed to hit and wound me. My hand flew to my chest to inspect the damage. Whatever it was had seemingly bounced off my skin, but not before leaving a small, bloody nick.

Crap. Blood.

The coppery scent invaded my nostrils and I fought the nausea threatening to overwhelm me, swallowing back bitter bile. I was almost relieved when darkness began swirling at the edges of my vision. I'd pass out, Charlie would clean up the blood, I'd wake up, and we'd go home so I could make Charlie his fish. A Happily Ever After, right?

My head smacked the floor hard when I fell and instantly, the blackness was complete.

Awareness came to me slowly.

"Beep…beep…beep…"

Crap. Beeps.

I opened my eyes and winced at the brightness.

Crap. Crazy-bright, mismatched ceiling tiles.

I took a deep breath and tried to sit up. The bed squeaked, protesting my movement. The back of my head throbbed painfully, so naturally, I gingerly prodded it with my fingers to see what was up.

Crap. Squeaky, uncomfortable bed, throbbing lump on my cranium…definitely in the hospital. Again.

I groaned.

"Hey, you're awake," I heard Charlie say. He stood in the doorway and seemed unsure of what to do. He walked over to my bed slowly. "You okay, Bells? You had me worried there."

"Yeah, I'm good. It was just the blood. What happened?" I found the stupid little remote control and raised the back of the bed higher. I stopped it though, when I started to feel a little dizzy.

"A piece of shrapnel hit you. I'm surprised it flew that far, really. You were way behind the line." He reached out and patted my hand a little.

"Yeah well, that's me, Dad." I gave him a half smile. "Can we go home?"

He shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable, and dread filled me. "Dr. Cullen thinks you might have a concussion, so he has to give us the okay. He says you've been out for longer than the usual, and they'll probably have to keep you a night for observation."

I closed my eyes and groaned. I really, really, really didn't want to spend the night in the hospital. Besides being boring, hospitals were probably the least restful places ever. I truly had no idea how people could manage sleep night after night and actually get well. As much as I despised hospitals though, I knew that Charlie had work in the morning, and if I did have a concussion, someone would have to wake me up every hour.

Crappy hospital it is.

As if on cue, I heard a knock on the doorframe, and Dr. Cullen entered the room, looking way more attractive than anyone's father ought to.

"Bella, how are you feeling?" he asked as he opened my chart.

"Other than a headache, all right."

"On a scale of one to ten, where would you say your pain is at?" He pulled a pen light out of his pocket and flashed it in my eyes.

"Uh, four, I guess."

More like a five with that stupid light.

"Well, it looks like you have a mild concussion. You were out for a while, so we're going to ask you to spend the night, just to make sure there's nothing else going on."

"Okay," I said, trying for nonchalance. I picked a piece of fuzz off the worn blanket covering me.

"All right." He snapped my chart shut. "I'll have a nurse get you some pains meds, and I'll see you in the morning." He smiled at me.

I tried to smile back, but I'm certain it came off as more of a grimace.

Thus, my night in hell began.

Charlie left when visiting hours ended, and I managed to fall asleep shortly after, however the nurses woke me up every hour, on the hour, and I wanted to pull my hair out. In between the evil wake-up calls, I had some of the most messed up dreams I can ever remember having. I dreamt that Dr. Cullen and Edward were in my room having a heated discussion—about me of all things. His sister Alice was there, too. Then they all turned into crabs and scuttled across the floor.

But the strangest part of the night was when I woke up to find myself clothed in a pair of pink satin pajamas. When I asked the nurse about it, she told me that my friend had left them for me, and she had helped me put them on sometime during the night.

Definitely weird.

I decided to just try to forget the entire incident. I was pretty good at repressing bad memories, and this would fit in nicely with all the fishing trips I'd endured over the years.

I was beyond grateful when Charlie showed up to take me home during his lunch hour. We sat for a minute once he pulled the cruiser into his spot in front of the house, and he turned to me. "Bells, if I got you a can of pepper spray, would you keep it with you?"

My brow furrowed in confusion. "Why?"

"I don't want you without any protection. God knows, you can't run without tripping, and I can't think of anything else to give you."

I snorted, but suspicion arose in me. "If I'd been a good shot, would you have given me a gun instead of asking if I wanted pepper spray?"

Charlie's eyes widened and he coughed. "That's not, uh, legal. Of course not."

Bull.

I smiled sweetly and got out of the car. "Sure, Dad."

His face reddened, and I knew the truth immediately.

Dang. Charlie almost had me packin'.

I felt a wave of sadness run through me before I remembered how much bad luck I'd had. I decided then that pepper spray was probably as risky as I could get. With a sigh, I shut the car door and walked around to the driver's side. Charlie rolled down the window.

"Thanks for thinking I might be good enough though."

He smiled sheepishly. "I was still considering it at the hospital, but Dr. Cullen convinced me that it was a bad idea."

What now?

"Was his son there?"

"The one who saved you from the van? Yeah. He was pretty adamant about it. Kind of scared me a little."

Irritation filled me.

Meddling Cullens.

I nodded. "I see. Well, have a good shift. I guess we'll have fish tonight since we didn't get to have it last night."

"Sure. See you, Bells," Charlie said. I waved goodbye, and he rolled up the window before pulling the cruiser onto the road. I watched until the tail lights disappeared around the bend.

Stupid Cullens.

It wasn't that I really wanted a gun. The thing that bothered me was that once again, Edward was messing with my life—trying to protect me, of all things—and acting all standoffish to my face. The amount of mixed signals he was sending out was enough to give me a headache. Did he want me safe and alive, or did he hate me and regret saving me from the van?

Well if he hated me, he had a funny way of showing it. Then again, maybe he thought guns and vans were boring and wanted to see how outrageous fate could be with options for my death.

Maybe a piano will fall on me tomorrow.

I let my breath whoosh out of me in exasperation. Edward was just too confusing, and my mind was running in circles because of him.

Perhaps even more confusing was his big secret. I'd thought that once he saw that I wasn't saying anything about the van incident, he'd trust me enough to confide in me.

Wrong.

He remained annoyingly tightlipped and aloof about it. Different ideas of what it could be swirled around in my head, each more ridiculous than the last. I sighed.

I wasn't sure what to do about it all, but I had a niggling feeling that things were going to change soon. Sighing, I walked to the house to get started on my Biology homework.

Krebs Cycle, here I come.

The End...sort of. Well, you know.

A/N: The song referenced is sung by Saliva.

Gun and random video game info came from my husband. Any factual mistakes, therefore, are completely and totally HIS FAULT. Nah, just kidding. Truth is, I was too afraid to go on Wikipedia, because I knew I'd end up spending hours looking random crap up.

I also used some of my own experiences. Honestly, the only reason I agreed to let my husband teach me how to shoot last month was to write this silly ficlet. I didn't end up falling ass over teakettle, but I did get hit with some shrapnel. There wasn't any bleeding or falling or passing out though, but at the time, I was convinced that I was going to die.

Thank you for reading, and please consider leaving a review!