Hello! This is the brain child of the inner-twi-hard in me.
Well, sort of, because this pairing isn't all that canon, is it? Canon pairings are so boring.
This is probably going to be a three-shot that is going absolutely nowhere. But I hope you like it anyway. It's my first all-twilight (I do a crossover when I'm so inclinced) so please be kind. Well, don't be horrible, if thats easier.
Sorry if Bella or Jasper are a tad out of character, the characters in my own story wheedle themselves into everything (hence why I only do the crossover now and then). And they are horrible, self-destructive little beings that only care about each other. Here's hoping they've left themselves to themselves.
A-n-yway, ramble over (sorry). Please review. I love you all. I own nothing. This ain't a song-fic :)
Under my skin, under these scars
Take me again, tear me apart
Cause I wanna see everything you are
Until all that's left is not myself
- Under My Skin, Trading Yesterday
It's been exactly seventy five hours since he left you. That's three days and three hours exactly.
The three days went quickly, numbly, catatonic ad nauseam. But the three hours did not. You were awake for three hours.
You counted five crayon smudges on the wall next to your bed, some scuff marks round the skirting near your door. You concluded that you'd had pins and needles in your left foot for about sixty two minutes. You started feeling thirsty fifteen minutes into your first hour of insomnia. Well into hour two, in fact, almost hour three, you started feeling hungry. You did nothing about either.
Charlie has either the common sense or total lack thereof to check on you.
Bang on two o'clock in the morning you fall asleep.
And the dream you have. Well. It is a dream, isn't it? It's sketchy, confusing, haunting.
A man clambers lithely through your window. A man – he's more of a young adult.
He is dressed in a long-sleeved black turtle-neck jumper and a pair of worn, laddered stonewashed jeans with a torn hem. His pale honey blonde hair falls in loose curls around his sharply defined features. In the bleaching glare of the street lamp, his hair looks silver and his eyes milky and his skin glows deathly white.
You don't fail to notice that he is wearing black leather cowboy boots.
His eyes roam of your sleeping figure, listens to your slow heart beat. He creeps over to your bed, sliding into a crouch.
He folds his arms and rests them on the edge of your mattress. His chin falls onto his hands.
He gazes at you. Wide-eyed. Without breathing. One cold finger reaches out and touches the pulse on your neck. Lovingly. Longingly.
He stands. He goes to the window. He stops. He glances back at you. The rocking chair in the corner of the room catches his eye.
When you open your eyes, Jasper Whitlock-Hale is curled in the chair, watching you, a slight smile on his face.
So much for a dream.