Usual disclaimers apply. Don't own anything, don't make any money out of this. Just harmless fun with Stephenie Meyer's characters.
"Rosalie Hale, you have got to be kidding me" he growled as he surveyed himself in the mirror a few hours later. Black breeches with white stockings and buckled shoes, followed by a white frilly shirt and a blue coat, and topped off with a tricorn adorned with a blue, red and white cockade – he had known it would be bad, but he had never suspected that his twin might actually be out to torture him. She'd even tied his floppy hair into a little ponytail at the nape of his neck with a bit of leather.
"Jasper Hale, you promised. At least I didn't dress you as Louis XVI with a powdered wig."
"Yes, but Rosalie, be serious. Couldn't I have gone as something simple, I don't know, a chef or something?" he knew he was whining, but he couldn't help it. Nobody should be forced to do things like this.
"It's a theme party. Eighteenth century. You can't dress up as a chef at an eighteenth century party. Now be a good little Jacobin and don't argue. You know it's no use anyway."
"Yes, well, you've got it easy. You just have to wear a floaty white dress and a red cap, and won't have to struggle with freaking heels on your shoes, because you're not a guy who never wears heels! What are you supposed to be anyway?"
"Duh, I'm Marianne! You know, the spirit of France, of freedom and justice? And I'll have you know that I don't have it easy, because I'm wearing a damn corset under this, and I'd like to see you wearing one of these." She twirled and gave her hat a bit of a flick, and danced towards the door.
"What are you wearing a bloody corset for?" he asked. "Emmett's not going to be around to tear it off, you know" he added under his breath.
"Historical authenticity" she twittered. Then her voice turned hard. "Now let's go."
"You owe me, sister. You owe me big" he muttered as he slouched after her.
"Sure, sure. Now let's go!"
The good thing about the Scotch and Sofa was that it had deck chairs. Lots and lots of obscenely comfortable deck chairs, smothered in white cushions, with the best view of town. It was in one of those deck chairs that Jasper finally managed to find refuge, after having been forced to twirl Rosalie around the dance floor for what felt like three hours. He had to admit, it was kind of nice to be able to show off his beautiful sister, who gloried in the looks of other men as she waltzed through the room with him. They looked good together, which just added to Rose's pleasure at the arrangement, and since she kept buying him drinks, the night wasn't altogether as bad as he'd feared. But he was still glad she'd allowed him a break while she chatted with some friends, because costume or not, the heels of his buckled shoes were a pain in the ass.
So here he was, reclining in one of the luxurious deck chairs, and counting the lights on the bay, and playing Alice's voice in his head over and over again, as he'd done so often these last couple of days. Maybe it was because of this, because he was already hearing her voice in his head, that he didn't realise right away that her voice was outside his head too.
He nearly toppled out of his chair when someone touched his shoulder. "Hey sleeping beauty – am I interrupting something?"
"Alice! What are you doing here?" he spluttered. Great job at being smooth, Jasper, a sarcastic voice whispered in his mind.
"Glad to see you remember me! Same thing you are, I guess – attending a party." The voice was so, so much better than he remembered. The violins, the silver bells, the flute and the wind chime were altogether much more delicious to his brain than he could ever have imagined, and only now he realised how poor an imitation his imagination had provided him.
"What a great coincidence to meet you here. You look amazing." She did – at least, what he could see of her did. He'd imagined her taller, but now that he saw her, all he could see was perfection: her body was slender, the build of a dancer, and, although almost completely obscured by folds of black silk, it was obvious she had all the right curves in all the right places. Black pants, black shirt, black cape, black cane, black hat – and a black mask with a long, curving nose and spectacles. "What are you?" he blurted out.
The sound of her tinkling laugh, that laugh that he'd dreamed about so often, almost knocked him over backwards, like a hit of his own personal brand of ecstasy. "The Medico Della Peste – the plague doctor. It's not strictly speaking eighteenth century, but the bouncer let me in anyway. Guess I freaked him out a little so he let me pass... You don't look so bad yourself. I dig the tricorn."
"Thanks, I guess. My sister picked the costume and made me wear it." He wanted to see her face. No, he didn't want to – he needed to see it, needed it like a drowning man needs the shore. She'll think you're deranged the sarcastic little voice breathed in his ear. Faces... she'd never seen his face before either. "Hey... this may sound weird, but how did you recognise me? I remember that you didn't see my face that day."
She pointed to the tattoo on his wrist. "You don't see a lot of French revolutionaries wearing ink." His hand strayed towards his mark, or perhaps more accurately, it wanted to stray to her fingers, but decided that his tattoo was a safer place to rest. "I noticed it last week and recognised it. Tell me, what is a guy like you doing with a dog tag tattooed onto his arm?"
"A guy like me?"
"Yeah. A sensitive, painter kind of guy like you." Sensitive? She thought he was sensitive? Well, he supposed he was, but how was she to know that after only three minutes of previous communication?
"I wasn't always a painter." Suddenly, he didn't want to say any more. If he told her what he'd been, she'd either turn away, or worse, ask questions. Where he'd been, what he'd done, how it'd been.
"You don't want to talk about it." A statement of fact. The bells didn't tinkle in this sentence – she'd heard the finality of his answer and had erased all the chiming hints of laughter from her voice. "It's ok, you know. Not wanting to talk about things with total strangers."
"You're not a stranger."
"Sweet." Way to go Jasper, why don't you tell her right away you've been obsessing about her for the last week.
Their silence was just beginning to become a little uncomfortable when Rosalie found them, slightly inebriated. "There you are, little brother. I was looking for you. Do you wanna head home?"
"Sure, Rosie. Um, I guess I'll see you around, Alice... it was nice seeing you again." Even though I still don't know what you do or what your face looks like or anything about you at all, he added silently. "Maybe we'll get to talk again sometime."
She laughed, one of the delightful little laughs he'd come to obsess about, tinged with a hint of mystery. "I know we will. You'll see."
A/N - as always, reviews and feedback are more than welcome, as well as ideas for upcoming chapters, if you have any. I'm just sort of sprouting this as I go, with just a vague idea of where I'm heading, so if you feel like making a suggestion of where I should go, throw in your three cents.