Author's Note: This is it, folks: The End. Thanks to those of you who stuck by this through the months, and especially to ForgetItAgain, who is as good a cheerleading-fan-reader-person anyone could have asked for. Also, this last chapter is a little bit un-beta'd, as Adara is having a time of it, and I feel too sympathetic to weigh her down—so go easy! And as always, read and review...you never know, it might inspire me to write more. (On second though, it will definitely inspire me.)
--
I
"These?"
"No."
"How about these?"
"Nope.?"
"…"
"Sorry, bro, but really—you're fashion sense could use some work."
"Ok—jeez—how about these."
"No."
"Hell no."
"What he said."
"But you already said something."
"What you just showed us deserves the double-veto."
"You can say that again."
"Don't worry, I already have."
The two of them—Jasper and Emmett—begin to giggle, and Edward huffs outwardly, inwardly annoyed that they've been here for almost an hour-and-a-half and he still has, like, nothing to show for it. Plus: the two of them laughing at his expense is a little maddeningly. But only slightly. He hopes.
He'd hate to snap right here in the mall, slaughter them both, and have to go on the lamb—leaving Alice and Rosalie and their parents all alone and wondering why oh why he just had to rip out their marble-hard throats.
"Why? 'Cause they're like adolescent monkeys—all I need for them is a banana…and maybe a cage. Extra small, to keep 'em quiet." Smiling at this latest thought, Edward goes to grab another choice from the racks along the walls outside the fitting rooms. Maybe he'll strike gold this time…
Unlike the last time…
Or the time before that…
Or the time before that…
"God," he mutters, walking back into the belly of the beast.
--
"How does this look," Edward asks, "when I turn like this?" He twirls albeit in only the most masculine of ways.
It's a grey polo, with a stiff collar; in the light, it makes Edward look dead. Well, more dead than usual.
"You need color," Jasper comments. "You do not need another polo."
"Especially one that's grey," Emmett adds—helpfully, he thinks. Edward disagrees. The vampire in question turns to his older brother and grimaces.
"Ok, well, this has taken too long. Everything I try on both of you hate—"
"With good reason," Jasper starts, before he's cut off by Emmett.
"You can't dress yourself, bro, just face it."
"Remember that horrible pink thing he picked out, oh, about thirty minutes ago?" Jasper questioned, turning to Emmett.
"Oh yeah, man that was horrible. Seriously, Ed, never ever ever wear pink. It's just…"
"Washed-out," Jasper finishes.
"It makes you look like a water-starved flower."
"A pink one." Emmett nods his agreement.
Edward eyes both of them after their little critique. Warily, he sets himself down, sucks in an unnecessary breath, and acquiesces.
"Ok, fine."
"Fine?" his brothers ask in unison.
"Fine. Just, when you start picking stuff out, make it…make it dignified." He stresses his honor—his manhood—he can't let them take that from him. This has been a hard enough day as it is.
"Oh sure, sure," Emmett agrees quickly, a light already building in his eyes. He turns to Jasper. "You first?" he politely gestures back into the store, where they shall begin their quest.
"Oh. Frankly, Emmett, I'd be delighted." Giggling, practically shaking with their self-mockery and excitement, the pair set off. Edward, left alone, watches them go, his eyes already twitching in preparation for the coming annoyances.
"This isn't going to turn out good. God, will it ever not."
--
"Turn for us, Edward," came the instruction—stressed from too many repetitions.
"I am," was the terse reply.
"No, no. Like this. Turn like this," chimed in a second voice.
"There? Like that?" was the hopeful question, after the third try at this, this, simple little thing. Two voice sigh in tandem, loaded down with eon's worth of strain and frustration.
"Edward, Edward, seriously: that's what you call turning. That?" the second voice wondered.
"What?"
"'What?' he asks, as if he doesn't know—"
"I don't know!"
"As if you don't." Two tongues cluck, one after the other: a one-two-punch of distaste and disappointment.
"This is driving me insane."
"Imagine how we feel." Their wishes are met with nothing but disdain—their most honored guest turning in a huff back to the mirror.
"See me—here? There, that's all your getting; I'm not playing model for you." Edward's cranky, appropriately: it's been twenty more minutes and they've only found one outfit. One. He was tempted to call it a day at that (hell, even a success) but his big brothers would have none of it. Shopping was their drug, Edward was their needle, and the store was their trash-strewn back alley. He could leave only on pain of death. Or their consent—which would come only after he'd tried on many, many more clothes.
"Don't be so problematic, Edward. You're already playing dress-up. Really, is it too much more to ask?" Jasper thinks he sounds innocent enough, but Edward just glares at him through the reflection in the mirror.
"Ok then," Emmett interjected, stretching out ok into an elongated vowel of consolation, "no modeling. Fine, we can live with that." His younger brother sighs, and smiles. So does Jasper, as he holds up a sweater vest.
"Just because you don't have to prowl the runway, don't think we're done."
Edward's only response was his face falling, flying off the peak of his smile to the purgatory that was this store. Why did he ever let himself get talked into this?
--
"Guys, we already have seven outfits for me. That's enough—"
"In what universe?" Emmett wondered.
"Yeah, seven is only enough for every day of the week," Jasper added.
"Which is to say: not nearly enough for the whole month—"
"Let alone the year," Jasper added again. Emmett just nodded along. Edward brought his hand up against his forehead—thwack.
Seeing their brother's distress, the two vampires decided to try and change course. Sharing a brief, nearly-telepathic conversation, the two deliberate on just what to do:
"I say we go out for tacos."
"We always go out for tacos, Emmett. Not every family crisis can be averted with a tortilla and some cooked meat."
"First: who says this is a family crisis. Edward is the only one with us, and bro just needs to chill—"
"Which is what we're trying to figure out: how?"
"Secondly: who said tacos never solved anything? I'm pretty sure the collapse of the Berlin Wall—you remember that right: Communism, etc?—was all due to tacos. So best not go dissin'."
"…"
"What?"
"Sometimes, Emmett, if I couldn't feel your intentions, good and compassionate as they are, behind what you think, I'd imagine you were just a hollowed-out shell, spouting nonsense; a talking-Bible with dyslexia.
"Whoa. Poetic, Jazz. Nice. You should be a writer."
"…Exactly."
"Are you guys doing that thing where you talk, but you don't talk to me…you know, you're little brother? Hello?"
Coming out of their little pow-wow, both Emmett and Jasper notice, almost at once, Edward standing next to the mirror, his hands on his hips, an immortal glare being applied liberally to both of them.
"What?" they ask in unison.
Edward snatches a deep, calming breath, before beginning; he breaks each ensuing word down into pressurized syllables.
"You bring me down here, to shop for clothes. And I come, on the advice of my sister, my sweet and future-seeing sister, knowing the two of your couldn't possibly, you know, ruin my day or embarrass me or anything. Plus: you're my older brothers—"older," of course, being relative—and with Bella around we haven't gotten so much bonding time in. Not like I "bonded" much anyway," he pauses briefly to laugh derisively," but you get the idea."
Taking another deep breath, Edward sees Emmett quirk an eyebrow at him. He'll have to explain further.
"No, you don't? Ok, well. So I came, and we're shopping; and it turns out the two of you are, like, fashion gurus. Which floors me—shouldn't I know these things?—but it's more frustrating because we've been here for hours and all the clothes I have, the two of you picked out. While holding me as your slave, I might add."
At this point, a vein (if it could, mind you) would be slightly throbbing in the younger vampire's forehead. His brother's exchange glances. Jasper looks like he wants to start first, and throws a glance to Emmett, to see if the coast is clear. With a slight shake of his head, Emmett takes the wheel. He's going to lead-off the bomb diffusion squad. Mortality rate: 87.
"Edward, look, we're sorry. We didn't know it'd bother you so much. Hey, bro, look at us," Emmett moves his hand back and forth from Jasper back to himself, "would we willingly drive you to the brink of Crazytown?"
For a second he's skeptical, and then Edward submits. "No, I guess not…apology accepted."
There's a beat of silence, and then they're all three right back in the mix.
"Shall we continue?" Jasper asks.
"I guess," is Edward's despondent response. He'll go along with his brothers now, no complaint, but he won't exactly be happy about it.
--
The sun is setting, he thinks, thought he isn't quite sure, and it's not like it matters anyway with all the cloud cover, when they finally set aside the final outfit completing that fateful number set aside by Alice—seven. Seven outfits they had to find. Seven, as in assuming thirty minutes each that takes not even four hours. It took all day. An incalculable waste.
"You ready to go?" Edward wonders. He hopes so. Ok, so it wasn't quite so horrible, really. It was a big sinkhole in his week—but he got to be around Emmett and Jasper, which was becoming more and more rare. So what if he had to pimp himself out, prostrate before them the whole time, to make it happen? All is quickly forgotten. Hopefully.
"One second Ed," Emmett finally answers. He looks at Jasper for a second, pondering the moment, maybe urging on his brother to say something he doesn't want to.
"Kill me, maybe. Maybe that's all this way—this whole day. An exercise in death-in-training. Ha." Edward thinks to himself. His thoughts, though, are quickly dashed…and twisted in a completely different direction.
"We can't leave yet," Jasper reveals. Emmett lets out an unnecessary expulsion of air, relieved he didn't have to deliver the bad news.
"What?" Edward pauses, gathering steam for a greater outburst.
"He's usually so reserved," Emmett sidebars to Jasper, in what the older vampire probably imagines passes for quiet.
"Hello, Emmett, vampire hearing. As in I can hear everything you say. I can hear you right now." Widely, his eyes dart between his brothers, hoping they're kidding.
"Whoa. Hey. I didn't get Jasper to say anything so you could have, like, a heart-attack. It's just a little thing, really. We'll be done in a matter of minutes. Just a second, like I said before. Pull yourself together, bro."
By the end of his little monologue, Emmett is halfway across the space between him and his little brother, so as to make it easier to smack Edward upside the head.
Emmett was never the peacekeeper. He's much better at just getting things done. Slapping heads may or may not be included.
"…What is it?" He's exhausted, and his voice reflects that. How on earth can this be so…soo...draining? It's absurd. Crazy. Surreal. This must be a dream.
Or a LSD-hallucination.
"Or A Christmas Carol," Edward thinks to himself. No that's a crazy thought—besides, wouldn't that make Jasper and Emmett the Ghosts of Christmas Present, Past, and Future. Who was the third one? Was he Scrooge?
Torn from his inane thoughts (inanity being the only viable reaction for his brain, after such a manic exercise in patience for hours on end), Jasper lightly shoves his shoulder.
Turning up to look at him: "Eh?"
"Boxers or briefs?"
"…What?" Edward is really confused now. Like, more than most of how he's felt all afternoon. Helpfully, Emmett tries to clear things up:
"He asked you, 'Boxers or briefs?'"
"I know that," the younger vampire resists the impulse to punch his big brother, "but I'm just a tad confused as to why."
Jasper wastes no time. "It's simple. Alice said we had to help you get seven outfits—"
"And that was all, it was supposed to be," Edward can't help but interrupt.
"It was. But she called after we left, with an addendum: you need socks and underwear. Usually Esme picks some up when she's out—but she didn't last time. And seeing as how we're out now…"
"Ok, I get it. I get it."
"Well?"
Silence.
"Shouldn't you already know?" He's hoping, if Jasper or Emmett try hard enough, they'll realize they do. He doesn't want to really say in public. It'd be embarrassing, in a minor but still substantial sort of way.
"You mean, shouldn't we, as your big brothers, know what your underwear preference is—or all the myriad choices available now to the American male?" Emmett's incredulity doesn't really pierce his little brother's hope. Edward nods.
"Well, I can't. Sorry. How 'bout you, Jazz?"
Jasper looks up at the ceiling for a minute, clearly trying to remember.
"I think…you may have worn… No, that's not it. Sorry, I can't remember either. Which is why I think I asked my original question."
There's no escape now. He's got to say. Hanging his head, Edward sucks in a useless breath.
"Briefs."
"Oh. Ok then. Edward," Jasper objectively directs, pointing back into the store, "Go pick out some packs for yourself. I think I saw Men's Underwear two or three aisles back from here."
"Oh. Ok." Happy they didn't make a bigger deal out of it—but really, why should they? He's been around for hundreds of years: he can wear whatever he damn well pleases under his jeans—Edward turns to leave. A thought occurs to him:
"If I'm buying it, then why'd you even need to know?"
"I didn't." Flippantly, Jasper points back to Emmett, "But he wanted to ask you."
Shocked and angry, Edward turns to glare at his brother.
"What. Is. Your. Problem?!"
"What?" Emmett impishly grins, clearly enjoying it. "It's not like I'm going to go around telling everyone that Edward the Dashingly Handsome Immortal wears—what was it?—tighty-whities. I won't tell Bella. I swear." And then he laughed.
Clouded by anger, and the stress of this whole mess, Edward sprang on his big brother, with clear intent on something evil.
"Oh…so he thinks my briefs are funny? Wait until I'm done with him—"
"Children. Please." Jasper sighed. He knew resistance was futile. This had brewing for hours. And why not let it happen?
--
As the fight ensued, was finished, and as the vampires went together to buy their youngest member's last needed article of clothing (laughing of course, leading to another mini-fight, because it turned out Edward did prefer white briefs…Emmett couldn't help himself : "I'm half-tempted to wonder whether you get 'em with cartoon character prints, too," he just had to say out loud) a mutual zeitgeist possessed them, unconsciously.
The trio walked out to their car, dusk firmly set, and each was smiling, a little.
…What a crazy day—Edward would never go clothes shopping with his brothers again. But he wouldn't live without them either.
In all of their wacky, stressful, OCD, inside-joke-conversation, hair-ruffling, patronizingly affectionate/overprotective ways, they were who they were: the Cullen Brothers.