"For the Love of Jasper" One-Shot Contest

Title: The Laundry Room

Pen name: The Armadillo and The Elephant

Existing work: N/A

Primary Players: Jasper, Alice, Maria

Disclaimer: 'Twilight' and its characters all belong to Stephenie Meyer.

To see other entries in the "For the Love of Jasper" contest, please visit the C2:
www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/community/For_the_Love_of_Jasper_Contest/72564/

"Fuck," Jasper rasped, razor-sharp talons digging into his back, raking his skin, forcing their way into the furrows that lay there. There was pain, exquisite pain, pain that distorted his thoughts, pain that coiled and twisted and looped through his mind until he was convinced he had found redemption. His hungry fingers roamed over the pliant body writhing beneath him, sweeping over her skin, desperate.

"More." The low moan was a demand, an order, a command, and the thrills it triggered pulsed throughout his body. He jerked, he was done, still continuing to thrust into her as she clutched him nearer, tighter, closer and then retreating when she had reached her own frantic summit.

"Same time next week?" She questioned later, her once desperate fingers now idly fastening the buttons on her blouse, her once ravenous mouth smirking lazily up at him as he righted himself.

"We'll see," he replied rigidly, his eyes flint.

"You always say that," she drawled, unfolding her limbs and stretching on the dishevelled bed, "And yet you always come back."

He stared at her, taking in the look of sultry seduction on her face and, with a jolt, felt the instant effect it had on his spent body. Placing her hands on the bed and languidly lifting herself off it, she sauntered over to him and ran an unhurried hand down his chest, challenging him.

"Next week," he swallowed.

And he was gone.

As soon as he got home he shut the door tight, locked it, checked twice to make sure it really was locked and lifted his threadbare sweatshirt over his head, letting it land on the carpeted floor with a soft plop. He breathed in deeply, relishing the feel of the cool air of his dank apartment on his over-heated skin before stripping himself of the rest of his clothing and heading towards the bathroom.

The icy water of the shower surged over him, bit him, needled away at him as he stood, immobile and uncaring, underneath it. Eventually he lowered his head, spitting out some of the water that had trickled into his mouth, and collapsed onto the hard tiles behind him. He did this every time he came back from her, realising that the redemption she provided was nothing more than the feeble trembling of a second-rate emotion. The need to clean and be cleansed was always there, was always overpowering, and was always ultimately futile: no matter how much water or shampoo or soap he used and no matter how hard he scrubbed his skin, he was constantly aware that he would never be the victor in this purgatory he found himself in.

With a heavy sigh, he got out of the shower, towelled himself off and grabbed some clean clothes from a nearby drawer, carefully avoiding the mirror that was nailed to the bedroom wall. He trod into the kitchen to grab something to appease the hunger that the activities of an hour or two ago had brought about. Rifling through his fridge and then the nearly empty cupboard above it, he grabbed a packet of noodles he couldn't remember buying, boiled the kettle and began gathering up the clothes that he'd dumped on the floor. Stumbling slightly over an empty bottle, he reached for the check-plaid laundry bag he'd bought from the dollar store down the block and muffled a curse when he saw it was already full, hastily cramming his clothes into it and pulling the zip tight when the kettle shrilled.

As he washed a fork in the sink, he took a quick glance back at his laundry and felt a wave of revulsion pass over him as he considered the dirt. He didn't like going down to the basement room that always seemed overcrowded even when there was no one else there, but if he actually wanted to wear something tomorrow the chore would have to be done. Snatching up his noodles, an old book off the sofa and the bag, he removed the chain from the door and carefully navigated himself across the threshold.

The laundry room was windowless, cramped, clammy and in the bowels of the apartment block, filled with broken machines and abandoned clothes, and was always lit by the weak light of a single bulb. He pushed into the room and flicked the switch, spilling hot water on his hand in the process.

"Shit," he hissed.

"You should really mind your language, you know." He gave a jolt at the sound of the other person's voice: he hadn't expected it, the room had been black as soot.

A girl was sitting atop one of the washing machines, the flimsy paper sign proclaiming it as broken lying between her hands, a flicker of scarlet amongst ivory. She was gazing at him with curiosity in her eyes, and just a spark of censure as well.

Jasper ignored her, fixed his attention on the far wall and chucked his clothes next to the machine that was the furthest away from her. He shoved coins into the slot and stood, his back turned on the only other person in the room, leafing through the book and taking occasional sips from the cup.

"Are you going to pretend I'm not here, then?"

He remained stoic, and turned a page.

"I'm not going away."

Silence.

"Alright then."

They stayed like that for a while, the only noises the soft thud of her feet against metal and the constant churning of the machines. It took several pages before he realised that his was the only one making a sound. He turned his head as discreetly as he could and peered at her: she was fiddling with the sign in her hands. He flicked his head back to the wall. Strange.

"I'm not doing laundry. That's what you were wondering, wasn't it?"

He looked at her again, for a few seconds longer this time, and nodded. He hadn't noticed it before, but upon closer examination, it was clear she was older than he'd presumed her to be at first glance.

This time he didn't put his clothes into the dryer, even though he knew that they would cause his living room to steam up, because he just wanted to get out of this room and get away from this strange girl.

"I'm Alice, by the way," was the sweet murmur that twined and twirled around him when he left.

Alice, it was a good name.

The next time he saw Maria, he saw her anew. She was glorious, victorious, a fierce goddess: she was mighty Aphrodite casting a haughty glance at her lovelorn subjects below, she was the temptress of Troy casting out her nets, she was a siren beckoning mortal men with her fatal song.

And he was Paris, he was every man who'd ever lusted after any woman.

She drew him in.

She ensnared him.

He was in chains – liberty lost and freedom forsaken.

And he rejoiced.

He told himself that when he got home he would take a shower, get dressed, have dinner and go to bed.

But surely the laundry bag was getting full? And what harm would it do, for him to go down there right now? After all, she probably wouldn't even be there.

She was.

This time she sat on the same machine, but she'd left the 'Out of Order' sign firmly attached to it. She gave him a brief wave as he came in.

And Jasper understood every cliché in the book.

"Hi."

She had the voice of an angel, a fairy, a willowy nymph.

"Hello." He spoke. He was alight and enflamed and entranced.

"I've been waiting for you." He picked a machine closer to her this time, in a different row but near enough so she could realise that he wasn't ignoring her tonight. "I've waited every night."

"Why?"

She shrugged, "I wanted to talk to you."

Puzzlement overcame him, "I didn't speak last time."

"But I knew you would," she tapped the side of her head.

"Women's intuition?" Forever sceptic.

"Something like that." Said with a smile.

As he waited for the cycle to finish, he couldn't help but sneak sly glances in her direction: she was still atop the machine, but she was swaying slightly to silent music. She caught his eye. He looked away.

She was staring at him, he knew she was staring at him and he knew that it didn't bother him as much as it should have.

"Why are you here?"

Was that his voice, that rasp, that need?

"I already told you." She was honey and bees and summer days.

"No. Why do you come here?"

She began to hum, to bang her feet against the hard metal, she was dancing again.

She wasn't going to answer him.

He tried to pretend that it wasn't disappointment that he felt.

He tried to pretend that it didn't matter if she had her secrets, because he had his.

He tried to pretend that what she did next didn't made him happier than he had been in months.

"It's quiet here. I like to think."

Her bottom lip trembled, and he wanted to kiss her and hold her and protect her, but he couldn't. He wouldn't.

The machine stopped.

He fled.

For a week, the only words he heard were hers, the only voice he heard was hers, dancing around inside his mind, slowly driving him insane. He hoped that when he visited Maria it would all stop, that he would lose himself inside her, forget himself, forget her.

Their coupling was frantic, desperate, animalistic. He clung to her with a need he'd never known before, grasped her to him with a new-found greed, bound himself with blank-slate promises. He succeeded: for a time. He closed his eyes and groped her flesh and kissed her ravenously, and he was so close, so close.

Then she spoke and he opened his eyes and the spell was broken.

He stilled. She kept moving, urging, thrusting. Nothing.

Her coffee eyes stabbed him with daggers as she tightened around him: for a brief moment of ecstasy his own eyes fluttered shut and were met with a far more alluring sight.

He forced them open, forced them to look at her, at Maria.

"Same time next week?"

"Yes."

He didn't go to the laundry room this time.

His apartment remained shut, his door locked and the radio as loud as the dial would turn.

For an hour he sat on his sofa, his hands made his ears deaf, his eyes blind.

The din in the background stopped suddenly.

It was time. He was safe.

As he stood in front of the microwave, staring blankly at the revolving plate, he told himself that what he felt was relief: he just couldn't recognize it because it had been too long absent from his life.

He didn't acknowledge that relief was a lot like despair.

Just before he was meant to go to Maria, the fire alarm went off. Cursing whatever idiot had set it off, he grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the building fully intending not to be diverted. He glared at his neighbours as they gathered outside the building; a small, bulky, old woman glared back.

"Fuck." He checked his watch: Maria didn't like him to be late.

He froze.

A tiny figure in a summer dress, shivering.

She recognized him.

She didn't smile.

Was she scared?

He didn't want her to be scared, especially not of him.

Did she hate him?

He hoped not.

She was too good to hate.

"Alice?"

"Hi," she mouthed. It was all it took for his feet to become unglued and his mind to forget everything it previously knew.

"Here, take my coat."

"No, I'm fine."

"You're not. Take it."

She took it shyly, gratefully. "Thank you."

Smoke billowed from a window half-way up the building, and he was reminded of his earlier scorn. "I wonder what dickhead did this?"

"It was me. I had the oven on too high."

A man standing in front of them turned, his face a symphony of twisted rage. Jasper stared him down, daring him to speak, daring him to attack. He looked away, whispering something to the woman beside him.

"It's not your fault. It could happen to anyone."

"So I'm not a...you-know-what...then?"

Was she worried?

She shouldn't be worried.

He could never be angry with her.

"No. Far from it."

"Good, because that would be anatomically impossible."

She made him laugh: he paused and relished the moment before it was gone.

Taking a deep breath, he worked up the courage to say what he wanted, "Hey Alice, how do you feel about coffee?"

He didn't go to see Maria that day, he was too busy being happy.

He didn't go to see Maria for the next three weeks in fact.

Then, one afternoon, he realised what needed to be done.

"Jasper," she breathed, leaning against the doorframe. She was sultry and potent and the very worst sort of toxic. "Did you miss me then?"

"Did you?"

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip but he saw Alice. "A bit."

He gathered himself, "Maria, it's over."

"No it's not."

"It is."

She raised herself up, a lioness ready to fight, "It's not, because it never will be. You'll always come back to me."

"Not this time," he was firm, resolute, the memory of the girl in the laundry room delivering him from temptation.

"We'll see." He retreated. "You're weak, you've always been weak and you'll die weak," She was bitter, and when she was bitter she became vicious.

"Goodbye."

"See you next week."

"No."

"You always say that-"

"But I won't come back this time Maria," he stopped and watched as the harsh hallway lights cast her in an alien glow. "This is goodbye."

The door to his apartment remained shut, his door locked and the radio this time silent.

He passed it without so much as a backwards glance, his eyes focused on the staircase, focused on his target.

Up. Up. Up.

The patchy carpet crumbled underneath his footsteps, the tattered and torn wallpaper floated on the breeze as he walked past, filling his lungs with stale air, dark and damp.

Stop.

Calm.

Exhale.

He raised his hand to the door and waited to knock, hoping she was there.

He knocked: once, twice, a third for luck.

The door edged slowly open, a hesitant face peaking out at him, relaxing when she saw it was him.

"Oh, hello, just wait a minute and I'll get this chain off." After a few moments of fiddling with the lock, she appeared, the light from a window at her back.

He basked in it.

She was speaking, her mouth was opening and closing but he wasn't listening. She was so beautiful that he finally became aware of what he had felt from the first moment he had set eyes on her.

It wasn't redemption he was looking for, he hadn't done enough to merit it yet and even if he had he was never going to discover it in Maria's embrace. The thing he had been searching for for so long, the thing he had been scouring the city for, it was salvation.

It was salvation and it was Alice and she was here and he could just reach out and touch her, put a calloused finger to her silky skin and confess all his sins.

She wasn't talking anymore and he took a chance.

"Hello, I'm Jasper."

And he was done.

---

A/N: Hope everyone enjoyed this one-shot. Please R&R.