A/N: Here is a little out-take that I wrote a while ago: a BPOV version of the lovers' first meeting (truly BPOV - not filtered through the 3rd person POV that I wrote the story in). You may want to go back and refresh yourself on Chap 11-12 from Edward's point of view before you read it. Fair warning: this was never beta'd, so it is probably rather rough as it was mostly for me to get my head around her reaction to meeting her singer so that I could portray that reaction through Edward's eyes. :)

Bella

Chicago, 1918

I can smell him before I can see him. It grows stronger by the second – this tantalizing scent that swells and grows, filling my senses with a strange, powerful longing. They all smell different – some pleasant, and others less so, but from the very first moment of this new life, I never found it terribly difficult to abstain. Stare a bit too long at the paper thin skin covering pulsing veins, and I usually find myself feeling off balance and nauseated. Mind over matter, Carlisle says, but I suspect my mind is somehow irreparably broken, leaving me skittish and repulsed by the thought of consuming the life blood that my vampire nature ought to find alluring.

That changes in the instant that I become aware of his scent. It's light, not cloying like some, and hints at young oak trees reaching for the sun. It's a revelation. If the human race all smelled as he does, I would bathe in its life force. For a moment I imagine this – floating on my back in a lake of sweet red blood – and I feel myself quivering, not with distaste as I expect, but a yearning. There can never be enough of this scent, even if I could swim in it for eternity.

I am moving through the throngs of people, painted smile upon my face and just a veneer of politeness to mask the desperation I feel. I thought these people were unappetizing before? Now the orchid scented blood of this diamond studded socialite or the heavy set man before me, who reeks of body odor and dyed wool, make me want to shout. They're crowding out the only scent in the world that I want to consume, want to be consumed by.

Too fast, slow down, I tell myself, gripping the reins of my human façade and hoping the vampire thirst doesn't show through. The evening breeze is my best friend, flowing from behind him and caressing me with a smell that makes me think of new books and possibility. He is handsome, and my first thought is of course. It seems completely natural that he is young and turns the heads of countless young ladies in his vicinity. His auburn hair is restless, and it makes me smile. Just like his intoxicating smell, I can tell by looking at his hair and then into his eyes that he won't be easily contained.

Lord, help me. It's one of the more sincere prayers I've prayed since waking to eternal damnation and then eventually becoming a vampire.

I perceive by his proximity that he must be Edward Masen, Meg's cousin, of whom she speaks with such undimmed adoration. She sees me approaching and quickly introduces us. I want to laugh at her obvious delight in bringing us together, but I'm a little afraid of what might happen if I actually open my mouth. I might be fine. After all, I've made it this far without harming anyone, but then I've never met anyone who posed such a temptation.

My all-too-potent imagination takes over again, and this time I think of stepping in closer, brushing my nose slowly and gently along the pink softness of his neck, licking it sensuously and eliciting a moan from both of us, and then silently and so slowly, sinking my teeth into the perfection offered before me, drawing the glorious nectar from his body into mine, consuming him completely.

These dangerous thoughts are lent gravitas as I watch with fascination as he flushes, blood rushing up to the surface of his beautiful face as though to greet me. Carlisle's voice sounds in my head, warning me to stop breathing, and even when it's really just my conscience, I trust Carlisle enough to instinctively obey. Edward is clearly mortified by Meg's remark, but he surprises me with the ease with which he switches from potential offense to generous fondness, even dares to tease me as he remarks, "I am afraid I'm rather protective of Meg here, and you seem to be a bad influence on her."

And that is the moment that I begin to suspect that the person Edward Masen is far more dangerous than his tantalizing scent.

I should be running away from the desire I have to kill this boy. I should be holding my breath if I am foolhardy enough to remain in his presence. Instead, I am quirking an eyebrow at him and responding to his barb. "A bad influence, really? Meg tells me your favorite author is Tennyson. Is there anything more dangerous to a young girl than building up her faith in chivalry these days?"

Any hope of an intelligent dialogue is quashed when my challenge is met with silence. I have seen that look before – Edward Masen has fallen prey to my vampire charms. How predictable, I think, feeling just a bit disappointed, but a baser part of me is delighted that he is so obviously smitten, and therefore far easier to maneuver – should I choose to indulge in a way that I never have before. Which I will not do. Obviously.

"Edward?" Meg is distressed by Edward's inattention, asking, "Are you alright?" I want to chuckle at her naivete, but she is really a lovely child.

I can hear the galloping of his heart, so it's no surprise to me when Edward makes his excuse and flees my presence. Good for him, I think, hoping that between his sense of self-preservation and my (shaky) conscience, we might both make it through the night in one piece. But it's only a moment before his mother, a woman of whom I am genuinely fond, appears at my side and asks me to fetch him back again. She's not fooling anyone – we both know why she's suggesting I be the one to seek him out, and I could certainly find an excuse to avoid him if I truly wanted to, but you see – I don't (really want to). I want to breathe him in. And I want to hold him close. And I might want to talk to him some more. But mostly I want to lick every drop of his delicious blood.

He's standing outside, hiding. If I were just a girl, the embarrassment he's so obviously feeling about his cowardly exit would be justified, but I'm not just a girl and I should reassure him that running from me was the very smartest thing he could do. Instead, I merely ask him, "Mister Masen? Are you ill?"

In the moonlight, he's even more delectable. The soft glow and the light breeze combine in a way that is enchanting.

You're more than this. Again with Carlisle's persistent (and slightly annoying) appeal to my better nature. He's right though – I know all too well what it is to have someone suck the life from me, cast me aside as little more than refuse. I won't do that to anyone, not even this handsome young man with blood that sings to me. With the decision made, I'm able to swallow the venom pooling in my mouth and talk to him. "Would you like me to fetch someone for you? Your father, perhaps?" It's a subtle manipulation, but it achieves its purpose – there's no way this young pup is going to agree to be collected by his father.

As I expect, the question strengthens his spine, and he responds, "No, indeed, I am quite well. Thank you, Miss Cullen. Perhaps we should return?" There's a moment, as he moves around me and begins the trek back into the theater full of bodies that will futilely compete with his blood's siren song, where it's not a violent taste I crave. His lips look so soft. It's an errant thought, and out of character for me, given the reality of before. My years as a vampire haven't been spent in sexual repression – there's been no sexual drive to repress. But this boy, on the cusp of manhood, dressed in skin that radiates warmth and a delicious fragrance, this is a boy I could want, though I've not wanted anyone in nearly a century.

It's with my thought in this racy vein that the chivalrous Edward Masen suggests I return to the theater separate from him, so as not to sully my reputation. Propriety requires that I cordially thank him and move on my way, but I cannot. I don't want to. Instead, I test the waters once more, see if his mind is as attractive as his blood and face suggest.

"And what do you fear they will say, Mister Masen? You have already branded me a corrupter of the youth. Am I now to be seducing attractive young men?" It's a very Oscar Wilde thing to do – to speak the truth with a brash tone of irony and dare him to identify it as such.

He deflects instead, saying with a feigned tone of sophistication, "Let us hope not. Let us pray that the youth of today possess such moral fortitude that they are above corruption, whether it arrives via novels or a bit of polite conversation."

It's not as though he means anything to me – or at least, nothing positive – but there's a barb in his statement that pricks more keenly than I expect. Without censoring myself, I ask, "Polite conversation? Is that all it was?" If I had a beating heart, it would race as his does now. Stupid, impetuous mouth, constantly getting me into trouble.

I suspect we're both relieved when Edward's mother finds us then, cutting the tension that my ill-advised question had ratcheted up to an uncomfortable level. She's full of self-satisfied delight as she draws near, exclaiming over my success and explaining that it was she who sent me on my errand. I wonder how delighted she would be if she were to know that her matchmaking might have ended in Edward's violent death. No, I'm not exactly what most mothers would wish for.

Somewhere in the midst of this brief exchange, I realize that an entirely silent conversation is taking place. It's their heart beats that give it away – on the surface the conversation is pleasant and innocuous, but almost simultaneously, mother and son's heart rates accelerate. I try to catch the subtext, but there's a veil of intimacy between them that I can't penetrate. I am just about to make my excuses and leave when Mrs. Masen invites me to join them in their seats, and if I justify accepting her offer with the idea that Carlisle would expect me to demonstrate impeccable manners, I don't examine my reasons too closely.

In the seats, we greet Meg, and again I perceive that a silent conversation is taking place between Edward and his relatives. This one is less subtle – it's clear that Meg expects an explanation, even if she's begrudgingly willing to wait. I get a distinctly impolite enjoyment from the resulting scowl on Edward's face. Perhaps it's best to ignore him for a while – or at least to appear to do so. There's no ignoring the way every breath he expels clouds my head with his sweet scent.

To irritate him, I turn to Meg and initiate a conversation on the novelist Edward deems unworthy of her time. We discuss the merits of Pride and Prejudice and why Mister Darcy is infinitely preferable to Edmund Bertram in Mansfield Park. Apparently my shocking suggestion that Fanny Price is too boring, as evidenced by her refusal to risk pain for passion in the form of Henry Crawford offends Edward, as this is the point in the conversation that he interrupts to assert, "Fanny Price is absolutely right to dismiss the attentions of Henry Crawford. The man is a scoundrel. Fanny has an uncompromising moral compass. Her determination to resist the pressure of all dissenting opinions and hold on to what she knows to be right demonstrates just how unworthy Henry Crawford is of her good opinion. The man cannot decide what he wants."

My thoughts and feelings riot a bit inside. Is it such a crime to be indecisive? I wonder. Apparently in Edward Masen's world it is. There's no room in such a simplistic worldview for a vegetarian vampire who cannot stomach the stupidity of war but can contemplate murdering an innocent boy. Still, however much I want to cry for the infinite hues of gray in which I dwell, I can't help taking offense at the priggishness of his opinion. It's immature of me, I know, but I indulge myself and toss a superior smirk his way, then negate his position with a false expression of gratitude: "I believe that is a very popular reading of those characters, Mr. Masen, thank you."

I expect that he'll withdraw like a good little boy, but instead, he holds his own, asking, "And am I to understand by that remark that a popular opinion is, in your judgment, necessarily flawed?"

His question conjures images from the many decades that I've existed, the plethora of popular opinions that I've witnessed come and go. It's not contempt so much as weariness that characterizes my tone as I answer, "In my experience, popular opinions often appeal to a wide multitude for reasons wholly unconnected to truth or merit."

I am ready for this conversation to end, to turn my attention elsewhere, to find this boy less engaging, less tempting, just...LESS.

He isn't cooperating.

"But you will admit," Edward continues, "in fairness, that an opinion held by a majority of people is not necessarily incorrect. It might be a popular opinion and, incidentally, also be correct?" And of course, in fairness, how can I deny his claim? I'll admit that my concession is given begrudgingly, but I do nod, and he continues, "So besides the popularity of my reading of Fanny Price, what flaw do you find in my assessment?"

And there it is. Written clearly on his face: desire. He is hungry for my words, for my thoughts, and I, wretch that I am, still sit here hungry for his blood, and even more dangerously, hungry for his love.

So I shut him out, push him away, prick his pride with a false air of indifference and the politeness of my smile as I answer, "As to that, Mr. Masen, I suppose your reading of the characters is as valid as my own." My words pat him on the head, and then I pour out my delighted attention on Meg so that he may feel the difference and find himself (safely) dismissed.

But he won't be dismissed, this Edward Masen. He won't slink quietly to the sidelines. He inserts himself once more, just as the lights go down, and with racing heart and a defiant gaze uses Jane Austen as a weapon.

And that is when I know: I'm completely fucked. Who but me could be so insanely foolish as to fall in love with a mortal man whose every heartbeat is an exquisite torture? How can this ever end well?