Notes: I'm writing these for the livejournal community 5_nevers. The idea of the community is to take a character, and write five short AUs about things that never happened to them. I'm choosing Beth, because a lot of things never happened to her, what with her short lifespan and all. Anyway, please let me know what you think!

:;:;:

Plumfield seemed a place filled with danger to shy little Beth. For one thing, there was that disagreeable parrot who swore, squawked, and flopped around without the slightest warning or provocation. For another, the house was so very big, with long dark hallways, locked rooms, and vast dust scented parlors. Aunt March herself was not precisely frightening, being a relative that Beth had known since infancy, but the old woman did not understand Beth's quiet nature… Nor, it seemed, did she comprehend why chattering on about Father's foolishness for enlisting in the army and becoming injured should make Beth retreat ever further into herself.

Amy complained. She had thrown such a tantrum at the prospect of several weeks in Aunt March's care that Laurie had had to bribe her with daily visits in order to make her come along. Amy read to Aunt March, befriended the maid, and spent Laurie's visits riding, playing, and generally hanging upon the young man.

Beth did none of these things. She wrote letters to Jo, who was sick in bed, with the fever that Beth could not but think was meant to be hers. She had, after all, been the one to ask Jo to attend to the Hummels in her stead. If only she had been braver, and stronger, and gone herself… but then she wasn't any of those things. Beth began to think for the first time that she was nice, but she was nothing of consequence, and that she needed to become better if she wanted to be deserving of life and family.

It was curious to think thus. Nothing had ever troubled Beth before, or disturbed her tranquility.

She wrote letters to Jo, and Jo did not write back.

One day, she noticed that Laurie looked more distraught than usual, after one of his walks with Amy.

"What is it?" Beth asked, as he stopped to say his goodbyes, as he never neglected to do.

"All I can say," he said, with false cheeriness, "Is that you had better not choose today to write down your last wishes. It's very well to have that sort of thing over and done with in good time, but I'd much rather believe that none of us are ever going to die. What do you say to me calling you Elizabeth the Invincible?"

He finished off his little speech with a grand gesture which would have seemed much grander had there not been dark circles under his eyes.

"I can try to be that if you want," said Beth, looking down, for it did not seem right to examine his grief as she felt inclined to do. "But tell me, who is writing out their last wishes? Jo isn't that bad, is she?"

"I'm afraid so," said Laurie, who deepened his voice as if to sound especially manly just then, but only succeeded in sounding choked. "And wouldn't you know, Amy's gotten it into her head to do it as well. You'd think she knew. She doesn't, of course."

Beth frowned, imagining Jo feverish and weak, and losing hope. It didn't fit very well with her idea of her sister.

"Never you mind," Laurie said, placing a gentle hand on Beth's shoulder. "Meg is a capital nurse, and I've got something up my sleeve to make sure everything works out in time."

"Oh, do you?" Beth asked, brightening.

"Yes, but it's our secret, and I'll thank you not to ask for details. Just give over your letter, and I'll read it to Jo myself when I get back."

Beth handed him the letter, saying, "I'm sure whatever you're thinking it will be splendid, and Jo will get well, won't she?"

"I hope so," Laurie said.

Laurie left then, and for some hours, Beth was content, trusting in God and those who were working for Jo's sake.

Then she began to wonder what exactly Laurie's plan was, and scold herself for not asking. Jo would never have not asked. She would have fought, pried, gotten it out of him somehow, and become a part of it. Beth had sometimes imagined the world as a river or an ocean with paths and tides that carried her this way and that as if she were nothing more than a leaf. She was not sure that she liked it, but then she could not imagine herself any other way than how she was.

Marmee returned home that night, for Laurie had gone behind Hannah's back and written her. Under mother's care Jo got well, for how could she not with her nearby? Beth was quiet, and did all she could for her sister when at last she was allowed home, and never let on that she was anything more than the mouse of the family. After all, she still did not know what else she could be.

Father came, and Christmas came, and Jo was soon writing theatricals and romping with Laurie as if nothing had happened. Beth, however, had changed.