Do not worry (some people.) I have always intended to finish this story (receptive audience or not, was my mindset in the beginning,) and that intention hasn't changed. With that being said, please do try to enjoy this mess of a chapter that this story usually has...But as always try to look for those mistakes I must have surely missed...

And there's a few new formatting aspects. The underlined sentences is just a quote that you can say I made up (it will be key to the story, or already an important topic) as well as a phrase in parentheses (which will be something that Rosalie has said in the past sometime before the timeline of this story.) That should be pretty much it, so please do enjoy!

Unknown

The air is sticky; streets wet, and wind faintly crisp in its leisure transition into spring. Bella shoves her hands in the hunter green shaded raincoat, hopeful that the warm fabric will trickle its heat into her bones. Her body involuntarily sidles into the space of the blonde left of her.

Rosalie side eyes the brunette, and protest is situated at the instincts of her mind, but dwindles in relent once the content demeanor of the human overcomes her.

"Your peers do not seem to comprehend the inconveniences of their inane activities." Rosalie says contemplatively, curiosity and displeasure prompting her timbre.

Bella chuckles, fondly—eyes fliting to the observe the tilted head, and deliberative wonderment about the vampire's face. She dips her head in amusement.

They were held steady by the worn metal of her truck, left to watch the many peculiar occurrences of teens foolish before they had to settle into the days lectures. If she were to be honest, she was not as wise as Rosalie was in this particular examination. Especially once a party of boys pass them with plotting grins, and a conspicuous looking box held between them.

She allows her shoulders to hike and fall in defeat.

"They're just," Bella frowns. "Antsy before they have to sit for four hours until their lunch period is all."

A perfectly arched eyebrow points towards her, unimpressed, yet amused. Bella delivers the stare a charming grin, and earns an eye roll of endearment.

"That does not excuse their heedless behavior Isabella." Rosalie says kittenishly.

Bella blinks, falters: quivers, flushes, then averts her stare; the tone was soft, every curl of the pink stained lips swathing the vowels of her name with the identity of sentiment. She has found that the blonde often delved into flirtatious banter for entertainment purposes rather than any actual honest intent, but she also perceived that at times the coyness was indeed sincere.

Her mind fondles the memory of their near romantic intimacy. The tranquil ambience that had filtered into her structure and cut into her bone marrow, the moment had felt innocently natural without the particular mundane routines stalking the instant. Virtually there was a distant plea to capture the essence of the vampire's lips; a prominent ache of want. An even more desperate wail whispered at her lowly once the lambent tenderness was fixated on her. Like she was, is, the sole tether that the blonde reverends, inexplicably conserves. As though she were a vital factor for Rosalie's existence.

And the vulnerable stare startled her—she had to deny the blonde of a sense of contentment. Watched the relaxed mien convert into a forlorn smile, guilt, and a distracted attention. Simply due to the anxiety that overcame her, the emotion mounting when the latent and secretive flicker revealed its form.

There was an individual indication of hurt within the lone flame. It lurked below the surface and this was not its first appearance. Which prompted her to divert their desire and muster the fortitude to deny it. She had come upon the revelation of a secret between them, and another related allusion that she has been attempting to uncover.

The near kiss had validated her speculation that they were, share, a certain fondness of the other that was carved with so much depth that she was neither positive just how capacious the abyss truly was. It's settled into her veins, coddled her heart, and the bond felt far too paramount for a mere name. Her fingertips come to tickle the cool breath haunting her lips, a blue countenance heckling her, the almost taunting her.

"You're distracted." The blonde murmurs.

The sudden inquire fractures her memory induced reverie. For a moment, she contemplates lying—denying the observation, but then the certainty of the statement floats into the air. Rosalie spoke it with a fine finality that forebodes at the very least a lone touch on the subject. She winces and her hand comes to graze the back of her neck: a nervous tick. The blonde seems to be so very attuned to her habitual antics, because then there is a concerned glint in the vampire's eyes that is insurmountable to a flicker of recognition; Rosalie discovers the matter quickly, and Bella finds the swift perception to be a daunting affair.

Reply stifled, Bella lifts her head to level the blonde with a contrite upturn of her lips. Rosalie reacts with a stilted smile of her own; it's the detached company that elicits a silence about them. It looms, and leers with a lukewarm smile. The precipitated atmosphere decides her teeth grounded into one another, while the mute blonde is responsible for the itch produced by the curl of her fingernails carving tiny indentions into her palms. An uneasy breath comes from her lips.

And then there's a flame, a heat—suddenly she's sinking into an abyss of anger: frustration, hurt.

"What is it you're not telling me?"

The chatter around them fades into distant whispers: due to the prompted blink of confoundment.

(Bella finds the startled twinkle in the blonde's eye to be uninhabited. Sharp even.)

"I have not intentionally deceived you Bella," But the measured lilt proves otherwise. "It will do you well to mind that truth."

And she does not know what to make of the calculated utterance, or the minor falter in the even timbre.

A pair of, radiant, honey orbs skirt across the lot only to round on her so keen and innocently vicious. They're mutually fixed with imminent discontent, settled in a strict eye-lock. Indeed, there is an evident sorrow hidden, but the cynical beliefs invalidate the aspect. It's odd, peculiar, to even her at the reversed ambience. Momentarily she's thrust into the past; on the receiving end of the blonde's enmity. Only this venom is mellow, a faint hint of the true capability of the vampire's active resistance.

Her lips are thin, brows concentrated and disturbed, stance resolute, fist fiercely adamant: Rosalie levels her with a perplexed irritation mouth fondling a reply—then her shoulders deflate. Eyes suddenly weary, attention fixated beyond her. With an irked flick of her wrist, waving noncommittedly at the road behind her, Rosalie withdraws in a snit.

"Your pet desires attention."

Before she can inquire on the comment, her ears hone in on the heavy grumble of an engine. Its thunderous roll prompts the attention of the loiters left in the lot. Her vision distorts momentarily at the rampant speed of the vehicle coming to a halt, ten feet, from her.

His face is skeptical, bones vigilant. His eyes seem to contemplate the prickly blonde oddly, but the stare evaporates into a memory once they land on her. Before she can even reprimand him for his sudden appearance, Jacob is dwarfing her into a firm embrace.

"She even looms during the light of day. Does she ever give you a moment to breath?" Jacob speaks into the air.

She feels his dark peer from over her shoulder, and even the silent hiss from the blonde. And she is positive they are locked in a vindictive stare. His sardonic timbre is a method to inspire an acrimonious retort within the vampire, to compel the blonde into an acerbic reaction.

A reproving reply toys with her lips, but then protective instinct streams into her veins; an intensity far too convoluted to be her own. She shoves at his shoulders easily. She accosts him with a discontented frown, before her eyes flicker to the remote vampire, who in turn remains intent on evidently separating herself from the conversation, or circumstance occurring. The spite in her contemplative, and averted stare conveys the vampires' ire.

(Internally she fathoms that the pensive, habitual, manner validates her proclamation. If not then certainly the defiant lift of the blonde's chin upholds the accusation—mentally Rosalie is quantifying her options, and Bella stockpiles the indications.)

"Shouldn't you be at school?" Bella sticks the observation into a thick atmosphere.

One of his shoulders lift deftly, still observing Rosalie silently.

"Have you never not decided to do something you should do? What's right to do," He chuckles humorously. "Besides being a developing wolf on the reservation has its perks."

Her attention flicks to Rosalie, who then decides to ready her shoulders irritably. Yet she settles Bella warmly.

"There is five minutes until the bell sounds." Rosalie informs softly.

For a moment it seems the blonde would offer an introspection, but then Rosalie wryly throws a glance towards Jacob before a sound relent overcomes her.

"She comes back in one piece," Rosalie eyes the motorbike distrustfully. "I can only presume whoever rebuilt that bike was able to do so effectively."

There is no threat, simply an underlying warning.

They merely blink precariously at the resolute blonde. It's a matter of revelations once the vampire spares her a lone smile before turning with a swift pivot. Bella is more than stunned at the stealthy frustration, and evenly prominent despondency at the attempt of a slick departure. One inevitably intercepted with an outstretched arm acquiring a pale, willful hand. She easily sidles to the blonde's side deliberately; veering to obstruct the intended pathway. She can only release the vampires hand solemnly as her own darkened orbs evade any intention to obtain eye contact; throat emptying in absolution, while her hands fiddle with the straps of her backpack.

"We need to talk about 'this' Rosalie." The adamant lilt in her timbre is leveled with a tenacious, eerily steady, flicker of compliancy.

Rosalie takes a tentative step forward—the airspace is concluded with a firm, delicate even, pluck of the sleeve of her jacket. Even with the treading frustration at her disposal, Bella falls into the embrace readily.

(The tranquil anthem of her heart soundly—harshly dictated by the unwarranted inflation of the blonde's chest. It's wondrous, oddly so, as her arms come to wrap around the vampire's torso.)

"You are more attentive that most would give you praise for," Rosalie murmurs lowly, defiantly. "You have my number if needed."

The assertion evades her statement, but the somberness in her chest assures her that they will touch on the semantics of their peculiar relations later. They depart from the comfortable hold bitterly; Bella resisting the faint twitch in her chest. Yet even the finality of the comment could not halt her from pulling the hem of an obsidian sweater; Rosalie meets her with a smile, sad, but fond smile.

"Rose." Bella pronounces evenly.

She is observed in a studiously mystified manner, and that renders her to, dumbly, secure a solidified upturn of her lips—them leaving on such tense terms, to her own dismay, concerns her. From her intuition, rather the even more tender stare, she can perceive that her internal affairs are noted. Rosalie tilts her head towards the school slyly, tiny simper on the corners of her lips.

"I only ever want what's best for you Bella. Even if that includes withholding certain details, and that's not fair to you. You deserve an explanation, and while it was selfish of me to seek the time to do so, I am ready to give you one." Rosalie says guiltily.

Hurt, or maybe the barest hint of betrayal irks her insides; Bella shifts her weight uneasily. Verbally her concerns are very much confirmed, yet she does not have it in her to completely comprehend the admission. Even then a certain relief overwhelms her—and that contradicts the fact that Rosalie was, is, indeed being dishonest, or better terms withholding something. Her mind flickers to all of the inclusion on the predicament with Victoria, with the bitter retell of Edwards evasive whereabouts. Certainly, the vampire has tried very much so to incorporate her into the tactics to deal with the matters, and that prompts her to remain secure in her belief that the blonde only ever has her welfare in mind.

However, staunchly committed that belief is: Rosalie still has kept a detail of great importance from her.

Jaw set firmly, Bella unclenches her fist apprehensively; an action not entirely un-perceivable on the blonde's perspective. Her mind tunnels a few replies, but none seem fitting, especially not the rancorous: "Okay" desiring to be breathed into existence.

Bella settles daftly, foolishly and willfully.

"Thank you."

And she voluntarily, tenderly, offers a tilted smile. Only due to the almost devastated occurrence on the vampire's face (positive that if tears were a possibility, Rosalie would be rendering them as a deliverance of true sorrow rather than an honest pity), and she pivots easily. The first, second, and third step patiently becoming heavier than the initial turn.

("I'm sorry." She knows, feels, that Rosalie does mean it. The gravelly croak whispered all her sorrow.)

Rosalie is an intricate existence. Thin in whole, stark, evidently wielding a simplicity to her semblance, cultivated, exclusive, her elaborate mind thorny and restrictive—all practical for a beauty. Lethal to individuals lured into the notions, destructive to whom who care, to who adores the tricky variety that is the principal the blonde abides by. It is her variant mentality that devastates her.

She recalls the instances where she received the acidic nature from the blonde. Occurrences that defined their relations—sharp scowls, resentful pronouncements, reticent leers, these were the embodiment that revealed their polar oppositions. Where she peered tentatively, the vampire stared indecently, when she spoke it was controlled, the blonde communicated with slick vowels and vitriolic adlibs. Only this previous activities are a fervent affair fixed with a heady sullen that seemed neutral until a revelation fell upon it. Suddenly it all seemed so mundane, so trivial, yet substantial in a sense. Contrary to one another's nature, distinct, only they were so appropriate.

("What exactly do you suppose will come from your fixation with a soulless existence?" A reverent silence: then, softly, inattentive. "His existence isn't my only fixation.")

Her own words were delicately uttered, constructed by an incentive preconceived; Rosalie stilted, mute, yet softened. Only then her mind too preoccupied by the frail link to Edward that was relatively sound. That conversation or exchange of words occurred three months before they impendent fall of her entire ties with the family. It conveyed a definite worry that only now she can interpret.

"We almost kissed."

His reaction would be comical if it weren't for the anxiety ascending—she's quivering from uttering the fact aloud.

He blinks, cranes his neck so hastily, mouth confounded, the tool clatters to the ground loudly. An expectancy fills the air. Then a cryptic twinkle kindles his hardened exterior. Jacob leisurely picks the fallen contrivance and then deftly turns around to continue his ministrations. The peculiar reaction remains odd, only when the lack of friendly conversation enters her mind does she excuse the cold demeanor. The sound of tinkering flickers once more. Her hands apprehensively fiddle with one another.

"Well then," He sounds distant. "You nearly locked lips with the ice queen. I guess you dodged—"

"Jacob."

It must be the adamant incertitude saturating her voice that prompts him to swivel on the heels of his feet. His eyes soften at her diminutive appearance, the way she's internally stifled. A few strides and he's standing before her; frowning at the glistening within her eyes.

He accosts her with a tiny smile.

"That's not what's bothering you. Or it is. It's just not the entirety of your woes?" He murmurs cheekily.

And an exponential ache, a whisper, faint, slithers into her chest: it's similar to being awake and daring to defy the daydream into a fractured rest. It is not her own hurt but another's, fine and potent. Which eases her into embracing the perplexed wolf—his warmth coddles her, beckons her to fall into him. He soothes her readily. Chin positioned comfortably on her head. The moment reminds her. She has friends, and she's deserted them during her tenor of ruin. And he may be of the supernatural world: taut muscles, quelled beast lurking within, and all prickly at first perception. Yet he's warm three ways, physically, mentally, and very much emotionally. He deserves much more than her ever emphatic drama. Much more than her inconsiderate search for comfort after months of silence.

"I've been—so wrapped up in my own world. With Edward leaving and—" Rosalie is on the very tip of the content spewing from her lips, but she refrains. "I haven't been a good friend. Nevertheless, much of one. I'm sorry."

His chest vibrates, her cheek rocking with the movement. His laughter is full, lively, and certain.

"Bella. I don't think I'd have been much of a good friend either. With my entire life transitioning to fit with the pack lifestyle, and all the rituals. The late bonfires—which I should take you to someday—and even with school. We wouldn't have had much time for each other, even if you exclude the supernatural complications."

His admission evidently honest, but the rather clumsy lilt prominent in his voice makes her all the more culpable. She can see it in the naïve glint in his eyes, in the credulous way he clings onto her every word, in the vindictive lilt in his voice when speaking to the Cullens—he's still a teen veering into a world where he has to deal with a weight greater than the scandals of high school, even his puberty hadn't been doctored in a customary manner. He was thrust into a tumultuous lifestyle in the span of three months. A reckless alteration like that was bound for repercussions emotionally, and she could have provided him any sense of normalcy she had left to offer.

Bella directs a steady search his way. She cannot fathom the details she is imploring for, but she supposes she has found it once her eyes concentrate on the gentle wink in his stare, and then the smooth uplift of his lips.

Splitting from their moment, or dare she internally believe their heartfelt conversation, she slips from his arms and hops down from her perch. An odd, and jaunty, grin captures her lips.

Uncouthly she snatches one of the fallen tools, brandishing the item forward, and attempts to backpaddle towards the dirt bike he had been reconditioning. A blush stains her cheeks as her foot momentarily catches on an extended metal of the bike.

Jacob howls with a silent laughter, shaking his head fondly as he follows the clumsy brunette. Although he peers at the hammer in her hand queerly.

"Didn't you rant on and on about your vampire being mechanically savvy? A hammer isn't going to help you Bella. Have you learned nothing in your months of leering at blondie in her stained overalls?

This time his laughter is audible—the stammered reaction of his friend involuntarily contributing to his infinite entertainment.

"She, you—shut up Jake!" He chuckles heartily. "And I do not leer!"

He was a man constructed with the utmost intricate pain she may have ever laid eyes upon, trained ears on; Jasper imitated a torment that had the depth of an abyss matched only by the endless seas of the stars. At their very first encounter her perspective of the immaculate southern man seemed rooted only from the torrent torture, and mannered hostility. It was in the infinite war, blood, and unadulterated vexation depicted in his every movement, that she deduced he was merely one man of haunted dreams forever tormenting his laying wake. Only with time, leisured, and deliberate conversations did she perceive almost mirrored pain held a beauty far healthier than her own, far luxurious.

He had the ability to feel: fear, joy, and love—an innocence in its authentic form. That deviated from the emotions he felt from others, those emotions were truly his own. She watched him far too skeptically. The twitch of his lips when Alice had his vision, the flounder of his fingers at every human Alice conversed with (easily, incautiously, and happily) in the simplicity of his stare. His sorrow varied from her own facilely, because he had the veil of a peppy vampire mystifying his weary torture. Jasper experienced others emotions, yet he never let them cast a misty hush over the way he felt deeply for Alice.

(He is covert, but never with Alice.)

"She wholly adores you."

Jasper sets the worn novel down, politely blinking at the blonde. Rosalie leans heavily on the doorframe, and peers at the astute man wondrously. There is no indicator that either will move any more near towards the other. He reveres his space, and her capacity for distance truthfully can only be quenched by one.

"And she has every right to." Rosalie replies. "What you and Alice feel for one another. Initially, did you believe you had the capability to be loved?"

A stilted chuckle emits from his mouth lowly. The vampire's ability to stun, he believes, will never fade, even with windswept time. A study to decode Rosalie would only ever conclude with even more hypothesis than its preliminary phases. The crinkles of his lips wind until they are no more than a tentative smile, warm, and fond. Pupils dilating with an elation of affection.

"I am tainted with war, stained with the blood of innocent lives lost either created newly or destroyed by my own hands. Alice peers at life with wonder and a purity that cannot be matched. And it's not mere curiosity that drives her motives for wanting to learn more about this world. It honestly makes her happy to unearth even the most trivial of fact about anything. That is what I noticed first about her when we met. A trait that remains intact to this day,"

Rosalie hums affirmatively, contented with the delicacy of his timbre.

"I was so perplexed when I found her. A little irritated, but nonetheless astonished that she had welcomed me so willfully. Even more so once I shared my past, my existence, and she just sat there invested in my tales of death—with this, fond smile. I was completely baffled at her radiance that I couldn't have a moment to question whether or not I was worthy of her love. It's only in the moments I am not feeding off of her energy that I find the time to wonder why exactly she wants to mine to love, why the universe has given me more than I could ever offer." Jasper murmurs softly.

The silence between them after the admittance parts with them a tranquil moment of deliverance, then: he blinks hardly, the vulnerable emotions faded, but a dopey twinkle remains. Rosalie heaves a fictional breath from her throat, pummeled and beaten.

"I wanted to let herself feel the beauty of love before she was ever thrown into it. Only that decision has brought her pain. She has lost Edward romantically and I understand that she's better now, but she loved him honestly, willfully. I do not believe she will ever heal from the anxiety of abandonment—I did that. I took away her freedom of will. And she's hurting due to the fact that she knows I have been withholding information owed to her. I took her choice from her."

Jasper shiftily eases from his position and easily sidles before her. He and she share the discomfort of touch. Only when deemed necessary do they feel the achieved feat of its purpose. He rests his hand atop her shoulder gently, easily.

"You worry about her ability to forgive you of something that she could never truly hate you for. Rosalie do not underestimate her capacity of—"

Trepidation overtakes him in such a fine manner, so heady, and invented by such a vexed source. Jasper watches as a shadow of dread lurks about the perplexity, relief, and protectiveness. In a peculiar moment he can physically feel Rosalie's senses slip into oblivion. The sudden part of her lips: dilated pupils, quivering fist, body stiff, ears studious—she was lured into the perilous state of preventiveness.

"Rosali—"

He feared for the tremendous wave of vacillation shivering from the wind she leaves in.

...

Fear devours us as a whole. A savage ravaging that caters to our darkest violence, but protective fear. That damns us all with its vile thoughts, and rips us from all humanity upon its truest intentions. Pray for one to never bear witness to this fear at its most wondrous height.

The interstices of the trees leave only a mere slither of light pouring onto her skin. The luminescent moon tenderly touches her skin; a deep contrast to the intensity of the wind striking her cheeks. Rosalie wills herself to reach the greatest potential of her speed—the scent of crisp wood, stale lemons, and the stench of death. A familiar smell that had never truly held her captive in an immense fear.

She honed in on the voices, or one in particular. A timbre that captured the true essence of confusion, anticipation, and relief. Yet the heartbeat spoke every fear in an invoiced mantra. It's the break from the woodland in which she emerges with a renewed protectiveness. It all shrouds the reality of the cold hand wrapped around a slim wrist, and it's the delicacy of that wrist that vexes her.

With a calculated maneuver, she swiftly pries the solid hand from the clutch it has on the human. She truthfully attempts to rein in the compulsion to throw him further than necessary, but her instinct will not permit her the action. Instead the offender is propelled backwards, and into a tree. His arms catch most of the force, and he lays on the trunk of the bruised tree trunk. A familiar smile rest on his red stained lips; it's not human blood, but the vision spurs her into action. She only stretches one step, before she is halted in her tracks.

"Rosalie. Don't," Bella rushes the wish breathlessly. "Don't do this again. Please."

Rosalie blinks, head tilted, and mind profoundly perplexed by the innocent pain lacing the brunettes tone. Her eyes harden at the evident affection in the stare that her mate directs at the stunted form. A new violence revives her doubt, but she does not dare move once she hears the approaching steps. Only watches, stares at Bella as she takes initiative to meet him.

(She can still notice the twinkle of love in his eyes. And that sickens her to no end. Yet the vile part about it, is that Bella, Bella merely stares at him with the same devotion as before. An exhilaration in her eyes that perceives no other.)

And it hurts. A pain that cannot fall into the sea of tranquility until the desperation leaks into the bay of doubt wholly. Her chest heaves remote isolation, and her eyelids throws back the inability to let the sorrow of tears free. The abhorrent transparency behind their peer prompts the remembrance with her being the meek observer that could not broach the subject of her own despondency. All the moments in which she was alienated from even her own emotions—where Bella timidly veered from her direction.

And that, dismal, trench has been sealed by her own fate. A stretch of months that she concerned not for the safety of her mate, but for the safety of 'them' as one. She dreaded not the physical aspects of Bella, but for the manner where emotionally they healed one another. Rosalie valued their relations that enabled her the elation that comes forth with the opportunity to share the pain with another.

So timeously her nimble fingers, delicately, snatch the fabric of the brunettes' sweater. Eyes brilliantly forlorn, lips shakily separating, and breath absolutely pinched. Rosalie listened to her own windswept heart; a perilous ache outstretched to her mate—entreated earnestly.

"Bella." Rosalie offers into the thin air.

("I cannot bare the torture of her ever choosing him over me. That sense of despondency would ravage me whole. Until the tormenting scenes of her happiness lulls me unto death.")

She does not believe that she has ever sounded so shattered. Split upon the vitality of this very moment; a decision that is not her own to decide. A tentative hesitation overcomes the human, and that alone spurs Rosalie to firmly fist the sweater. She does not tug, but merely holds true to her desperation. Over a stunted mane of brown hair, she spots the inquiring amber eyes. The occurrences during his disappearance is bleached into his irises, yet the distinctive lure of his scent unveils his happenings.

Blinking away the itch of her own honey orbs, Rosalie pinpoints the very moment in which Bella tilts her head ever so moderately; the very instance in which the brunette takes a subtle step backwards—the action influences her to tentatively (delicately so,) convince Bella to her own side.

She breathes that much of a facile breath once her mate leans into her touch.

"It's pleasant to see that you two have bonded in my absence."

His timber is neither acidic, or somber, just complacent. It unnerves her, but she never was one to truly allow him the ability to read into her reactions.

(It's not meant to be possessive—the hand she lays on Bella's hip merely pacify her overwrought emotions. Yet she can only presume to know the assumptions tinkering around his mind.)

"It's not exactly how I pictured a reunion would occur," Rosalie falters. "But I am relieved to know that you are alive and well. Edward."

Edward concedes to her passive comment with a short, if not strained, uplift of his lips.

The school workload truly sucks...Questions, concerns, rants, any criticism (constructive or not), you know where to contact me. I shall reply!

P.S — I have a feeling we're getting closer to a confession (*SPOILER* It won't happen next chapter, or the next one...Nevermind who knows when it will happen)

Write Ya Later ;)