A/N: Late again, heh. Sorry would be tiring. So just ignore me and read.

M'dear Cubby, I flove you tons. Even more than boysecks, finding various nicknames for you, and gifs. Js.

Rya Soulmate, your sharing of your nipple-itching habits only makes me love you more.

You ever had your nipple kind of just... itch?

Like, literally itch.

Not really a bug bite, but not exactly your eyeball itching either.

Nipple itches were a thing all unto themselves. And my left nipple really fucking itched right now.

In the middle of AP biology.

Go figure.

Excuse me, Mr. Banner? I have a question. Since you're the biology teacher and all. Why does my nipple itch at the moment?

I moved my left arm over toward my right hand, cracking my knuckles as I covertly tried to soothe the itch by rubbing my arm slightly.

No go.

My thick sweater—thanks to Mother Nature's tomfuckery coming to an end—probably wasn't helping, either.

I tried the same thing with the opposite arm, but still nothing.

The itchy bugger wasn't giving up, feeling so stubborn I feared the only way to make it stop would be to stick my fingers inside my sweater, shirt and bra.

Which would probably not be a good idea. Considering I was in class and stuff.

Another non-help: I'd asked for a bathroom break ten minutes into class. There was no way Banner would settle for that excuse.

I slouched and wiggled on my stool, an effort to get my boob to graze against the counter and relieve me.

My attempt only succeeded in making things worse.

"Mr. Cullen!"

As if that name was somehow connected to the mechanics of my neck, my head snapped up from nipple-itch worries.

"I'm in the middle of a class, Mr. Cullen." Banner gestured toward us, mouth set in the universal displeased-teacher manner.

Standing halfway between the door and Banner's frumpy desk, Edward Cullen glanced from him to the class, smirking just a little.

I lost all sense of... sense.

All ability to breathe.

Or think.

Or pretty much do anything any normal human being would do.

"I know, but you said you wanted to talk to me, and I have free period right now so..." He shrugged his straight, sturdy-looking shoulders.

Somehow, I managed to continue functioning.

Breathing and seeing and controlling my filter and hearing the conversation happening in front of me and all that nifty stuff.

Hell if I actually knew how I did those things, though.

Because seeing Edward Cullen in that fucking hat had pretty much killed me flat dead, shoved me in an incinerator, and sprinkled my ashes from a plane.

I'd wanted it to be him. Now that I knew it was him, I could admit that to myself.

And maybe for more than convenience.

Maybe, I'd wanted it to be him so that he'd stand alone.

Be the only one to create such an attraction, draw, pull in me.

Whatever the reasons, I couldn't deny the force of want slamming into me from what felt like all sides, all avenues.

All corners of everywhere.

I blinked abruptly, haze falling from my eyes and ears tuning back in.

"No," Banner was saying, head shaking quickly. "That is not how it works."

Even from my distance, I could see Edward Cullen's eyebrows lift. "Really? But you said..."

"Mr. Cullen." The words were quietly sharp, and the person in question snapped his teeth together as his mouth closed. "We can continue this after school. In the middle of my class is not an appropriate place, I would think you'd know."

"I'm sorry I'm not appropriate," and was it just me or did that word definitely have laced tones in cahoots with the way his eyes shifted sideways to me, "but I've got—"

Banner cleared his throat, staring at him pointedly and apparently done with this, admittedly odd, conversation.

"Right." Edward Cullen turned, eyes moving over me as he did.

He smiled, stuck his hands in the pockets of dark jeans, and left the room without another word.

A strong part, a really really strong—Herculean, even—part of me wanted to hop off my uncomfortable stool and rush after him.

Maybe tackle him into a janitor's closet or a bathroom or just plain to the floor.

Of course, after that tackling, very dirty, naughty, delicious things would occur.

I squirmed on my seat, seeing it play out like a movie behind my eyes, but knowing I couldn't press play.

Not now, not here, not yet.

Dammit.

Now I had an itch that was much, much worse.

[~|~|~]

Decal was making out with a blond when I finally emerged from a living hell of horniness and got to the lunch room. I could only assume it was her Jazzermeister, being that I couldn't see his face.

I dropped my plate on the table, climbing over the bench to sit. I was one throat-clearing away from actually hacking up a lung when they finally separated to acknowledge me.

"Hi."

"Yeah, hi yourself, horoscope. You've got spit on your chin."

Horrified, she swiped at her chin with the back of her hand, glaring when she came up empty. "Not nice."

"Well neither is making out in front of me like two starved horndogs." I didn't care that I was whiney.

Okay, I didn't care that much.

"Jabberwocky, you've got lipstick all over your mouth."

"Nice tr—" His words stopped when his fingers met his lips and he felt what I could see.

Decal grinned. "Oops."

"Slob," he muttered, wiping his mouth on the wrist of his hoodie.

I noticed smudged ink-drawings on his palm with the action, and couldn't fight a smile.

Even though I tried.

Hard.

Aw fuck. Hard.

Double dammit.

I shoved my plate away and took to banging my head where it'd just been, instead.

"You seem busy. Maybe Pooky and I should leave you and the table alone."

"At the risk of wasting yet another happy snack time sitting in detention, I won't flip you off." I stared up at her from my arms. "But I am in my head. With both hands. Maybe my toes, too."

"Okay okay, sheesh. I won't do the Pooky thing again."

"Please don't," Jazz chimed in.

"You guys are such nitpicky buttlickers."

I opened my eyes again. "Pouting isn't gonna get you anywhere, Decal."

She sounded like a pig snuffling, the way she huffed indignantly. "I just can't win today."

"You can win later, alright?" I watched, sickened and intrigued and a little jealous as Jasper's fingers stroked across her chin, thumb brushing her cheek tenderly.

"You are such a sap," I grumbled.

"He's also horn to the New York."

There was silence between us, before both he and I finally got it.

Really, the lengths we went to in an effort to keep things relatively clean were ridiculous.

While usually always amusing, sometimes I just got annoyed with having a fucking code-term just for 'horny'.

"But I'm always that, sugar."

"My ears," I groaned dramatically. "I need bleach for them."

He tipped his blond brows at me. "You have to admit, sugar is an improvement over pooky."

"A minor one."

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."

"Don't spout your wise words to me, Yoda."

"Shut up. I like them," Decal interrupted, picking up a Funyun primly.

"Oh, by the way, did I tell you Edward Cullen is the owner of the hat?"

Alice froze comically, food halfway to her face and mouth wide open.

It was kinda mean, the way I took such pleasure in dropping bombs on her like this.

"Ooookay. I think that's my cue to ditch." Jasper slid up from the table, leaning over—hand on her neck—and kissing Alice's forehead. "I'll see you later, Cheech."

She was still sort of frozen, but made a noise that sounded like agreement.

"Tata, Jazzermeister." I waved, enjoying the way he bared his teeth and pretended to bite at me as he walked away.

I loved to piss that guy off. Mostly because he and Decal were amazing together, and annoying the shit out of him was my way of acknowledging that fact.

Or so I justified my fun of messing with him.

When I focused back on the situation at hand, my best friend had thawed.

And in the process seemed to have lost a couple of the bolts holding her brain together.

Her hands were flat on the tabletop, elbows bent and neck stretched toward me, eyes still just as wide and bulging out of their sockets as ever.

"Spill. Before I reach across this table and beat it out of you."

[~|~|~]

"Bella?" my dad called into the house, surprising me and blessedly interrupting the monotony of math homework. "I'm home."

"Hey, Dad, I'll be down in a sec!" I closed up all my homework, arranging it in the way I liked on my desk. Throwing on a t-shirt over my bra, I headed downstairs.

Dad was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table when I walked in.

Not usually ever a good sign.

He didn't waste time strolling around the bush. "I got a visit from Mrs. Cope today." He held up a paper. "She gave me this."

I strode over quickly, snatching it from him and scanning it. "She made a freaking excel sheet on my school failures?"

Detentions, mark-ups, warnings, any seen short-comings, notes from staff and Pea Greene. But had she put a single thing about any successes? About my good grades even in the three AP courses I was taking? About my not-too-shabby scores on SATs?

Of course not. Because where would the point be in that?

I wanted to grit my teeth, to curse and throw something. Preferably something breakable. "She needs a hobby!"

"Hey now, she was concerned about you when she came in."

"Knitting, or Jeopardy, or breeding Chihuahuas—"

"Bella."

"Or planting potatoes, or jam-making, or even getting a boyfriend in some nursing ho—"

"Isabella!"

I stopped my annoyed and frustrated rant at the sound of my full name. Exactly as my father had probably planned.

"Look at me."

I locked on to his eyes, so similar to my own., below severely un-tweezed brows. Which weren't similar to mine, obviously.

And I waited.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Do I look mad?"

My eyes stayed on his a moment longer, studying before moving on to check all the usual spots for signs of anger. No indication on his mouth, eyebrows, cheeks, body language, forehead, not even a nose crinkle.

He wasn't mad.

But I was definitely confused.

He got up from the chair, coming to stand in front of me. The smile on his face was light and easy, his thumb on my chin like I was five again.

"I'm proud of you, Tinker." Another memory from my childhood. A phase-love of anything Peter Pan related, and an emerging nickname – over the years shortened into easier formats. "Proud of your success, your grades, who you are, who you're becoming. And I'm not worried."

Flicking my chin, he winked and headed for the living room.

"Now, enough sappy syrup stuff. I'm in the mood for a burger and shake, you up for it?"

I swiped quickly at my teary eyes, enjoying the pure happy and love and thankful flowing throughout my system.

Smiling still, I slipped on my Converse near the front door, grabbing a jacket but forgoing my purse. Dad switched his cruiser keys for the pickup's, and we walked out.

Our steps halted on the few stairs, both of us watching Edward Cullen approach from around the side of the house, one hand in a pocket, head down.

And aiming straight for our front porch.

I noted glumly that he wasn't wearing his hat. Probably a good thing, since me salivating over him in front of my dad wouldn't be pleasant for anyone.

"Cullen? Edward Cullen?"

He stopped short, swallowing as he looked at my dad, towering over him some thanks to the porch steps. "Oh. Hi, Chief Swan."

"Can we help you with something?" Dad eyed him in that suspicious way he was rather attached to.

Edward Cullen shifted feet, not daring to break eye contact with the Chief of Police. "I was just coming by to invite Bella to a Christmas get-together at the Hales this Saturday."

I was miffed somehow, yet still amused. "I've already been invited, but thanks."

He glanced to me, finally, eyes lingering longer than usual for a glance. All my breath drifted out and away and gone as I caught his stare and held it.

His eyes were intense, forehead creased just slightly in what I could only label as worry. He made me feel open, vulnerable. Laid bare.

Like he could see me. See me.

And as if he knew I'd been crying, yet couldn't tell it'd been a good kind of crying.

So he wondered. And worried.

For me.

"Weren't we both invited?" Dad interrupted, two fingers smoothing his 'stache like he was a badass cop.

I rolled my eyes fondly, fighting the residual shiver from Edward Cullen's look a second ago.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure Mr. Daniel invited you, too."

My gaze roamed back to Edward Cullen at the small sound I'd heard from him. A sigh, maybe?

"I thought so." Dad's fingers left his facial hair in favor of the belt on his uniform. "Think I'll go too."

"Sounds good, Dad."

He gave me a look at the placating tone of my voice. "Watch it."

My mouth grinned on its own. "Are we gonna go or what?"

"Going to dinner?" Edward Cullen piped up.

Dad snapped back to him, apparently having forgotten he was there.

Despite the way his words had sounded, my gut told me he hadn't been fishing for an invite to tag along.

Who in their right mind would want to, anyway?

"Yeah."

"We're going to Mo and Curly's," I added to my father's grudging and guarded answer.

"Ah. Well, have fun." He smiled easily, nerves seeming to evaporate before my eyes. "Chief Swan." He gave a small wave to him. "Bella," a head nod and flex of his eyebrows for me, "see you around."

I didn't miss the deliberate distinction, mentally crossing everything that my dad had failed to catch it.

The goodbyes said, Edward Cullen turned and retraced his steps.

My eyes involuntarily ogled his ass while he did.

When he'd disappeared out of view, Dad and I ambled toward the pickup and climbed in our separate sides. His hand paused as he reached to put the key in the ignition; I could practically feel the debate over how best to word what he wanted to say.

"How well do you know that Cullen kid?"

"Not well." But if I could actually draw, I'd be able to draw him naked. From memory.

"You don't talk to him at school?"

"Not really. We run in different circles."

"What about—"

"Daaaaad," I mock-groaned, letting my head fall back on the seat. I tilted my face and looked over at him, smile betraying the teasing of my words. "Why the interrogation? Before I've even had any ice cream?"

"Fine," he muttered, finally starting the truck. "But don't think this is dropped."

"Never."

"Oh, shut up."

A/N: I've started giving mini-teasers in review replies. Or you can PM me. Or stalk me on Twittah. Or smoke signal me. Whatever works for you, loveliness.