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The Joys of Fanfiction

Summary:
Emmett discovers fanfiction, much to Edward's annoyance. Need I say more? Jasper's POV.


Notes:
Stephenie Meyer owns all that you recognize in the story that follows! No copyright infringement is intended.


4. Showtime, Sucker

Rating 5/5   Word Count 1020   Review this Chapter

"All right, soldiers . . . thespians . . . actors . . . whatever you want to call yourselves. This is our last run-through before showtime, aka Emmett's Armageddon. Three . . . two . . . one . . . action!" I waved my script, ingeniously titled "Script," enthusiastically before standing up to join my fellow conspirators.

A few minutes later . . .

I clapped my hands in approval. "All right. Cut. Very good, everyone." A satisfied smile tugged at the corners of my lips. If that rehearsal was any indicator, we would all get our revenge on Emmett . . . and it would be good. I was so joyful, so ecstatic, that I could sing.

And so I did.

"Let's get down to business to defeat the Huns!

Did they send me daughters when I asked for sons. . ?

You're not suited for the rage of war, so pack up, go home, you're through!

How could I make a man out of you?"

I have a lovely singing voice. Really, I do. In fact, in my days back in the army, I was heralded by my regiment as possessing the best rendition of Dixie that they'd ever heard.

Rosalie had told me that they'd just said that in order to keep me happy; in order to, to use the modern phrase, "suck up to me."

Hogwash.

And just so that we're clear, Mulan is not a girly movie.

Alice got up from her canine crouch on the floor--she had been still frozen in her final position in her choreography for the Plan--and rolled her eyes expressively at me. It was difficult to see her expression from beneath the chocolate-brown fur covering her face, but not impossible. It was uncanny, how much she looked like Rosalie at that moment. Even with the fur.

"You know, Jasper, love, that song is moderately sexist," she said sweetly. "Why you would need to be a man to be a good fighter is not something that I really fully understand . . ." she moved, in a tiny, almost imperceptible step, towards me. I gulped. Her voice was sweet in the way that poisoned apples are sweet.

"I didn't mean that, honey, you know that!" But it was too late. I could sense real irritation beneath all the . . . fur. She let out a guttural snarl and tackled me. I fell to the floor, curly platinum-blond wig and all, with a resounding crash.

"I'll--" she punched me squarely in the gut to keep me on the ground--"show you--" she straddled my stomach and pinned my arms down--"the meaning of FIGHTER!" Her fingers curled into minuscule claws and she lifted them above her head, laughing maniacally. And then she went in for the kill.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I screamed. "NOT--" I gasped--"my TICKLISH spot!" If I had the ability, I would have been crying. I howled in pain. "Everyone, HELP ME!" I screeched. It was becoming unbearable.

Strangely enough, not one of my other cohorts moved from their positions to extend me a helping hand. Rosalie's shoulders were shaking, and for some reason I suspected that it was not grief or sympathy that moved her. Edward was reclining on the couch, fully costumed, his (very prettily shadowed and mascara-ed) eyes closed and his teeth bared in a . . . could it be? Vindictive-looking smile. Bella just shook her head.

It was almost as if they enjoyed seeing their commander suffering.

How odd.

Alice froze mid-tickle, her eyes distant, faraway. I recognized the symptoms of a vision. Suddenly, she leapt to her feet, releasing me from her grasp. I remained on the ground, moaning in relief.

“They’ll be here in—“

“Three minutes,” Edward finished. Rosalie scowled.

“Do I even have to say it?”

Alice ignored them. “So, everyone—you, too, Jasper,” she said sharply, giving me a swift kick in the side, “let’s all go back to our opening positions.” I sighed and rose to my feet, stretching out my various limbs, checking for injuries. Thankfully, I seemed to be relatively unscathed, although my wig was slightly rumpled and frizzy from its contact with the linoleum. I roughly jammed it back on my head. Emmett would just have to deal with it. He liked all blonds, right? And if not, a wave of lust ought to do the trick . . . oops; I'm revealing my part in the Plan. Just forget that I said that.

And so we all scattered throughout different parts of the house, ready to ambush Emmett at the first sign of weakness. I hid behind a potted plant in the upstairs hallway (the wig was rather bulky, granted, but I made it fit); Bella scurried into the kitchen; Rosalie staked out the staircase; Alice hid herself in the coat closet; and, for the coup de grace, Princess Edward planted himself in the backyard, in the center of the spot that Emmett liked to call his "wrestling ring."

I could barely contain my excitement. "Everyone," I whispered (I knew that all of them, with the exception of Bella, would be able to hear me)," you have all the lines down pat, right? We can't afford to make mistakes. . . ." Edward sighed. Rosalie snarled. Alice yawned. And Bella muttered,

"This stupid get-up is really itchy."

I tried again. "You're all ready, right?" I spoke slightly louder. There was a grumbling affirmative. I frowned. "Show some enthusiasm, everyone! Focus!" I was getting worked up; directing was fun. "Let's do a group trust exercise, okay? We have the time! Feel the positive ener--"

"SHUT UP!" My siblings and my wife screeched as one voice. Their aggravation was suffocating me. Downstairs, Bella readjusted her maternity gown, scratching her back in a most irritated manner.

"Fine." What babies they were.

“They’re here!” Alice squealed. I tensed. Showtime, sucker.

The front door creaked open. I recognized Carlisle and Esme’s muted voices. “Come on . . . let’s get the rosebushes to the backyard . . .”

Good. All was going according to plan, then.

CRASH. Slam. CRASH.Squeak. I heard the distinctive sounds of a jeep's door being slammed shut and of a gargantuan, caveman-ish, rubber-booted stride.

Woo-hoo. Emmett had arrived.