a/n Welcome to "Firsts," a love story told in one shots consisting of various first for Renesmee. This is the tale of their first fight as told from her eyes. Her very angry eyes… Enjoy!

If swearing offends you, don't read. Otherwise, trek on!

Disclaimer: If I were Stephanie Meyer, would I be here? Probably not…

FIGHT

The living room was in shambles. There were books scattered, pillows in all places, even shiny glass shavings, all that was left of a vase after very powerful throw by a very powerful woman. A magazine rack had toppled onto its side, causing issues of Cosmo and Car and Driver to tumble over the woven rug that had been a wedding present. A chair was knocked over, its cushion coming slightly loose.

In the middle of all this chaos, on the luxurious sofa from Ikea, sat a portrait of a beautiful rage. When her temper flared, so did her cheeks, and they were flooded at the moment with a beautiful pink. The tips of her delicate ears matched her cheeks, and her eyes, like molten dark chocolate, echoed the hard set of her jaw.

The sounds of metal abusing metal reached her ears, and she glared toward the kitchen, in the general direction of the attached garage. She heard a grunt of effort, following the sound of something large and metal falling on the ground.

He must have finally gotten the rusted engine out of the Shelby he was working on.

Let him work. She'd had about enough of him for the moment, as it was.

One Hour Before

Renesmee Cullen Black, aged eight years, sat calmly, sipping at her wine, on the couch in her living room. She was imposingly dressed—black skinny jeans, purple top, black Steve Madden shoes, and diamonds from Tiffany's glittering from her ears. Her makeup was flawless, and her hair had been poofed up slightly, making it more voluminous than usual. Her legs were crossed, and her delicate, elegant finger tapped against the rim of the glass a few slow times.

It was her eyes that gave her away. They were set slightly wider than usual, and they did not blink. They glared, like knives.

Across from her stood her opponent, Jacob Black—successful shop manager, husband, friend, and, currently, drunk and two hours late for dinner.

The dinner that she had spent two hours preparing, after receiving a text from him that he was having a horrible day. The dinner that she had ruined a pair of her favorite Baby Phat jeans making. The one she'd burned her fingers on. She'd received one text from him, over two hours before, when he was leaving for work.

Fifteen minutes late. Sry.

Fifteen minutes wasn't bad. She would have forgiven fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes had rolled into thirty, into sixty, and she'd cracked open the wine and fixed herself a plate.

At an hour and a half, she put away dinner, changed clothes, and gone to the living room with the now almost-empty wine bottle.

A little after two hours, the familiar sound of Jacob's Camero pulling into the drive met her ears, and she gritted her teeth, took a deep breath, and refilled her glass with the rest of the Chardonnay.

The car shut off, and there was a pause before the door opened. She heard him tumble onto the gravel, groan quietly, and get to his feet before shutting the car door and slowly staggering inside.

The bastard wasn't only late, he was drunk.

That was what had led up to this moment, and he stood before her, grungy from his day at work, smelling of aftershave, oil, Jack Daniels, and Jacob.

She didn't speak for a solid minute, waiting for him to explain himself. Instead, it was silent, and he stood with his arms crossed, looking quite intently, it seemed, at the Kaufman over her shoulder.

When he'd had ample time to apologize or explain himself or just to state where he had been, she decided his time was up, and she was on.

Her voice was soft, almost gentle, but for the underlying simmer of anger. "Do you know why I'm upset right now?" she asked.

His eyes didn't move from the Kaufman. "I'm late."

"By two hours." She sipped her wine. "I made you dinner."

"Sorry." Still, his eyes were elsewhere. Probably not at the Kaufman, but still, elsewhere.

"Sorry you missed the dinner I spent two hours preparing for you?" Her eyes glinted, further betraying her rage. "Or sorry about the fact that my new jeans are ruined? Or that I burned my fingers on the oven?"

Everything up to now could be expected, and was just man behavior. What he said next was his first real mistake in the altercation.

"It's not like they didn't heal thirty seconds later," he said, shrugging slightly.

She moved too fast for anyone's eyes but his, and it was lucky for him, because he had just enough time to dodge the crystal vase that she threw at his head.

One second, demure with an undercurrent of anger.

The next, a fiery angel of rage, standing feet spread and fuming, her hand still in the air after her throw.

"That's not the point!" she shrieked, and he winced. Finally, a reaction. "How about, 'Sorry I didn't call?'" She reached for the nearest thing to throw at him—a throw pillow.

He caught it, and made his second mistake—he threw it back.

The scream that ripped through her lips, and she threw it at him, harder than it should have been possible to throw a pillow.

"Tell me where you've been, then that's so important," she sneered, throwing her hands out to her sides.

His eyes finally focused on her. He was angry. "I've been at a bar," he yelled back, throwing his hands out and mimicking her posture. "I went for a couple of drinks—"

"And stayed for a couple of hours?" She threw her head back and laughed maniacally, looking like some enraged goddess. "Too busy to call your wife and say, 'Hey, baby, I'm going to be a little late.' How hard is that?" She laughed again, more bitterly this time. "I'm so glad I rank so high on your priority list."

That hit a nerve. "You are the top of my priority list!" he bellowed. "Don't you even want to know what I was doing there?"

"Oh, I have a good sense of smell," she bit out. "I think I can tell."

"I went because I had a shitty day, and just wanted to unwind a little." He laughed, and it was a bitter, cynical sound she wasn't familiar with. "Marty comes in this morning and tells me he's going to quit in two weeks, so he can go back to school. Ingrid was sick and came in anyway, and I had to send her home because she was sneezing all over the invoices and grossing out the customers. So then I got to do her job and mine, all while trying to get together some resumes to look at so I can hire someone. And on top of that, I had to fire Rudy after he fucked up his sixth oil change and cut a coolant hose, which I had to explain to the owner, and I had to pay for. So now, I have to hire two guys. I had a rough day, and I went out for a few drinks, not knowing that my wife had such huge dinner plans, because she didn't say anything to me."

Perhaps he thought this would forgive him.

Instead, she threw the empty wine bottle, which he ducked. "And it would have taken you one minute to call me!" Frustrated, she kicked over the wooden magazine rack. "And I've told you ten times, if you're going to take your stupid magazines to work so I can actually have more than two magazines in there, then take them to work, or I'm throwing them away!" She proceeded to kick magazines everywhere, and Car and Driver exploded all over the living room.

"You're fucking crazy!" he yelled. "They're fucking magazines!"

"Exactly!" She kicked again, and a few more magazines scattered. "They take up fucking room! And they're your fucking magazines, so you need to fucking take them!"

Jacob stared at her for a minute before turning and stalking out of the living room, toward the garage.

"Don't you walk away from me!" she screamed, reaching toward the bookshelf and grabbing a few Dean Koontz books to throw at him.

"I'm not talking to you until you cool down," he yelled over his shoulder, and the next sound was the slamming of the door to the garage.

She hissed at his retreating back, tempted to follow, but not willing to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, she sat back down, fuming.

It had been an hour since their first fight as a married couple. Their first real fight, actually. They'd bickered and argued a little in the past, but nothing that lasted more than ten minutes.

It was also the first time he hadn't apologized for upsetting her.

She could positively murder him right now.

There was another loud clunk in the garage, but this one was different.

"Shit!" She could hear the pounding of his feet as he jumped up and down. "God damn it! Fuck!"

He was hurt.

Her anger forgotten, Renesmee shot out to the garage.

His hand was bleeding all over the floor, and she reached for a towel from a shelf and immediately began wrapping his hand.

"Caught it on a screw driver," he said, hissing in pain. "Fuck that hurt."

She pressed the towel down tightly for a minute before pulling it away. She cradled his hand gently, blowing on the already scabbing skin. "Better?"

He nodded, and she could feel his eyes on her.

"I'm sorry you burned your hand," he said quietly. "And I'm sorry I didn't call."

Renesmee felt the tips of her ears turn red again, this time with remorse. "I'm sorry I threw a vase at your head."

"That's okay," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I hated that vase."

"I know you did." She smiled, looking up at him for the first time since their fight. "That's why I threw that one and not the one from Sam and Emily."

He laughed, but then sobered immediately. "I'm sorry I missed dinner."

She shrugged, looking away. "It's okay."

Strong arms wrapped around her, lifting her up off her feet. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he held her, swaying back and forth slightly.

"Love you," he whispered against her hair. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too." She smiled. "Both." She pulled her head back slightly so she could see his face. "You want me to heat up some leftovers?"

"Later," he said, grinning. Letting go of her with one hand and holding on with the other, he closed up the hood of the Shelby, then turned to lay her on top. "We just had our first fight."

"Yeah?" She grinned up at him. "So, what?"

"So, we have to have make-up sex." Leaning down, he trailed his lips up her neck. "It's very important."

She moaned when his hands slid under her shirt and upward. "Very important," she agreed. "Very, very important."

a/n Hope you enjoyed! Not sure what the next first will be yet—I have several ideas for them, just have to pick one. Feel free to volunteer ideas!