Title: His Rosie
Summary: Tired of being underappreciated and overlooked, Rosalie is ready to walk away from her friendship with Emmett: until she hears some weird groaning coming from her shower that is! Who knew a ruined orgasm could lead to a real-life happy ending?
Pairing: Rosalie Emmett
Rating: M
Prompt used: The One with the Nap Partners
Word count: 3344
Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.
I don't know why I put up with this, I think as I hurry my way down the stairs. I wrench the door open and am greeted by an all too familiar sight: drunk Em.
"Emmett," is all I say as a hello. Reeking of bar, spilled beer, and stale cigarette smoke, my best friend—well, at least he used to be my best friend—is leaning against the banister on the porch of my little two-story cottage house. As of late, Emmett is just a guy I know who dates floozies and shows up drunk on my stoop only to end up sleeping it off in my guest room and oftentimes in my bed as the big spoon. We barely speak anymore, and when we do he's either sloshed or hungover. The saddest part of this shitty friendship is that I've been in love with him since junior year of high school. Now with college graduation just last month, I've slipped from a silly unrequited love to a more tragic spinster in the making.
He raises his head, squinty, bloodshot eyes begging entrance into my house. "Rose, please. It's the last time. Promise." His version of "the last time" and mine differ greatly. I've heard that promise twice this month already.
Stepping aside, I let the door swing open. Emmett at least has the grace to look embarrassed. He grunts a quiet thanks as he shuffles into my house.
"You go on up. I'll be right behind you with something to help you feel better," I say as sharply as I can. Even with years of practice, I know it comes off too sweet and a lot defeated, kind of drifting off at the end. This exact scenario has been happening for two and a half years now. Emmett goes out with some random girl, hooks up or whatever, then shows up shitfaced at my house. I don't know why he doesn't go to their place-or his, for that matter. All I know is he ends up cabbing it over to my house when he's done.
Grabbing a couple Flintstones vitamins, two Advil Liqui-gels, and a glass of water, I head back up the stairs. I always check the guest room first, but I know chances are he's already in my bed. As usual, he's under my covers across the hall.
Without any pause I shove my hand forward and pass him the chewables and Advil. "Here," I say as I hold the glass out toward him. He's known my hangover remedy for years. I don't know why he comes here to torture me like this when he could do this for himself.
"Rose, you take such good care of me. This is why I love you so much." Twist the dagger, Mr. Drunk Dimples.
"Right." With a humorless chuckle I slide in next to him. I know he's going to grab me, position my body just how he likes, then fall asleep snoring in my ear. I can hold back my tears until the snores start. Almost always.
My body is programmed-I've never been able to sleep past seven o'clock. So I slink out of bed and slip a pillow under Emmett's arm in my place. I sulk down the stairs to blend up hangover remedy part two, Rosalie's famous banana honey milkshake: one banana, a generous drizzle of honey, splash of milk, and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. As the blender whirs, I let my thoughts drift to what it would be like to send him packing. Make this the real last time. He takes advantage of me, clearly disregards my feelings. This friendship blows. But just like always, those thoughts float away and are quickly replaced with fantasies of what it would be like for him to bound down the stairs, sweep me into his arms, kiss me, declare his unending love. He'd carry me back up the stairs, make love to me for the first time, and we'd live happily ever after.
Stupid virgin brain. Even I can't believe I'm still dreaming of losing it to my best friend while he sluts around all over town. Pathetic. And now I'm back to scenario one: send him packing.
With a glass full of frozen blended hangover cure, I stomp back up the stairs with purpose. In my mind I'm practicing my speech. This is your last milkshake, douche nozzle!
At the top of the stairs I hear the shower running. Just as I'm about to turn back down the stairs I hear my name. Just sort of softly groaning.
Grumbling under my breath, "So help me, God, if he's barfing in there he can clean up his own puke sauna." It's the second time that I hear my name that makes me actually worry, because he doesn't just say Rose, it's more like a moaning uhhhhhh, Rose. If he's feeling that bad he might pass out or something. Maybe the water's too hot and he's dizzy and needs help.
Whatever, I'll just crack the door and poke my head in to make sure. What happens next could only be described as a clusterfuck. Once the door is open, the sounds are much more clearly moaning and groaning. It's just chorus of "uh, Rose" and "oh, Rosie," and before I fully grasp what's actually happening I open my big dumb mouth and say, "Emmett?" like a fucking question. The next thing out of his mouth is a string of "shitfuck" and other unholy curse combinations, all highlighted by a squeaky shower floor sound that ends with him falling down with the shower curtain and the shower rod on top of him.
This is the worst. I'm just...just mortified. This is unreal. Nothing is worse than this moment. At least that's what I think until I look down to see Emmett getting up to his feet, then towering over me, his face full of hate. Angry blue eyes and his voice-colder than I've ever heard-saying one word: "Out."
That is the worst.
I toss the ridiculous milkshake in the bathroom sink, glass shattering. I don't bother closing the door. I fly down the stairs with blurry eyes.
I don't think I've ever been more embarrassed in my life. Looking around my little kitchen, all of my anger is focused on the banana peel and bear-shaped bottle of honey. I have half a mind to put the peel down the sink and run the garbage disposal until I feel better, but it would probably just clog the pipe so I just throw it in the trash and put the honey back in the cabinet with my coffee mugs.
Grabbing my favorite mug, I get my Keurig going. I could easily just brew a regular pot, but I don't want to extend an invitation via coffee. He needs to leave, not that he'd likely want to stay after the shower fiasco anyway.
I need to suck up these tears and get a hold of myself. Just as I sniffle and swipe under my eye I hear Em clear his throat. Here we go.
"Um, hey. I got the shower curtain back up." No eye contact, some blushing. He's in last night's bar clothes, and I can see the top of his underwear poking out of his jeans pocket. Okay then, time to wrap this up.
"All right, thank you. I think we're done here, Emmett."
Finally, he's looking at me. In disbelief. "What do you mean, 'we're done here'? What the fuck, Rosie?"
Now, I'm the one in disbelief. All I can do is stare. For one thing, why is this a surprise? He should be wanting to high-tail it out of here. For another, where does he get off calling me Rosie? Well actually, he gets off in my shower apparently. And with that thought, I lose it. I'm giggling and then cackling like a crazy person, then finally I settle on crying. I'm literally sobbing.
Gracelessly, I flop into one of my mismatched kitchen chairs and whisper, "Please, leave."
He's at my feet faster than I can blink. Kneeling in front of me. If I didn't know him better, I'd think he was about to beg.
"Oh, God. Rosalie, please! I'm sorry, I'd never disrespect you like that. Use you that way. I mean, I did, but I won't. I know you're better than that. Fuck. Please."
He's begging. Really and truly begging.
"What exactly are you sorry about?" I ask, looking down into his misty eyes. "Are you sorry for showing up on my doorstep smelling like some other woman's perfume only to climb into my bed every weekend for the past two years? Are you sorry for fucking some girl, then holding me the rest of the night? Are you sorry for expecting me to doctor you up after getting lit with someone else at the pub? What precisely are you begging forgiveness for here, because I'm not sure what it is? Surely, after the amount of using you've done, you're not just sorry for thinking of me while you touched yourself."
I take a break from my snot-filled rant to actually notice him still kneeling at my feet. He looks pale and also pretty ashamed. At that realization, I dig just a little deeper. "You must be so embarrassed, getting caught thinking of me like that," I spit hatefully.
I'm having an out-of-body experience. I can hear these sarcastic words coming out of my mouth, but I've never heard myself sound so cruel until now. Like I'm setting out to hurt him. This isn't me. I don't do this. I don't hurt people, least of all Emmett. I know I'll regret this later, but if I'm being completely honest, it feels good to get this out. And in a truly sick way, it feels almost good to watch him hurt. What difference does it make now? I don't see a way to come back from this.
He clears his throat and rocks back to rest his bottom on his heels. "Jesus, Rose." Then he has the nerve to let tears roll down his face and onto my kitchen floor.
"I know it doesn't matter, but I haven't been with anyone in over a year. You should know that. I mean, I want you to know that."
"Whatever, Emmett," is all I can think to say to his stupid teary-eyed confession. "I don't even know what to do with that. I think you should go. I'll talk to you after a while, all right?" I just want him to be not here. Not in my house. Not on his knees in front of me.
"Rose, I don't even know where to start, but I'm not letting you kick me out."
I'm stunned-I mean Emmett's always been a bear of a guy, completely headstrong and stubborn, but with me he's sort of a pushover. Well, at least he used to be.
"I don't sleep with those women. I haven't in a long time. I'm not doing other stuff either. I don't want you to think that I'm just doing 'everything but,'" he blurts out.
Why the fuck is he still on the floor?
"Why the fuck are you still on the floor? Get up. Sit in a chair." Who knew an ordered invitation to sit in a wobbly kitchen chair could inspire such hope in a man's eyes?
"The last time I slept with someone I said your name."
"What? You can't just tell me that! People can't just tell people stuff like that! What the hell, Emmett? What the actual hell?" My voice is getting higher and higher. It would almost be comical if it were someone else being shrill and shouty.
"Um, anyway, that happened and I stopped messing around. I just didn't think it was fair."
"Fair? You didn't think what was fair? And to whom? I don't know what the fuck you're even talking about! You've been slutty, Emmett. There, I said it. You turned into a slut. The man I fell in love with would never have acted like that."
Oh no. Oh, my God. Time has now slowed down and I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears. Is it possible to burning up and freezing at the same time? I can feel my skin prickle with sweat and I'm on the verge of shivers. Oh, God. Maybe he'll think I meant that when I fall in love, the man that I fall in love with wouldn't act that way. Nope. He's not going to think that. He's not. Shit. Shitfuck.
I don't think I'm brave enough to lift my head. I'm going to sit here in this chair until he leaves or I die of natural causes.
"Rose?" If I had never heard that inflection, I wouldn't have believed that you could really hear awe. That you'd know someone was awestruck just by their voice. But that is the sound.
"Rosie, I love you. I'm in love with you. I have been. For a while. And being with those other women, it wasn't fair to you. And it wasn't fair to me either. It was a waste. I've been avoiding this, talking to you about it because I was scared. I've been going out and then coming here, so that I could be with you without really starting this, because the thought of it not working is too scary. I'm still scared. You're so much better than this. Than what I can give you. I mean, you deserve everything."
When I finally lift my eyes to meet his, I can tell it's going to be better. We can be better. I know it's not going to be fine today, but we'll be better. I can hardly believe this is real. All the time we wasted! If either of us would have or could have been just a bit more brave, but I can't regret that because now this is really happening. Oh, my God! This is happening. He loves me! My only regret right now is that I wasn't watching him say all that. I could have been looking into his eyes while he said that. Shoot.
With just that tiny moment of disappointment, he must see something in my expression because his face falls. His face falls so fast, but he quickly covers it back with a small smile.
"It's okay. I loved you as a friend first, Rose. It's fine, truly. I'll be a good friend to you. Promise. You'll see. I swear, I'll just lock this up. It's going to be fine."
Who is he trying to convince at this point? And he's going to lock it up? Really? Lock it up? With a little laugh, I grin and shake my head.
"Oh, Em. I love you, too. I'm in love with you, too. I always have been. Always."
Emmett's back on the floor faster than I can believe. Just sitting there staring at me. His pretty eyes are bouncing between my eyes and my hands. I'm guessing he wants to hold hands, so when I put my hands palm up on my knees his hands shoot out like lightning. And the only sound that's left in the house is his shaky exhale.
"Can we be together? Can we try to be together?" He sounds desperate, like he doesn't have any hope left. It's sad, but sweet too. It's sweet that he's not assuming.
"We are. We're together. Starting now. Okay? Is that okay?" I can feel myself unraveling. I'm going to start crying again, I just know it.
"Oh, my God, Rosie. Of course it's okay. Yes, we're together. Starting now. You're mine, I'm yours. I swear I'll be so good to you, Rose. I'll be everything for you, anything you need. I'll be it."
Emmett's always been a bit of a rambler, but this sort of rambling is what I can get on board with. I don't want to get smug, but I'm feeling pretty boss right now. Hot guy at my feet, obviously hopelessly in love with me, begging to fulfill my every want and need. Yep, this is what winning feels like.
"Rosie, I've never been in a real relationship. I mean, I know you know that, but I need to make sure you know it. I'm going to mess up. I guess I sort of already have. Nothing matters to me like you do, though. You're my best friend, you know?"
"You're my best friend, too. We'll learn how to be together. We'll figure it out together. But it starts with you getting up off the floor. This is a good look for you, don't get me wrong. I love seeing you on your knees."
It takes a half a beat for me to realize the double entendre. "I didn't mean it like that." I'm a beet. I don't normally blush, but I'm sweating from the heat of my blush. As my verbal blather continues, he rises back off the floor and onto the wobbly chair again.
"Whatever, you know what I meant. And that's another thing, there's going to be plenty of times when, well when, um. Emmett did you know that I've never been with anyone?" There, that went well. So smooth, Rosalie.
"Yeah, I know you've never been serious, but you've dated and stuff. But like you said, we'll learn together." There's the dimples that I adore. So precious, so devious. I'm not sure if he's playing coy, or if he is, in fact, unaware of my lack of experience.
"Right, I've dated." Clipped and to the point. Yes, it's a fact. I have dated.
"Emmett, I'm trying to tell you, well, I'm trying to say...um. Wow, this is so embarrassing. No, scratch that. Not embarrassing, it's difficult to say." He's clueless. Definitely not playing coy. He's worried and starting to look more and more nervous.
I'm not a rambler, so I can see why he would start freaking out.
"I'm a virgin." There, done.
"All right," Emmett's a little lost for words, I'm guessing. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if there were actual crickets at any moment.
Finally he shifts in the creaky chair, clears his throat. "We should go back upstairs."
My eyes are saucers. Big blue saucers. Is he propositioning me?
"For fuck sake, Rosie. To talk! Don't look at me like I'm some creeper. I'm going to be your lover someday, but I'm not trying to defile you. Fuck. We need to talk, set ground rules, boundaries and shit. Shit. I could live forever without having you look at me like that again."
His little rant started out pretty terse, but there at the end he sounds like he's holding in a laugh. So when I giggle, he does too. Cute. Cute and mine.
"Come on, Casanova, let's go snuggle and make rules."
He leads me up the stairs holding hands. Almost at the top I say, "Rule number one, no more calling me Rosie. Where did that come from?"
It only takes us a couple weeks for Emmett to become my lover. That first time, in my bed with him over me and pushing inside me, he is so gentle, but so big and strong at the same time. Seeing him look vulnerable as he becomes my one and only lover is the best moment. Ever. I won't ever forget that look. Or the sounds.
Yeah, Emmett's kind of a sex god. And by kind of, I mean he is one.
The past few months have been one long learning experience. Learning how to be in a relationship, how to be a lover in bed and out of bed. We've made rules, we've followed rules, and we've broken rules too. And as it turns out, rule number one got nixed pretty quick. It's what he says. What he calls me.
When your best friend, your everything, says your name that way, guttural and raspy, full of love and want, you let him say it any way he wants. When he's loving me, I'm his Rosie.
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