The Beautiful and the Damned
Notes: This is au after Breaking Dawn and is wildly imaginative about pre series canon.
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She's sitting on the swings the first time he meets her, long golden hair falling over her face. The seat is still. Her long fingers are wound around the ropes that hold it up, ivy wrought from steel and the first thing he sees is her ankles, slim and long, with a pair of broken heels dangling off the end like a glass slipper that didn't quite fall off.
"Hello," he whispers. Soft- he doesn't want to scare her. He can see the muscles in her shoulders and they're wound tight like she's waiting to bolt and he's trying to keep out of her mind- give her room.
The girl looks up and he's blind- blind.
His eyes graze of the sharp line of her jaw, skate over the hard, pure ivory of her skin and slowly find her eyes. Deep, deep red. Blood shot red.
And he, the vampire of years past steps back.
There is more than just blood in her eyes- there is fire. Fire and she is ice. She smiles, a curious twist of her perfect mouth and she looks like she could go up in flames any moment and take him down with her.
He's blind. She looks like the sun just stepped down to the ground and poured itself into his home and when she walks towards him, he half expects flowers to sprout beneath her feet.
(the other half expects the grass to burn and wither. And die. Neither happens and he pretends he's not disspaointed.)
She flicks her wrist to one side, straightening the skirt of her bridal gown. The lace spills down, frothing charmingly and he hides a grimace when it covers up the lovely length of her legs. Her eyes dart upwards, sharp, quick and he wonders if she's the one who can read minds.
"Hello"- her voice is like music, like nightingales and opera singers, "My name's Rosalie."
She's cool- confident. Expectant.
"Enchanted to meet you." He brushes his mouth over her hand and Rosalie arches an eyebrow.
He levels his gaze to her eyes again, not stepping back this time. Game meets game and he gives her his best crooked smile.
(and just a little piece of his soul.)
"Madame"- Edward proffers his arm- "May I escort you to dinner?"
She lays a hand on the sleeve of his coat and her touch is light, tantalizing. Her hair falls forward, brushing against his skin.
Edward grits his teeth.
She isn't just made of fire- she fights with it, too.
***
She's been a vampire for three years when she decides to leave.
Her bags aren't packed. There are clothes strewn all over the bedroom, hanging off the curtains and the lamps. She moves across the marble floors like a woman possessed, silk and satin trailing on the floor behind her.
Carlisle throws his hands in the air. There is nothing he can do to stop her. She's made up her mind, booked a stage coach to the border and a ship to London and she's leaving tonight.
Edwards leans against the doorframe, cravat undone and his coat is on the chair in the next room.
"Leaving so soon?" His voice is silky. They never slid into any sort of familiarity and probably never will. The lines around her mouth are stiff when she nods at him, not feeling the need to explain herself. She's wrestling with a gown, one that boasts of a voluminous skirt and strives to stuff into a bandbox.
There are few things that Edward does as well as indifference. He raises an eyebrow, reaches into his waistcoat for a pocket watch and plays it all well with his nose tipped to the sky in a fair imitation of the blonde's trade mark hauteur.
Rosalie's glare could bring down mountains- "If you aren't going to help, then leave." Her voice is like ice, eyes still fire and she moves to push past him, skirts swept up in one hand.
Edward catches her wrist.
She turns stone under his touch but this man's a mind reader and his brain can smell her arousal.
"Unhand me." It's said silkily enough, but her chest heaves- she's must human when she's flustered.
He releases her, leaning forward to block her passage. "Lady Bloomingdale's ball is tonight," he notes, lightly, finger grazing the lacy neckline of her gown.
Rosalie holds his stare. The finger drops.
"Stay."
And she does.
***
They don't dance together.
Rose's skirts spin across the floor and each man that holds her, feels like he's floating. Edward doesn't even glance her way. He stands in the corner, forehead stormy and a glass of sherry in one hand. She knows he isn't reading her thoughts but those of her partners, reading his hand as it skates across her waist and this is it- she wins.
Rosalie has a habit of doing that.
The music stops and she still spins, skirts flying out around her and she stops before him. Bows her head down low and offers him her hand.
The ballroom is still. Were it a woman other than Rosalie Hale, la belle Rosalie- it would be a scandal.
Edward takes her hand and leads her out to the dance.
It is Rosalie- she makes no mistake. And she always, always wins.
His arm is fast around her waist and they twirl faster and faster and they are almost alone.
Before the clock strikes midnight, they will leave. Edward will spill his scotch on her skirt, she will be angry and the carriage will crash and Emmet will appear.
But they don't know this yet, they don't know Alice yet.
So they spin. His eyes are fixed to hers and the world is still while they dance- and in his arms? She remembers.
She remembers what it was like to be drunk on speed and life.
And maybe even love.