Memories and Sidelong Glances, So Cliche it Hurts

by xmiracle-milex

Years later, they battle for their twisted hate, just like they used to battle for their mockery of love. Edward/Rosalie, Emmett/Rosalie, Edward/Bella

Title: Memories and Sidelong Glances, So Cliche it Hurts

Summary: Years later, they battle for their twisted hate, just as they used to battle for their mockery of love.

Originally written for twilightficmix

1/10 - 9 Crimes, Damien Rice

Pairing(s): Edward/Rosalie, Emmett/Rosalie, Edward/Bella

Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I do

She feels sick every time she sees his face. Her mind screams that it's wrong to think such things, but her body unconcsiously disregards the lack of space between them, pulling her closer to him until she drags herself away with such intense, invisible force that she's sure someone must have noticed something. But it's not something that she can escape from so easily, for even when he's not there she still sees him. It makes no difference closing her eyes, he just smiles out at her, in his usual infuriating way, taunting her from behind his perfect barriers of intangibility and her mind's own insanity. She can't hit him, more's the pity, so there's usually shards of wood or plaster on the floor in their room when Emmett returns. She's amazed he hasn't realised yet. It makes her stomach twist to think of. She knows it's wrong, that's the worst of it, she knows she should rather die than do this, but there's no way of stopping it. This is not the way she is.

It's the wrong kind of place
To be thinking of you

Emmett twines his arms round her waist and kisses the back of her neck. She tries to shrug him off, stop the thoughts that are creeping into her head, but he hangs on and she reconciles herself to the shifting images and merging faces that will fill her mind for the next moments. One second it's copper, then gold, then copper, then gold, then she's shuddering, and he's got one hand resting on her hair, stroking it down her back, and he's whispering things she can't make out, until it's too similar for words so she does the only thing she can think of and swings round to kiss him, and ten minutes later they're on their bed pushing any thoughts away, but there's still the barest hint of copper in his hair when she opens her eyes to prove to herself that it's Emmett beside her. She wants to cry, or maybe die. Or maybe killing would be easier. Because it's wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, right.

It's the wrong time
For somebody new

She'll never forget his face when she stumbled into the house, covered in dirt and steadily congealing blood.

She looked straight past him, turning to Carlisle, the most desperation she'd ever felt, shining in her eyes. Change or die.

"Save him."

Who knew two little words could shatter so manydreams.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye, slipping out of the room, his face filled with utter contempt, complete disgust radiating so strongly from him that it was almost blinding. For a moment before he fled round the corner and out of sight he looked back, and his gaze locked with hers for the tiniest second. She should have known then, to hide all thoughts of how she felt, the guilt and horror and love that brawled for dominance inside her. But she was not thinking, she was too cut up, too deep inside to think. There was no rationality at that moment, only lethal emotion. And she knew later that he saw it. Selective sight, that's what she always said he had, and she knew that's what came into play at that moment. He only saw the crippling love that twisted her heart in two, and knew it wasn't for him. It made no difference what else was there, it was that which made his decision.

She wanted to run after him, but she couldn't. The sane part of her said 'Go. Run. Now. If you can catch him and it can all be kissed better.' The saner part knew she couldn't. Even if it could all be kissed better in an instant, (like they were crying children, which of course is all they were in truth,) it would never be the same. There would never be the two of them again. And the larger part of her no longer cared. But still the tiny hole that had already been punched out of her heart cried for succour, and railed that she was stupid to throw it all away. Only hours before they had been one perfect entity, and now she was trying to make it different while keeping it the same. Something had to give.

It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse

Rosalie didn't realise she truly loved this newcomer until she said it. It was the first time he'd ever hit her, and almost the last. He had stoically ignored her since she'd watched him leave without a word in protest, so she cornered him one empty afternoon in the front room. She had barely opened her mouth before he cut her off with the answer to her unspoken question.

"You shouldn't have done that then. I thought that perfect little Rosalie didn't like this life? So what does she do? Drag someone else into it. How very sensible." They both knew perfectly what he was talking about. It was times like that, she wanted to rip him apart with her bare hands.

"Can you not bear to stay out of my head for more than ten minutes?" Her voice came out more of a thick growl than her usual smooth tone, the anger lacing ever word.

He ignored her. She knew the answer. Masochistic idiot. He stared straight into her eyes, his personal interrogation.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes." It wasn't a lie, not in the slightest way. She did love him, or at least she really believed that she did, just not as much as perhaps she had. Just not quite as much as perhaps she should.

He looked her up and down sceptically, before training his eyes back on hers.

"Do you love him?" She had to hesitate to know the answer, and it scared her. She opened her mouth to answer and closed it again almost as quickly. She didn't want to say it, for saying it would mean admitting it to herself. And to Edward. And as she looked into his eyes, watched them blazing with only half-concealed fury and contempt, for the first time in her life, Rosalie Hale was scared of him. Not cross with, not upset at but actually, physically, scared of him. Her answer came out as a tiny whisper.

"Yes..."

A second later her head hit the wall behind her, and she didn't care about being scared of him any more. She wasn't scared of him any more. He was behaving like a petty child, the very thing he had called her for being. It amused her more than anything else.

She twisted round to inspect the wall behind her. A tiny crack had threaded its way up almost to the ceiling. It was just too funny, it really was. A tiny laugh escaped her lips, birdsong on the crisp cold silence of the morning snow.

"Care to smash the wall up a bit more?"

She never expected him to acquiesce. That was a hard one to explain when Carlisle and Esme returned.

Is that alright?yeah.
Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright?yeah.
If you don't shoot it how am I supposed to hold it
Is that alright?yeah.
Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright?yeah
With you...

She curls up under her blankets, clutching them to her with fists that threaten to rip through the fleece at any moment. She lies there like a child, making her own silk and fleece world that's only ever bathed in pale pink light that filters in dappled patterns of love and hate and horror through the fine weaves of her coverlets. She doesn't move. She shan't move, won't move, can't move. It's too painful. If she stays still enough, perhaps she can fool her rain into thinking she's sleeping, and perhaps she can forget. She hasn't realised after all these years that hiding only makes things worse. She hides like a child still, for she is a child still, for she always will be a child. It is a prison of her own making, this endless dripping of reality into immortality into reality into life into her, she built her own crystal walls 74 years ago, and each year she only makes them thicker. So she can look out and watch them all grow up whilst she smothers herself in her own childhood, her own innocence, her own tragic, wild self-pity. And each time she thinks she's healing, something comes along to ruin her again. Sometimes she wants to kill that thing. Sometimes she can't help but want to love it.

Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I do

He remembers. He knows she remembers. In some ways that only makes it worse, because he thinks it would be easier to forget if he knew she didn't care. At least there wouldn't be the endless scenes playing out in her head just as he's managed to put them from his. He thinks perhaps it would be easier if he didn't have to live with her any more. He's tried everything but still he leans in close to her whenever she talks, and sometimes when she doesn't, though inside he's screaming that he's wrong. The contempt he holds himself in is enough to kill, the looks he gives himself everytime he looks at her and thinks of her lips on his are enough to pale the heart of the fiercest men on Earth, the pain that tears him apart every time she comes into the room and the two of them remember is so much that it's slowly scratching the heart out of the both of them. Every time she whispers something in his ear, her usual infuriating smirk on her face, her breath tickles his cheek and he knows she does it deliberately. She cares, but she doesn't. She loves him, but she doesn't. And he wishes he could say the same about her. Because this whole sordid business brings out the worst in him, and he's afraid of somebody seeing it. This is not the way he is.

It's the wrong kind of place
To be cheating on you

He still feels faintly sick when he kisses Bella. He still feels like he's doing something that shouldn't be dne. Still feels like he's cheating. Still feels like it should be her in his arms instead and that every second he spends with this girl is one second closer to hell. One second closer to eternal damnation and an eternity in hell. Or perhaps he's already in hell. It feels as much. He trails kisses down Bella's face, her temple to the corner of lips and back again, and all the while she shifts and glimmers from the corner of his eye, her features morphing in and out and in and out. He wants her, he knows he wants her. He wants her more, so much more, than he'll ever want Rosalie, but still it seems to make no difference. He pushes her away at last, like he always does in the end, and goes back to his brooding. She's nothing compared to the sour angel that haunts his every moment of existence, yet still she's more than he'll ever be able to take. It makes him sick the way he thinks. He loves Bella, needs her. After a while, all her touch makes his brain scream is his overwhelming desire to have what he can't, and then it's overridden by the want, no, the need, to slap Rosalie to kingdom come, just for the crime of her existence. Because he hates her, he hates her, he hates her, he hates her, he loves her.

It's the wrong time
She's pulling me through

He'll never forget her face when he stumbled into the car that fateful evening. Bella's first day at school. The very feel of that name on his lips makes them both want to die. As soon as he opened the door for her, watched her slide across the back seat to lay her head on Emmett's shoulder, he knew she'd gone. He'd seen her face close up, her eyes dull behind glassy barriers of dead thoughts and nothingness. She was a quick learner. But not quick enough. He could still catch her out.

"Rosalie?" He whispered across the seat, before he slammed the door with more vehemence than he'd usually allow, "You OK?"

She didn't move, didn't reply. Not quick enough. Emmett prised her head up off from where her hair was brushing against his neck.

"Rose? Hey, Rose? You there? Edward's talking to you darling." Her head snapped up, and as she struggled to regain her composure a flood of her thoughts barraged his own.

God, I hate myself.

The only one that stood out, as a smile he knew was faked at the last possible minute tweaked the corners of her lips.

"Perhaps." She leant across Emmett's chest to kiss his gently on the lips, the barest hint of triumph in her voice. "But I'm not talking to him." And she flicked her hair back and laid her head down on his shoulder again, the soft, smug smile just noticeable on her face. Noticeable to him at least. Taunting in the fakest, most contrived sort of way.

They left the conversation at that, leaving the others staring after them, wonder across their faces. To the best of their knowledge, nothing had changed. To the best of his, everything had.

He wanted to apologise, to prop her chin up with his finger and lean in close, whisper 'sorry's and 'i love you's and endless broken promises. But he couldn't, he wouldn't. He never did. And she would never make him. For they weren't the same now. Not even as together as they were a day ago, which (if you had asked them then) would have been thought impossible. And his heart was slowly filling in the gaps. But there was still a tiny hole, smouldering in the darkest corner it could find, that pulled him to her, that cried for her touch, that yearned for her love, that longed for her hate.

It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse

He knew she didn't have to ask if he loved her. He'd left the country for Bella, more than he ever did for her. It ripped the very core of him to shreds to leave them both, but he knew he had to do it. Kill them to save them. Kill himself to save himself. He knew she knew that he loved Bella more than he said he loved her. She knew because he'd decided he could leave her, forever. Leave her forever, becase he couldn't leave Bella forever. There was obviously no contest. Or that's what he knew she thought.

Alice had gone mad. She'd told him about calling Rosalie, told him her reaction, and, not for the first time, he felt too guilty to think about her. So he kissed Bella instead, to forget the life he used to know, that he thought he'd forgotten, but all he could smell was ylang-ylang and patchouli and an undertone of something bitter he could not quite identify, and came to realise later was the evapoating engine oil on her fingers, tracing accidental smudges on his skin. It could have been Bella's shampoo of course, but it was too much of a coincidence to bank on.

There was no reason for it. No excuse. They'd been together but apart, so very apart, for seventy-four years nearly, their entire relationship in that time made up of memories, sidelong glances and secret smiles. They were so cliche it hurt him to think of her.

When he got home she was waiting. He'd already made up his mind. He was back to ignoring her, the way he always did when things didn't go his way. He could see she was used to it by now. Above the raucous turmoil of her apologetic thoughts, so thick with remorse he could almost hear them dripping, there was one overlying cry of anger and hate, utter contempt.

You are such a child, Edward Cullen. Can you not just accept an apology? We all make mistakes!

When he still didn't reply, just pulled Bella closer to him and turned away, he could hear her thoughts getting more violent, more angry.

I KNOW you can hear me. Ignoring me is only going to make it worse. I CAN make you listen you know, or at least I can get you out of my head.

And she could. It worked on him every time. There were enough things in her head that he didn't want to see, could never guard himself against, that he had to pull away. It was a simple enough choice, he could pull away and forget, or he could crash his bdy against hers and kiss her until... until when?... forever, he supposed, considering they wouldn't die. So he ignored her. He knew that those were the times when she let herself think the things she didn't want him to hear.

Is that alright with you?
Give my gun away (Is that alright? Yeah.)when it's loaded
Is that alright with you?
If you don't shoot it how (Is that alright? Yeah. ) am I supposed to hold it
Is that alright with you?
Give my gun away (Is that alright? Yeah. ) when it's loaded
Is that alright
Is that alright with you?

He flees to his piano, sits there for hours, his hands flying over the keys faster than anyone would have thought possible. The melody is lower than Bella's lullaby, harsher, the sort that ought to have words. A clear, grim, mezzo-soprano lament. To anyone else it just seems like a song, but truly it's for her. He watches her as she opens the door and leans against the frame, but he won't stop. The music is his refuge, and his prison. The music is his cure, and the whole of his illness. Each note is not just for her, it is her. And it pales his every thought to listen to it, hammers at every sensibility to play it, but it's almost as if the pain pours into his his fingertips and out into the keys, out into the air, wafts on the music. It's easier that way, for it's spread out. There are few things he will never cease to be amazed by, but she is one of them. Not just her, but the efect she was on him. The way her very presence makes him breathe faster, when he doesn't have to breathe at all, how sometimes when she gets too close he forgets to think and has to snap his head back in horror to prevent himself from touching his lips to hers and giving them away. The way she makes him want to hide away from everything whilst simultaneous wanting to hold her tight and never let go. Each time he thinks that her effect is waning, something comes along that ruins his control, again and again and again. And often know he thinks it might be easier for them both if they gave themselves away.

Is that alright, yeah?
Give my gun away (Is that alright? Yeah. ) when it's loaded
Is that alright with you?
If you don't shoot it how (Is that alright? Yeah. ) am I supposed to hold it
Is that alright with you?
Give my gun away (Is that alright? Yeah. ) when it's loaded
Is that alright
Is that alright with you?

They battled for their love and now they battle for their hate. They stand to gain too much in one instant, that it would be impossible for them not to stand to lose more.
There is too much at stake now. Too many lives hanging by the steadily ripping thread of their self-control. She has too little, he has too much. Or maybe it's the other way round. Most of the time, neither can tell. They both know that it's wrong, it's ridiculous, it's stupid. Neither loves the other, so they content themselves with hate. It's all they can do. They kill to save themselves from dying and in the doing, slowly cling to each other and drown together.

They don't talk much, except to argue. Nobody thinks it's strange in the slightest. Nobody but Carlisle and Esme have ever known them to be any diferent. Sometimes they think everyone knows. Sometimes they think noone knows. Sometimes they don't know. Sometimes they don't care. Neither wants to be the one that gives in first.

(Slight Overlap..)

Is that alright, yeah?
- Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright, yeah?
- If you don't shoot it how am I supposed to hold it
Is that alright, yeah?
- Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright, is that alright?

One word and she has to fight to recall why she's forgetting. One glance and he forgets what his argument against this was in the first place. There are days when mysterious 'accidents' happen to them, sure signs that the other is getting angry again. They are only ever simple things, things that could be accidents or other people's pranks, but they always know themselves, in their heart of hearts, and they tend to believe that they probably deserved it. She tries not to be too graphic with the Emmet images anymore, however effective they may be at keeping him out of her head. She doesn't want to risk the BMW getting scratched for the umpteenth time. And he in turn, tries to keep Bella away from her. He knows Bella riles her, and he doesn't want to find the piano needs tuning again, or re-stringing. Though that's only when she's really cross.

They're winning, but they're losing. They both know it isn't love. They both know that there's smething more they feel for another than they ever felt between them. But still they can't stop themselves crying for it.They only want what they can't have. They aren't used to being denied, even more so when it's them denying themselves. So each in their turn yearns for what they knew and lost. In truth, it is not even the love they yearn for, not even the lust, it is the past. Longing for the past lets them long for childhood, for innoncence, for protection, for themselves, for what they were and for what they'll never be. In truth, they only use each other.

Is that alright with you?

She hates it. There is only a tiny part of her still wants this. The rest is repulsed at her thoughts, repulsed at what they're doing.

He hates it too. A fraction of his heart, his being, still wants her. The rest screams in protest at what they have become.

They don't want this. They want their own respective loves. They want their own safe little family. They want their own brother/sister dynamic, not this twisted parody of a relationship, not one thing, not the other. They want thier lives back But neither is prepared to give, and neither is prepared to take. They simply fight. Fight for the right to their own hate. And whenever their eyes meet they glare and snarl in hate and anger that they don't really mean, but wish they did, and anguish that they do, but wish they didn't.

No...

And they hate themselves for winning the battle to forget, just as much as they hate themselves for losing it.