yet no matter the schooling and level of education the physician had and despite his being either a natural-born son or a foreign shaman, the most important theory to the late Medieval doctor was that of the four "humors": yellow bile, or cholic, black bile, or melancholic, phlegm, or phlegmatic, and blood, or sanguine. These four substances –

Carlisle put down his pen and winced, rubbing at his temples as if he were actually able to have a headache. Such a human malady was, of course, out of the question, but with the intense research he had been doing lately combined with the tension in the house over the last twenty four hours since Rosalie's paperwork had arrived was enough to trigger a migraine in any man, human or non. He had retreated to his study to "write," or at least that was what he had told everyone. Edward had obviously bit back a comment, hearing in his mind that Carlisle was just going in there to seek peace, and Esme gave him a knowing look but said nothing.

To be truthful, he had written a small bit since coming into the study, but most of his time had been spent in idle thought. With the arrival of the courier from Jenks' office, the house had fallen seemingly upside down. The always-jovial Emmett had sullen, moody, and quick to temper. Rosalie had only just come home two hours ago, and, after parking her car, had immediately gone upstairs to the room she and Emmett shared and begun moving things around, by the sound of it. Whether she was relocating to another room in the house or another home entirely had yet to be determined, but Carlisle knew the question had to be asked, and he knew he had to be the one to do the asking.

And so, with the smallest of sighs, he pushed his chair back and headed out of the room, crossing through the unused kitchen-cum-art studio to the back staircase. Esme was there, sketching solemnly at her easel, an angular drawing made with heavy black charcoal. It was obvious what sort of mood she was in, but a smile still graced her elegant face when she turned to look at him.

"Done writing for the day?" she asked hopefully.

He bent down to kiss her forehead, murmuring against her hairline, "Perhaps. I was going to check on Rosalie."

Esme frowned then, but her face was still as radiant as could be, and a shiver ran through him at the sight of her – as well as the urge to solve whatever problem was making her frown so.

"She was putting things in boxes, Carlisle," she said, a touch of fear in her voice. "You don't think she means…"

"I'm sure not," he interjected. "We're a family. We stay together, divorced, separated, together. Whatever it may be."

The frown went away then, but the smile didn't return. He bent to kiss her again – this time on her rosy mouth, and with a little more passion than was probably appropriate at three in the afternoon – and turned to the stairs, taking them seven at a time.

The door to Rosalie and Emmett's room was slightly ajar, and he could hear steady movement from inside. Carlisle paused near the jamb, poking his head in and calling out to his daughter.

Rosalie, just as beautiful as since the day he had turned her, was carefully piling books into a cardboard box, her slim white hands moving steadily to and from the shelf.

Carlisle cleared his throat to alert her of his presence. When she looked up, he managed to work in a smile, though the situation hardly warranted it. "Working hard?"

Rosalie smiled then, a meager and slightly sorrowful one, but he could see the self-satisfaction running underneath it…though that was a feeling running underneath almost all of Rosalie's smiles.

"Hi, Carlisle," she said softly, only hesitating in her packing for a moment. He stepped further into the room and stopped in the space where the bed used to be.

"Packing, I see." He was almost unable to think of anything else to say. How did one go about talking of such things? They had been a family for so long…for it to change so suddenly was almost unthinkable.

"Mmmmm." She made a gentle, non-commentary noise in reply.

"Do you need some help?" he offered, yet was unsure if he would be able to bear moving his eldest daughter from their home if that was what she was doing.

Rosalie nodded. "Thanks. Can you finish these books while I work on the closet?"

Carlisle moved over to the bookcase and began lifting volumes out – Something Blue, Bergdorf Blondes, Vogue: The Illustrated History, a few back issues of Motor Trend – and placing them in the box as Rosalie came from the closet, her arms full of clothes. Only instead of being the glimmering Versaces and tight silken Pradas that were the staples of her wardrobe, she was holding a stack of multi-colored polos that were often one size too small for the broad-chested wearer.

"Rosalie…aren't those Emmett's?" Carlisle ventured to ask.

She nodded as she placed the shirts on the chaise lounge. "Of course. Why would…oh." She paused for a second before saying, "You didn't think I was going to move from my own room, did you?"

He took a deep, cleansing breath. "You mean you aren't moving from the house?"

Rosalie's face lit up in a laugh, and Carlisle felt the tension in the room dissipate slightly. "No, of course not," she insisted. "I'm staying right where I am. Emmett, however…"

"Rose, do you think that's fair? After all, he's content to stay in the marriage, and –"

"Content?" She snorted in an unladylike fashion. "Does a man content with his marriage glare at you while signing divorce papers?"

Her voice was hostile and tense, and perhaps Carlisle was just imagining the slight undertone of regret. But he reached out to touch her slim shoulder as he said, "Surely it will work out."

She shook her head. "You've been listening to Esme too much. It's not going to work out. We're getting a divorce, and he's moving out. That's that."

"Emmett told me about the magazines. Is that really worth it?"

"It's not just the pornos, Carlisle. He's been doing shit like this for months."

"Like what?"

"Like cracking jokes at my expense. Putting me down to everyone else just because he's mad my priorities were elsewhere. Ejaculating in my washer fluid container and–"

"Okay, enough, enough." Carlisle held up his hands, trying to hide his smirk. It wouldn't do to laugh at something that had ruined what Rosalie held so dear – perhaps dearest, now that she and Emmett were truly finished. "But even so, shouldn't you be the one moving out? You were the one to ask for the…the separation."

"Divorce, Carlisle. You can say it," she said soberly. "Yes, I asked for it. But he caused it. And here I am, packing up his things for him." She smiled, a trifle bitterly. ""I figured it was the last wifely duty I could fulfill…and would probably be better than tossing everything on the lawn."

Carlisle said nothing, only moved back to the box of books and removed the tomes he had put in there, sliding them back onto the shelf with the rest of his daughter's and moving on to pull out his son's. Fight Club, Tom Clancy, The Collected Works of James Fenimore Cooper, a battered first edition of Tarzan of the Apes…all books that reflected the strong, clear-minded man his son was. Or once was. That man hadn't been seen for quite some time, and Carlisle wondered if he would ever resurface.

They worked in silent tandem for a while, Rosalie moving to and from the closet, emptying out its male contents while Carlisle worked on the books and the wide array of hair products in the bathroom. When they were finished, Rosalie wiped her hands together, the look of a job well done on her face. "Almost finished."

"Almost?" Carlisle repeated.

Rosalie smiled slyly before walking over to where the broken window had been and where large plywood boards were now. Using her fingernails as pliers, she wrenched enough of the nails away to take off one of the boards, opening a space that led to the cloudy afternoon outside. She bent to pick up a box at her feet and leaned out, nearly going through the open hole in the wall. Immortal as she was, they were still two stories up, and Carlisle stepped forward protectively – and to see just what she was doing.

A gentle smile on her face, Rosalie tipped the box over, letting its contents fall out one at a time. Magazines began to rain down – obviously Emmett's dirty magazines, by the looks of the scandalous covers – and their pages fluttered like butterflies as they floated to the ground. Rosalie let go of the box too – and let out a sudden frustrated grunt. Carlisle moved to stand next to her and looked down, following his daughter's disgruntled gaze.

Yes, the magazines had made it to the ground floor, but they were being caught in midair by a smug-looking Edward, who bowed at the waist and reminded her, "Littering is a terrible thing, Rose," before catching the last magazine and going back inside the house.

"He heard what I was thinking," she muttered sullenly, staring down at the clean lawn her husband's magazines had been headed towards. "Well, no matter. It's done. Would you mind going downstairs and telling Emmett to come move these boxes? I'm going to the garage. The GTO needs an oil change."

Carlisle nodded as he walked from the room, pausing in the door to look back at his daughter. She still stood in the opening of the wall, looking down at the lawn, her arms crossed over her chest – defensively? Indifferently? As if trying to hold herself together? No, wishful thinking. Even so, he called out to her. "Rosalie?"

She turned, and her face was serious. "Yes, Carlisle?"

"You know…my grandfather lived in a land where there was no such thing as divorce."

He let the thought linger in the air and left it fluttering down to the ground as he stepped from the room.


His arms laden with pornographic magazines, Edward kept his head held high as he came into the living room where Emmett currently was hiding. The hulking immortal was taking up a good half of the couch while he sat there, playing a one-man Wii Tennis tournament and trying to get his name into all the high scores. He had nearly succeeded; the only two left were 'RoseAlwaysWins' and 'EmmettSuxMonkeyBalls.' Edward paused in the doorway for a minute to watch the tournament continuing and Emmett running around like a fool before he came in and dropped the magazines on the antique coffee table.

"Rosalie left you a little present, it seems," Edward said, trying very hard to keep humor from his voice.

"Thanks, man," Emmett replied with a grin. "I was wondering when I was going to get those back."

The cavalier tone his brother took rocked Edward a bit. As serious as this divorce was, neither Rosalie nor Emmett seemed to truly be thinking things through. Rosalie's mind was clouded with all the poorly-chosen tricks Emmett had played over the past year, all the things he had done to plague her, until the idea rooted that he had done them on purpose to drive her to divorce. Emmett's mind was as carefree as ever – a bad thing in this situation. He was treating it like it was a big joke, as if either everything would blow over and return to normal momentarily or divorce wasn't such a horrible thing and everyone else in the family was overreacting. It was time for a talk, and it seemed he had to be the one to give it.

"Emmett, don't you think you and Rose should talk this over a little more?"

"Talk this over?" Emmett muttered as he made the first digital serve. "What the fuck, Edward? I thought you were on my side."

"I am, I am. Lord knows I'd rather be there than on Rose's." Both snickered softly for a brotherly moment before Edward went on. "But even so…it's been eighty years. You've gone through things like this before. Remember in Chicago? The go-go dancer?"

A slightly dreamy look came over Emmett's face. "Yeah, I remember." He missed the next swing but didn't seem to care much.

"Yes, well…you got over that too, if I recall correctly."

"You always do, Edward." Emmett grinned and won the game, typing in 'EMMETTisKING' on the screen. It was fifth place, but it still knocked 'EmmettSuxMonkeyBalls' from the top ten. "See, told you I could do it. Go on and tell Miss Priss she better watch her back."

Edward ground his teeth together. Absolutely nothing was sinking into his brother's head. "You go tell her yourself. After all, she is your wife."

Emmett set his jaw and started another game. "For two more hours, Ed. Only two more hours."

Edward only had a second to wonder if the tension in Emmett's voice was unhappy or grateful. Emmett said nothing more. He swung his arm back and slammed it forward, sending the ball on the screen flying past his digital opponent. They had no chance.