A/N: FINALLY! Finally, finally, finally! Here it is! To all of my wonderful readers who didn't see (or chose not to read) the author's note that was previously up here, I am so incredibly sorry for such the ridiculously long wait. Hopefully the newly restructured and muchly bettered Kingdom Come will repay you for your patience. E-baked goods go out to all of you. Or, of course, I can always overnight you some chocolate chip cheesecakes.

Okay, so...remember that this is almost completely AU. I'm fixing Bella the way I see fit, because quite frankly, I'm not 100 percent taken with Stephenie Meyer's version of her after reading all four books. And I understand that in the books she takes Spanish, but in my story, she takes French because I speak French and prefer it to Spanish (no offense, I love all Romance languages, but of course I'm biased). And, yeah...there's a few details (major and minor) that will be different throughout the story. You'll see. :)

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Chapter Two.
Broken Ice.

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I felt suddenly exhausted as I left the library, determined to find my French class on my own. A tired boredom wound its tentacles around my mind and blurred my comprehension of the outer world. I felt as though my day had already climaxed at the point where I found myself suddenly flustered and befuddled by a peculiar looking boy who shared my taste in music and had no qualms striking up a conversation with a complete stranger.

"Hey, Bella," a relatively over-pleasant, yet harmless boy named Mike said as he appeared at my elbow. He'd sat at my lunch table in the fifteen minutes I'd stayed there, and I figured he was a decent enough friend to have if I ever got lost or needed someone to cover for me for a teacher. I remembered his name specifically because I didn't like the shirt he was wearing.

"Hi, Mike, what's up?" I replied blandly, still feeling gooey with fatigue. He began walking with me towards my next class, not asking where I was going, but simply following my steps closely.

"How's your first day been so far?" he asked politely, in the tone and with the expression that told me that wasn't the question he actually wanted to ask me.

"Alright," I said honestly, "I haven't gotten lost, which is a plus. And all of my classes so far have been decent."

"Yeah? You like the school?" I felt the need to reply, Yes, I completely enjoy many redundant questions asked by many different people, but kept the biting sarcasm at bay.

"Sure, it's a lovely building." Truly, it was. More antique than institution, but interesting enough to look at.

"Great, great." He paused, and I gave him a sort of expectant look, as if to tell him to stop wasting time and get on with it. "I saw you in the library earlier, with Edward Masen."

"Oh, yeah," I supplied, a little bit spooked by the fact that he seemed to be keeping tabs on me, "He's a nice kid. I like him." I offered nothing else, to him or to myself.

"Yeah..." he conceded, as though he'd lost whatever confidence he'd had, "Strange family." I peered at him as he frowned at himself, seemingly disappointed in his words.

I had no idea what to say, so I simply said, "Huh." I didn't really care to hear whatever it was he actually wanted to tell me, so I mumbled something about French class and ducked into a nearby stairwell to climb to the second floor. I did not want to think about Edward Masen any more than I absolutely had to. I was startled by how intrigued I was by him, and angry at myself for that same reason.

The conversation we'd shared had put me ill at ease; conflicting emotions bubbled somewhere low in the ranks of my consciousness. While I'd been completely comfortable discussing in detail things that I felt no need to divulge to any other human being, I'd simultaneously begun feeling awkward for the first time in my life, wondering how badly my hair looked after being out in the humidity or exactly where my sweater had become wrinkled after sitting in classes all day. I suddenly, shockingly, felt the alien sensation of caring what someone else thought about me.

I forcefully pushed what I assumed were insecurities out of my head, knowing that contemplating them more would simply make this situation, if it could be even be called that, exponentially worse. I had to, at all costs, avoid this odd new sensation. I was not the type to be riled by anyone or anything, even if they were strikingly beautiful or extremely intelligent or had an amazing taste in music. I shook my head subtly, jarring such inane and tumultuous musings from my head. I focused on mentally reviewing French subjunctive so as to be prepared when I would have to participate in class.

Though, unsurprisingly, my luck had different ideas for my afternoon. Speak of the devil and he shall appear, I quipped in my head as I saw a now-familiar bronze head swerve into the classroom that I knew I was heading for. Of course, he would have to take French, and of course, he would be in my class. I had a sniggling suspicion that the teacher would be a demon and put me in the immediate area of his seat, or worse, right next to him.

Ten minutes later, after a lengthy introduction in which I had to, in French, explain where I was from, when I had moved, some things that I liked to do, and all but give a basic history of my family tree, I was positioned in the back of the room as Edward Masen's next door neighbor. And just as the cherry on top of my suddenly miserable day, the tiny desks were arranged in rows of two in order to be able to fit into the cramped room, a result of what I was sure was budget cuts to the foreign language department, and Edward was approximately six inches from my right elbow.

I don't know why I would have expected any less. The very topic I had chosen to avoid was suddenly thrust right back into my face by the fact that I was abruptly very awake and very aware, and for a reason that was not at all eluding me. I was not cynical, simply a realist, and I realized perfectly well that my life was nearly completely ruled by Murphy's Law. The only reason that nearly was utilized in that particular sentence was because my innate clumsiness had yet to make an appearance in the presence of this boy.

As the teacher began her uninteresting lecture, I attempted to crush myself into the farthest corner of my desk and chair, as far away from him as I could possibly get. He had smiled widely at me as I walked carefully to my desk, and I had smiled widely in return. Fooling him, I'm sure, to the fact that I wanted to avoid him at all costs. And then, the fact that I wanted to avoid him stuck a chord with my Crazy-O-Meter, letting me know that I was, in fact, going insane thinking so much about this.

If I had half of my brains functioning properly, I would have absolutely no problem sitting next to him, and furthermore, when he slid a note onto my desk, my pulse would not have skyrocketed to previously unknown heights.

I glared at the offending thing, cursing it inwardly for doing such completely ridiculous things to me. I could see him watching me in his peripheral vision, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. I hesitated before I unfolded the sheet of lined paper, which was creased only in half, and saw a nice, slanted print on the very top line. His handwriting was distinctly masculine, and very neat.

Fancy seeing you here. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a tiny wry smile pulling at the edges of his lips as he scribbled random notes from the lecture into a notebook, pretending as though nothing was going on. The sarcasm was clearly intended, and I appreciated it. A sense of humor similar to my own was hard to come by.

Imagine that, I scrawled in my own fine script. I admired the trim arches and swirls for a moment, satisfied that it would make a good impression. I didn't bother folding the paper again as I tossed it on top of his notebook, proud that I was the picture of nonchalance. I'd hoped to discourage any form of conversation from blooming, but he smirked and wrote for a few moments before scooting the paper back to my desk.

Long time no see, it said. I rolled my eyes clearly enough for him to see.

I know, I wrote, It's been, what, an entire fifteen minutes?

Too long, he replied, and I felt my stomach inch a little towards my throat, Care to continue our discussion?

Certainly, I said, not hesitating to think of the repercussions of my actions. Apparently, my plan to avoid him and my stupefyingly sudden and irrational self-consciousness was failing miserably. I would have to be more cautious.

On what topic? He asked. I stared at the paper for much longer than was necessary, and felt my left eye narrowing angrily at it. I didn't want to delve into any particular subject the way we had not twenty minutes ago. I didn't want to find any more specific traits in him that I enjoyed or shared. I didn't want to be any more flustered or intrigued by him than I already was.

Answer with your favorites: book, movie, color, food, ice cream flavor, and season, I finally wrote, choosing a generic array of easily answered questions that wouldn't call for any precise details. I gave myself an inward pat on the back and returned the paper.

Season? he queried. I nodded, and he shrugged. It took him a little bit longer than the last time, as he had to contemplate for a moment each individual answer. He finally capped his pen and presented the note to me gallantly.

A Clockwork Orange/Catch-22/Fitzgerald, Children of Men, blue, anything Asian, coffee/chocolate, and summer, he'd said.

I stared at his answers, befuddled and honestly, a little bit creeped out. I wanted to both scream and sigh in frustration. My measly attempts to calm myself towards him were being well-foiled.

I penned my answers as quickly as I could manage, and watched his expression as he read them. His face turned from surprised to shocked, in the same fashion my mind had.

I Capture the Castle/A Clockwork Orange/Fitzgerald/L'Engle, Children of Men/LoveActually, purple, anything Asian, coffee/chocolate, and any season except summer, I'd written.

He smiled, though, and scribbled something else down.

TV show?

Food Network, I said, unable to narrow it down, and then, as an afterthought, added, Anthony Bourdain.

He nodded, even before I'd finished, reading it as the ink flowed onto and stained the pulp. Instead of passing the note to him, I simply extended another question.

Is your favorite Shakespeare play Othello by any chance? I all but slammed the note on his desk, and I knew I was scowling, perplexed and defeated. He had to struggle to hide a laugh.

Indeed it is, he said, Though I have to admit I'm kind of fond of Twelfth Night. I raised my eyebrows, startled, and then shook my head, undeniably amused.

I never would have thought of you as the transvestite type. Now, he really did laugh out loud, a slightly muffled guffaw escaping the gates of his lips. The sound was undeniably the sweetest thing I'd ever had the pleasure of hearing, and my heartbeat raced forward like a hummingbird's wings. Our teacher gave him a sour look, but carried on with her lesson nonetheless. I immediately forgave her for making me stand up in front of the class and tread through a maze of different tenses trying to explain my short past.

I never would have thought of you as the whiny teenage English girl type. I shot him my own sour look.

I Capture the Castle is a classic! I wrote furiously, my nose scrunched up in a scowl.

By whose standards?

By mine.

Fair enough. Guilty pleasures? Food, television, music, or otherwise. I saw he was eager to change the subject and not to offend me, but I felt suddenly uncomfortable in the intimate turn our conversation had taken. What did he mean by guilty pleasures? What did he mean by otherwise? Did he really want me to spill all of my dirtiest secrets to him? I felt the urge to call him out and take the advantage of being able to end this little interaction before it got too far. Even so, I was never one to back down from a challenge, and I struggled not to frown at the now-worn sheet of paper as I worked to keep the tone of our game lighthearted at the very least.

I can eat A LOT. As in, a chicken finger sub and a regular sized bag of barbeque chips or an entire box of Kraft macaroni and cheese in one sitting. I secretly love both Grey's Anatomy and Rob & Big. I like some 80's music. And I honestly do more easy reading than I do intellectual. There, that was appropriate. My subconscious, however, was screaming, 'Fool, fool, fool, you ludicrous fool!' I had to turn my head to the left so he wouldn't see the huge, deep, angry scowl on my face. I chewed the corner of my lip, the spot of flesh sore from constant and thorough irritation. I barely managed to compose myself before he returned the paper.

I once ate dandelions. I, too, love Rob & Big, and the fact that I watch the Food Network at all is a total secret, so don't tell anyone. I have Britney Spears on my iPod, and even if I enjoy it, Shakespeare gives me a headache. I hesitated, like a child before they jump into an icy cold lake. My pen hovered warily over the paper, swinging back and forth, the inhibitions and instincts for survival which had so deviously abandoned me earlier giving me no room for an out now.

Britney Spears? That's shameful. He smirked, and my heart fluttered. What an evil, evil traitor. My heart and I were going to have a very serious discussion later, about when it was appropriate to have palpitations and when it was not.

I know, but I clear my conscience by giving myself migraines with Macbeth. I pressed my lips together, fighting a smile.

That's okay, if I look at Shakespeare for too long I start thinking in prose. Why did you eat dandelions? I was innocently curious, that's it. I swear.

They're practically a delicacy in Buffalo. Why, do you want to try one? I made a theatric gagging face, and shook my head vehemently. I wrote N-O on the paper. I was not into eating vegetation that I couldn't buy in the grocery store.

I watched him as he paused, briefly, over the margin where our writing was now crammed. He looked troubled for the first time since I'd met him, a hesitant, almost timid expression marring his strange, prominently beautiful features. I inwardly slapped myself for the thought, and felt even more humiliated when the note was delivered back to my desk.

Why do you bite your lip like that? it said, Are you anxious?

I turned to look at him, staggered and flummoxed. He was staring at me in earnest, genuinely interested, his skin bright and pale in a ray of soft sunlight that filtered in through the cracks behind the shut window shades. I scrunched my eyebrows in honest confusion, and he looked suddenly very bashful. I frowned even more deeply, and he turned away from me, staring intently at his notes.

I didn't know what to say. I couldn't say anything.

Blissfully, the bell rang, and I darted out of the room as quickly as I could. I just barely stubbed my toe on the leg of a table on the way out, and luckily did not stumble or fall. I needed to make a quick escape, for the sake of my sanity.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, mercifully. I saw Edward again in both study hall and biology, but he left study hall at the beginning of the period and sat in the back row of biology next to a tall blonde boy while I sat towards the front with a random senior, who said not a single word to me the entire time. I gave Edward a proprietary smile and wave and he returned it kindly; he thankfully seemed untroubled now. It was one thing for me to be avoiding him and thus becoming any more interested in him than I already was, but it was another thing all together for him to think I was rude or ill-mannered. I thought about tactics for emotional self-protection during the monotonous science lecture and I all but sprinted to my car when the period finally ended.

Why was I so worked up over a short conversation? Why was I even thinking about it? Why was I thinking about thinking about it? I was one-hundred percent sure I was losing my mind. Nothing ever bothered me. I was the epitome of the three c's - cool, calm, collected; now I was just being stupid.

When I got home, I spent the afternoon managing to do homework and laundry simultaneously, then as the sun went down, began concentrating very intently on cooking. I'd given Charlie a grocery list to buy real food before I got here, remembering all too clearly subsisting on take-out and fatty fried foods while I stayed here intermittently during my childhood.

I made my favorite dish, chicken stir-fry. I felt that, for the day I'd had, I undeniably deserved a little indulgence. As I sauteed the onions, peppers, mushrooms, snow peas, and bean sprouts, the chicken finished browning and the brown rice finally boiled off and soaked up all of the water. I wondered curiously if Charlie would be interested in trying the tasty whole grain. I doubted it, but he could survive without a starch for one evening.

I felt too lazy to make homemade sauce, so I just grabbed a jar of Kikkoman from the cupboard and poured it generously over the top as I tossed the chicken onto the huge mound of vegetables. I was just adding the finishing touches (mainly a large palmful of red pepper - I was a spice fiend) as Charlie walked in and looked honestly startled to find me still in his house, functioning normally and not having a mental breakdown or running away screaming. I'd have to sit him down, too, and tell him that I wasn't planning on fleeing any time soon. At least not yet.

"Hey, kid," he said, cheerful now, "How was your big day?" I offered him a wide smile as I mixed the stir-fry with a wooden spoon to my own, silent beat.

"Better than I thought it'd be," I replied. He came to stand over my shoulder, sniffing at the pan cautiously.

"Smells good," he said, and I could hear the implied 'I guess...' tacked onto the end. I couldn't help but laugh.

"It is good!" I said, mock indignance flavoring my voice. It felt good to joke around with Charlie - I hadn't actually seen him since last spring break, as our usual summer vacation had had to been bumped up four months due to my mother's summer wedding. I had really missed him.

He snorted, unconvinced, "Whatever you say, Bells."

--

Later that night, my dreams were unmistakably strange, as though I were on an acid trip gone wrong. If I hadn't known better, I would have said that I was under the influence of drugs.

I was wandering through a forest - not like the dense, thick, green forest of Washington, but through foggy, wide-spaced woods that were simultaneously dark and light, like the ones out of fairy tale movies. There was no distinct path, because the trees were too far apart for there to be any one clear direction. I was simply wandering at will, following the foreign pull - a need, an undeniable urge - I felt in the bottom of my stomach to some unknown point straight ahead.

What was really peculiar was the fact that every once in awhile, I'd see a big, burly man with a big, menacing gun dart out from behind a thin, willowy trunk that he couldn't have possibly been hiding behind, only to disappear behind another similarly narrow tree. Every time he came out from wherever, he would appear for only a split second, not even enough time for me to glance to the side and see him clearly. He was running in the same direction I was, and it made me all the more anxious to reach my destination, whatever it was.

As I continued to walk, careful not to trip on any tree roots or random rocks (though, in my dreams, I was usually not as clumsy as I was in a conscious state), the mist grew thinner and thinner, clinging to the pale white bark of the trees in places and hovering like a thick blanket over the soft ground in others. I could easily see at least fifty yards in front of me, yet still couldn't find the goal or sign which I was working towards.

As soon as I began thinking that I would much rather wake up than continue wandering in this silly dream, a shape grew dark in front of me, the form of a body beyond where my visibility ended. I was scared momentarily, before I realized that whoever it was standing in the depths of the fog was not only too tall and lean to be the burly man with the gun, but was also that whom I was so desperately looking for.

Whoever this person was, standing maybe three hundred feet away, was exactly the being that had lit in me such a ferocious desire to be with them, such an unquestionable and urgent necessity, that I was undoubtedly risking my life to find them. I suddenly felt that the faster I found them, the faster we would be safe. I loved whoever was out there, and I had to either be with them or protect them. I hadn't been afraid before, but now I was nervous and knew, undoubtedly, that the strange, disappearing gunman was here for us.

I began running, thankful that I was right about being much more graceful in dreams than I was in reality. The person began to take shape much more quickly, and it was only a few seconds before a could see a unique, shining head of bronze hair and angelic features piercing through the wet, luminous haze.

I stopped abruptly, my velocity nearly throwing me off balance, and with the sudden jerk I found myself back in the darkness of dreamless sleep.

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