A/N: This is Chapter 2! I also have this fic crossposted to AO3, and it's a chapter ahead, if you'd rather read it there. I also have more fics posted there in general. I really hope you enjoy it half as much as I did writing it. Thanks!
The clouded mirror reflected bloodshot eyes and a rose-tipped nose, twitching as she sniffed airily at the sink. Absently, without much coherent thought as to the subject of her grief, she poked a finger at the puffiness around her almond eyes, the frustration bleeding through like ink on a page. Crying in the bathroom on the first day of school, what an overdone cliché. The level of disappointment she held for herself was stifling, enough to dry her tears and alter her face into something very like a scowl.
Who was Tyler Crowley to make her cry?
Who were any of these people to make her cry?
By what right did they deserve her tears?
None, she told herself. She would not grieve over the loss of potential social inclusion. Those who would accept her would do so fully, without false assumptions of her person or character, regardless of what kind of person made her blood pump and heart sing. Angela, at the very least, would be supportive, if not overly friendly for fear of ostracism by association. No, the only true opponents she could see making trouble would be Tyler Crowley and perhaps Lauren Mallory, the resident Regina George aspirant of Forks High.
Her thoughts moved swiftly to Rosalie Hale, to blonde waves and amber eyes locked onto hers. To those rosy lips, turned up in a smirk. What would it be like to touch those lips, she wondered. To taste them. The thought sent the aching vibrations of a shiver down her spine.
"Get a grip," Bella whispered to her reflection. In her mind's eye, she witnessed that echo scoff at her in return, shaking her head lightly in faux disappointment. The Bella she had grown up to be, the one who took no shit from anyone, hardened by years of mockery and the adamant need to mature beyond her years, laughed at this Bella. The Bella who became inconsolable at an idiotic boy displaying typical boyish behaviour.
She tilted her head from side to side, cracking her neck, and rolled her shoulders stiffly before grabbing her bag from where it lay on the floor just as the bell rang for her next class. Forever prepared, she had chosen the bathroom closest to the Biology classroom to ensure she wouldn't arrive late after her upheaval. Mr. Varner was already inside when she entered, perusing through the textbook she'd given previously a once-through. The AP Biology II curriculum was a fair bit behind her previous class in Phoenix, a case both comforting and monotonous, as she would be forced to re-do lessons and labs.
"Isabella Swan?" Mr. Varner assumed as she approached his desk, form in hand for him to sign.
"Just Bella is fine, sir," she confirmed. "Just a heads-up, I have a diagnosed vasovagal syncope. If your class is anything like the one I had in Phoenix, I'll most likely be absent when we do blood typing."
"As long as you have a note, you'll be fine," he said with an easy smile. "There's always one or two in every year. The Cullens also sit that lesson out."
"Oh?" she wondered. For an entire adopted family to have the same condition was anomalous, but not unheard of. She shrugged the information off like a thin coat, quickly forgotten. At least she wouldn't be mocked for it, if there were others.
He hummed, checking his seating list. "You'll be sitting with Edward Cullen, it's the only free seat left. He's already there," he said, nodding his head to where the copper-haired boy from lunch sat, rigid and unmoving, at a table near the back of the room. His eyes, like molten gold, were friendly and inviting as she moved toward her seat beside him. A sudden shift, no more than a step, and those eyes hardened, darkened, and she stared in wondrous awe as his easy expression transformed into one of pure rage.
Had she already done something to burden the Cullens? Had her earlier intervention with Tyler Crowley stoked the fires of antagonism toward Edward and Emmett?
She sat down quickly, only briefly insulted when Edward shifted his chair as far from her as humanly possible, and opened her notebook. Forcing every bit of her attention resolutely from where Edward Cullen was staring daggers into her temple, she perused through the chemical reactions of inorganic organisms and the difference between mitosis and meiosis, an issue she still had trouble with. What idiot had the idea of making the two words so similar?
Curse those English latinophilic bastards.
The sensation of phantom eyes, the discomfort so close to unbearable she nearly fled the room, caused her to turn in her seat, unsurprised to find Edward Cullen's eyes still glaring holes into her. Rather than cause an issue with yet another classmate on her first day, she reasoned that nipping whatever issue this one had in the bud as quickly as possible to be the best course of action.
"Did I do something to bother you?" she asked, not unkindly. She was surprised when Edward flinched, almost leapt out of his seat really, and his expression changed quickly to one of shame.
"No, no," he muttered quickly, the shaking of his head making his unkempt red hair shift. "I'm…not feeling very well."
"Do you need to go to the nurse?"
"No, thank you, Bella," he replied, releasing what she now saw was a death grip on their table. "I apologize if I frightened you."
Frighten her? Impossible. It was difficult to reconcile any semblance of fear with the look of adoration and outright love she'd seen on his face as he walked and sat with Emmett. The idea of Edward Cullen being a threat to her was laughable, even in his prior anger, and she looked to disregard his worries in favor of building a potential friendship.
"Not at all," she argued easily with a smile. "I thought maybe what I said at lunch may have thrown a spotlight on you and Emmett again. I don't want to make problems for you."
"It's nothing to worry about," he assured her, finally smiling for the first time. His teeth were so white they gleamed in the fluorescents, and Bella noticed his incisors were keenly sharp. The kind words, the easy, charming smile, brought her to a loss of thought. It was as if her limbic system had been shut off, the custodian in her brain finally clocking out after a too-long shift. "Emmett and I have dealt with this for a while now, it's nothing new. But I do have to thank you for coming to Rosalie's defense. Her personality makes her few friends."
"It was nothing," she mumbled. "Misogyny is ugly and antiquated. If you never say anything, people will never learn that their behaviour is wrong. Hopefully he'll grow out of it."
"Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves," Edward intoned, nodding in agreement.
"Byron? I'm impressed," Bella grinned. The classics had held her fascination in a chokehold from a young age, and to find something of a kindred spirit would make her remaining year in Forks that much easier.
"Carlisle insists upon us being well-read and open-minded," he told her.
"Your father?"
"Adopted, but yes. He and Esme took us all in years ago," he answered. He looked wistful, she thought, so far beyond his years. She'd seen that expression on her grandmother when she spoke of her youth, of easier and simpler years. It was beyond an oddity to see such an old mien on one so young. Suddenly, he tilted his head toward the exit and stared out into the hallway.
"I think I will go to the nurse after all. It was lovely to meet you, Bella," he mumbled, nearly flying to his feet and fleeing the room right as the bell rang. He was gone in an instant, leaving behind a thoroughly confused Bella Swan.
How odd, she thought as she gathered her things. She wondered if Edward suffered from bipolar disorder like Renee. Sudden mood swings, oddly manic behaviour, it all fit rather snugly. If that were the case, she figured, she had more than enough experience with Renee's case to maintain a cautious friendship with Edward Cullen.
Thoughts of her mother carried her, preoccupied, toward English. Renee had been absent and mindless at best, emotionally and verbally abusive and neglectful at worst, but Bella knew that she couldn't fully be blamed. Her mental health was detrimental in the extreme, as harmful to herself as it was to her daughter, but after seventeen years of taking care of her mother, she had finally felt it was time to let go once Phil had taken over the majority of her mother's care. Thus, the sudden and permanent move to Forks.
When Mr. Berty forced her to introduce herself to the class, her mind was on fire and brimstone. Surely the lowest circle of Hell was reserved not for betrayers, but for crotchety old men who took delight in the mortification of those they deemed lower than themselves. She stuttered over her name and a brief synopsis of Phoenix and fled to her desk, blushing like mad. Only when she dropped like a stone in her seat and huffed a raging breath of frustration did she notice her surroundings.
Rosalie Hale was sitting right beside her.
Rosalie was soaring. The clouds swallowed her up and held her aloft at the sight of Isabella Swan, notedly shy and unassuming, tethering Tyler Crowley to the whipping post and lashing him verbally. The way her posture had tightened, back straight and proud as she declared herself unashamed, the way those cinnamon brown eyes had blazed in righteous fury, had Rosalie swooning in her seat.
She was so very glad Alice had convinced her to come into school.
It had been a very near thing. While her siblings had showered and changed clothes at an ungodly hour, she had been performing an oil change on Esme's MX-5, a decidedly messy affair that left her covered in oil and smelling of it to high heaven. She finished around six, and the moment she'd left the garage, wiping her grimed hands on a chamois cloth, Alice was at her side, ever the lapdog, rushing her to "get ready now, because she's coming today!"
Her earlier confidence, found at that solitary peak in Alaska, had since drained out into the lavender depths of uncertainty once more, and she floundered on which shampoo to use, which blouse to wear, whether these pumps were too garish and if that brand of lipstick was too chalky, before Alice had shouted up at her from the bannister.
"Fighting clothes, Rose! Prepare for battle!"
That had cinched it. Black, sleeveless blouse, high-waisted slim chinos, and black Dr. Martens, hair down and free. No makeup. If she was going to make any sort of impression, for good or for ill, on Isabella Swan, she would make it bare and raw and unprocessed. It was a subtle desire, but an immensely powerful one, and it didn't pertain merely to how she would dress. She wanted no falsehoods or misgivings clouding the girl's view of her. If they were to become anything in that uncertain latent future of Alice's, the real Rosalie Hale would be forced to shine through.
The first four hours of class had been an exercise in persistence and a learning experience on the virtue of patience, and Rosalie found herself failing in both miserably. For a being that could remain so resolutely still for decades on end, the levels of nervous stress she had placed herself under so unnecessarily was staggering. She was unnervingly twitchy throughout History, inattentive during Trig, implacable as the intricacies of conjugated verbs were explained in Spanish, and was rapidly devolving into hysterics as Mr. Varner ominously warned of an upcoming project in Biology. When the lunch bell finally rang, the shrill tone like a hymnal to her pious ears, she was the first to the family meeting place, foot tapping incessantly on the crackled concrete.
The others met her there soon after, their reassuring presences a balm to sooth her frazzled mind and calm her frantically swinging moods. Rosalie had always been one subject to deep despondency when presented with the unknown, an emotion that would swiftly transmute into a truly magnificent rage when properly stoked. While most of the family found Rosalie's more bitter moods to be unduly harsh when aimed in their direction, they had to admit begrudgingly that her fury was a sight to behold when directed toward others. It was like a holy flame, brought into creation to smite heretics and cleanse the earth.
But in this instance, there was no fury. Only fear.
A fear that was quickly extinguished once they entered the cafeteria and Rosalie chanced the swiftest of glances at Isabella Swan as the girl noticed her family. She attuned her ears to her stuttering heartbeat as they entered in succession, noted the ever-increasing beating, and took a feral sort of pride when Isabella finally noticed her in the rear of the line, the girl's heart a thudding war drum in her chest as she drank Rosalie in. She very nearly preened at her notice.
Events passed rather swiftly after that point, and she listened intently to the rich alto timbre of Isabella Swan's voice, committing every subtle inflection and lilt to memory. The most minute details of the girl's speech were poetry that laid Neruda's most intimate of sonnets low in the dirt. The way her R's rolled just so, how her A's were atypically long as they left her mouth, the way the consonants languished on her tongue.
She was grateful for such an impartial judge of her family as Angela Weber, who had always been nothing but kind and accepting of their insular behaviour. And though her explanation of Jasper's discomfort had been amusingly off the mark, Isabella's empathetic response had endeared her to their venerable veteran already. Rosalie noticed the slight smile on Jasper's face at that, took note of how the entire family seemed to be eavesdropping unashamedly at the girls' conversation, when she heard that most lovely voice whisper:
"Rosalie."
It was said as if in prayer, so soft and quiet and dripping in interest. Rosalie could not have ignored the summons if she'd tried. She lifted her head to meet Isabella Swan's gaze and held it, drinking in her first real look at the woman she had been blessed with. And she was so very exquisite. Long, rich mahogany hair framed a heart-shaped face of smooth, pale skin. Her eyes were almond, both in shape and colour, though Rosalie saw flecks of green and amber in them. Full, pink lips, glistening so alluringly. She was perfect. So much so that Rosalie could just barely control her smile, though she would never do so if she could receive another one in return the way she just had. The flush of crimson that flooded the girl's skin from collarbone to forehead was so very beautiful, so alive, so mortal. She looked away soon after.
And then Tyler Crowley's overlarge mouth and indolent brain had ruined a perfectly good lunch hour.
After that fiasco had run its course, and Isabella had fled gracefully, she turned to Jasper at once, her question answered before she had the chance to ask.
"She's fine, Rosie," he assured her. "Irritated, embarrassed, just the smallest hint of distraught. She'll survive."
"I can't read her," Edward mumbled from Emmett's side. "Not a single thought. How strange."
That was concerning, Rosalie had to admit. In all their years together – too many, if one would ask Rosalie – never before had any human been resistant to Edward's gift. For any other person, Rose would have made a snide remark that perhaps there was nothing in her mind to read, that maybe her mind was not so much an open book but a repetitious series of blank pages. But for this girl, such thoughts were an impossibility.
"You'll have English with her," Alice told her as they left the cafeteria and made their way to class. Her size and demeanor were at such odds with Rosalie's – all smiles and joy and clarity of emotion – but of all the family, Rosalie and Alice got on the best. "I won't spoil anything, so don't ask. But it'll be a nice time if you thaw out a little," Alice winked as they took their seats.
And so she sat an hour later, waiting on the verge of impatience, for Isabella Swan to make her appearance. She was not kept waiting long.
She was so beautiful. Even stuttering over her words and with flushed skin, Isabella Swan was the most exquisite thing she had ever seen. Her face was familiar somehow, something from a distant memory, and her mind left the classroom and traveled far, far and along the country to Manhattan, where she had gone with Carlisle to test her control sometime in the late '40s. Rather than a leisurely stroll through Central Park or dealing with the bustle of Times Square, Carlisle had taken her to the Met.
Among the people, studiously ignoring the rushing of blood, so sweet and so enticing, Carlisle had re-introduced her to culture as best he knew how. They appeared as nothing more than a father and daughter enjoying the best and most pretentious that the world had to offer, making small critiques and conversing over their favorite pieces, which is just what the pair wanted.
It was there that Rosalie came across a painting, hanging solitary on a cream stucco wall, that had piqued her familiarity with the image of Isabella Swan. John Singer Sargent had succumbed to his defective heart in her youth, well before her change, but his works lived on. This piece in particular, Portrait of Madame X, enticed and engaged Rosalie in a way no other work had done. The pale skin, the dark tones and swatches, the black gown, sleeveless and form-fitting, should have clued Rosalie into her preferences years ago.
She remembered simply standing there, resolute and unmoving, for what felt like hours. That feeling, that simple enchantment, had reappeared in her as she watched Isabella Swan rush from the front of the room and into her desk. The Ice Queen was gone, thawed and exposed to the open air, in the presence of this girl. It carried no importance, she realized. She felt weightless, buoyant in the face of such rawness. In the chance of such promise no bitterness at her circumstances could survive, and Rosalie was but a bystander as the flood of anticipation washed over her, carried her off in the waves.
And when Isabella Swan finally broke from her reverie and noticed her there, head tilted to the side and smiling softly, she made the first step toward her forever.
"Hello. I'm Rosalie."