FAGE... the 14th.
Title: This Night is Ours
Written For: AgoodWITCH
Written By: FanficsR4Nerds
Beta: Mcc101180
Banner Maker: DaniDarlingxx
Rating: M
Pairing: Bella/Edward
Prompt used: photo link can be found on profile.
Summary: One thought rings clearly in her mind and one thought alone: This night is ours.
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Oodles of thank yous to Jill for being there through every single misadventure this prompt took me on, and to Mel for her amazing beta work.
-ONE-
Huddled under an umbrella, a young brunette moves briskly across cobbled streets.
She clutches the handle of her umbrella, focused on the feeling of raindrops splashing up and soaking through her tights. She regrets wearing a dress in the rain, but she's too far into the night to go home and change.
Instead, she marches on, grateful at the least that she decided on the low ankle boots over the heels.
It would be tragic to be taken out by a pair of shoes and a particularly wet rock.
Isabella—Bella to her friends—has only recently grown into her limbs. Long after puberty ended, she was still as uncoordinated as she was when she was eight. It took her until age twenty-four to find any semblance of coordination and balance.
But even now, she still has her off days.
She waits for a taxi to drive past, carefully avoiding the sludge it sprays up from the gutter as it zooms by. She scowls after it, but a second later, she's walking again, crossing the street as quickly and safely as possible.
This part of Edinburgh is her favorite, and as she turns the corner and comes face to face with St. Giles' Cathedral, she takes a moment, peering out from under her umbrella to enjoy the view of it. Even in the rain, the cathedral is striking. Tall, gothic spires that reach into the dark sky; beautiful stained glass windows that glow from within, casting rainbows into the gloomy night. It's not even the most impressive cathedral she's ever seen, but there is just something about it. She's not particularly religious, but this cathedral demands to be seen, to be honored.
She stops in the rain, gazing up at the structure, admiring it.
When she feels raindrops tickle her forehead, she realizes she's been gazing too high up, and she carefully tucks the umbrella back over her head and continues onward.
It's late, so there is hardly any traffic—vehicle and pedestrian alike.
She's tired, thoroughly drained from her company's Christmas party, and all she wants to do is go home and curl up with a cup of tea and a book, but she promised her friends she'd show up at the pub.
So instead of keeping her northern path, she turns east, walking past the cathedral.
She can see the lights of the pub all the way down the street. It's loud and spilling out warm yellow light that draws her like a moth.
The entry is choked with people huddled together and smoking, and she squeaks past them, hastily shutting her umbrella and tapping it on the door frame before she enters.
Inside, it's even louder and steamier from a collective of damp patrons. She pushes the hair off her shoulders as she heads into the bar. She doesn't stop to order a drink first. She's in no rush, and she's already had a few glasses of wine.
She spots the table where her friends are sitting, and she inches toward them, having to stop and start with the ebbing and flowing of the crowd. She's too small to elbow through, and what's more, she's too polite to do it. She tries a few meager "Excuse me"s, but to no avail.
It takes her far too long to finally reach her friends' table, and when she does, she deflates, realizing they've gone. She climbs up onto a tall stool, hoping they've popped out for a smoke or to order more drinks.
She looks over the table at the food they've ordered, but nothing looks good.
"Are you lost?"
Bella looks up at the sound of the stranger speaking right over her shoulder. He's tall, with unkempt dark bronze hair and a jawline that could cut glass. She takes a quick inventory of him—he's wearing jeans and a t-shirt under a button down and a pair of sneakers that look like they've seen far better days. He's lean, and combined with his height, it almost makes him look lanky. He looks young, and she's immediately certain she's never seen him before. She would remember someone so cute.
"No, I'm right where I'm meant to be," she tells him.
He flashes her a smile that is surprisingly disarming, and her heart squeezes in surprise.
"Edward," he says, offering up a hand. She eyes his very long, strong fingers. He has the hands of an artist.
She offers him her own small hand, and his palm is warm and soft. It makes her heart flutter.
"Bella."