a/n: 1. i don't own Twilight. Stephanie Meyer does. 2. fandomgivesback still going on! 3. slashbackslash contest still going on! 4. this be a heart-fail chappie, so put on yer sad berets and opera masks, m'beloveds. 5. ellecc rules. she beta'd.
Once upon a tiger's back, it is hard to alight.
—Chinese Proverb
It was the Christmas Eve before last.
He rushed in late. The concert he'd played for had run long. The family was all crowded in the living room: Emmett wearing a Santa hat, Mom and Dad in red sweaters, and Rosalie laughing as Del battled with a small ocean of wrapping paper.
It was the first Christmas that Rosalie spent with them, not bothering to "put up with" her parents' extravagant annual soirée in Boston. Her wanting to come had surprised him at first, but then he'd realized that fiancées were supposed to do such things.
Over the rest of the evening he got the usual nudges about the future: "Tick-tock, tick-tock, Edward, before she runs away," Emmett joked. "I saw some lovely bridal gowns just the other day," his mother "hinted."
At some point, his parents called it a night and headed upstairs. He and Emmett had left their chess game "to be continued" and gone looking for the girls.
They found Del asleep and curled up on Rosalie.
"Here, I got her," Emmett whispered, reaching for Del.
"Oh, one sec," Rosalie insisted, and then she had carefully slid out of the chair, stood up, and kissed Del softly, before handing her to Emmett with an almost-sad smile.
It was moments like these that left Edward in awe of his fiancée. She was so completely uninhibited in her affections with his niece that he almost didn't know how to respond to her afterwards.
What he did do was plop down on the couch and pull her against him.
"Christmas concert went okay?" she asked.
"Yeah, it was fun—just went late."
"I wish you didn't have to do those weekend and holiday gigs," she murmured, but without any accusation in her tone. She sounded sleepy, and her body was warm curled up against his.
"Rosie," Edward asked, "Do you ever wish we could just get away from it all? Live somewhere remote? Get away from the city crap? Maybe even raise a family there?"
Rosalie looked up at him, blinking blearily, "What, like elope?"
"In part, I guess, but also... I don't know, maybe something more permanent, too."
"Oh, well, our parents would be pretty upset if we eloped, right?"
Edward sighed. "You're tired. I shouldn't be bothering you with this."
"No, it's fine," she murmured into his shoulder. "We can go on a trip."
"Go to sleep, Rosalie," Edward whispered. He kissed the top of her head.
He looks for Rose everywhere. She doesn't answer her phone. For once in a lifetime, she doesn't instantly reply back on her PDA.
When he finally sees her, she's in the middle of the ballroom in a backless champagne number that's turning heads. He marches toward her. She's next to Emmett, and while Rosalie's back is turned, Emmett is watching him with curious eyes. Edward is almost there when his father's voice calls out to them from across the crowd.
Then there's the speech. Rosalie's hand is pressed across the small of his back. Everyone is clapping. But Edward's shocked eyes are following the flight of a flush-faced girl.
She flees, and Edward is trapped by the crowd.
By the eyes and eyes and more eyes.
By his family.
When it ends, he flees. Then, he's dashing about. Running and barely dodging guests in the hotel hallways. Inquiring at the front desk. Interrogating the valets and women coming out of the ladies room. He's running from ballroom to conference center to game room. Searching and failing to find a single clue.
He's about to head into the hotel bar when two men come barging through the door. One has at least ten inches on the other and is holding the shorter man by the scruff of his collar.
"You need to learn to distinguish between fire hydrants and women, asshole," the larger man mutters with an irritable eye roll. He shoves the shorter man forward. The shorter guy stumbles and manages to clunk his head against the wall.
The larger man has a hand towel thrown over his shoulder, so Edward infers he must be the bartender.
The bartender is looking at the grumbling heap of a man on the floor and frowning. He turns to Edward and asks, "Do me a favor. Make sure he's not dead? I have other inebriated imbeciles to poison, et cetera, et cetera."
Edward begins to reply—but the bartender is already knocking through the doors. Edward gives an incredulous shake of the head before squatting down to offer the fallen man a hand, which the he takes, while glaring at the door as Edward pulls him to his feet.
"Asshole!" the man yells more loudly than necessary at the door.
"You okay, man?"
He spares Edward a glance long enough to mutter, "I will be," and then it looks like he's considering charging back into the bar.
It's a bad idea. The large bartender will totally flatten him with a sweep of his backhand, and the guy next to him does not look like the type of dude to be even remotely scrappy. Edward decides to distract him for his own dignity. "Can I ask a question?"
The man nods, still glaring contemptuously at the door.
"In the bar, was there a girl with—?" But he's cut short.
Because Rose has rounded the corner and is tearing down the hallway, heels clicking on the marble. Her skirt is swishing from side to side as she marches forward, and her hair is splayed behind her shoulders. "Edward Cullen!" she shouts, marching up to him.
The man next to him backs away in obvious apprehension, though his eyes are sweeping up and down Rose's figure with obvious appreciation.
Edward doesn't say anything—and what is he supposed to say? "Sorry, my fiancée, but I'm looking for this girl with whom I had a magical moment at the bookstore this afternoon"...?
No. That would not do.
"We—are—going—to—talk," Rosalie hisses.
Edward gives a single nod of assent, and then she's dragging him down the hall way, and he's letting himself be pulled. Then they're in the elevator, and there's the uncomfortable silence. It's the silence of being in a fight while being surrounded by people, and the tension coming off Rosalie is evident. Her pale eyes are glaring at him, and she's obviously seething with each breath of air.
He realizes what he's done after all. Their wedding date was just announced—and how did he react? He spazzed and ran out the door the minute the microphone was turned off. Naturally, Rosalie was...
"I'm fucking angry," she spits out the second they're off the elevator.
He tries to think of a response, but then she's sliding the room card into a door slot and pushing open a door.
He stands there motionless.
Rosalie stares at him with her hand on her hip. "What? Come inside. Or—are you intent on publicly humiliating me further?"
Edward reaches out to hold the door open. "Ladies first," he whispers. Chivalry can't hurt right now...
Rosalie stomps into the room. Edward closes the door behind him and then follows her. She plops herself directly onto the center of the bed. Edward takes the chair alongside.
The room seems to have excellent soundproofing because the only sound is their breathing. Rosalie looks up at him after some long seconds have passed. "You won't even sit next to me?" she asks in whisper. She gazes at him, but then breaks her gaze away, staring down at her hands and looking like she's trying to manage some thin thread of self-control.
Edward blinks. Rosalie's not just angry... she's hurt.
Now, for the first time this evening, he's looking at her and realizing how much time she must have spent preparing for this party. Her skin is glittering slightly. Her nails are pale pink, though they were a reddish color the day before. Her hair is in a perfect mess of curls, a harmony only a salon could achieve.
Here is the reason she neglected her ever-present PDA, and he didn't even notice until she forced him. It's horrible in so many ways—every other man in that ballroom surely noticed every golden curve—and yet the man who is supposedly hers neglected to spare her a single admiring glance. Edward tries to feel whatever he should feel, but the only emotions he can muster are guilt and a tinge of annoyance—which isn't fair. To either of them.
He pulls himself out of the chair and lies down next to her. He gently lifts her hand from her lap and brings it to his lips. He kisses the underside of her wrist gently. She's always liked it when he does that. It used to make her shiver slightly.
It still does now.
"I didn't mean to react that way when Dad announced—I mean—I should have thought of—"
Rosalie jerks her wrist out of his hand. "What, Edward? Thought of someone besides yourself?" She crosses her arms across her chest, and then she turns to stare defiantly into his eyes. "And don't play that dithering game. You promised everyone last week that you'd cut that crap."
"It wasn't crap—I just fucking hate... You know I didn't mean to."
"Of course, you didn't, but what do you expect me to do? Lay back and take it? Hide my feelings and cry in the corner until you happen to notice? It's you. What if you never noticed? I've already been your fiancée for nearly five fucking years... Besides, what good is not saying anything anymore? I'm not going to do what you do with the passive aggressive bullshit. It doesn't fix anything. If something's wrong—fucking say so."
"What do you want me to say? You act like something's changed. It hasn't. It's still the old stuff. We've just never actually talked about it."
"I tried to talk to you about it."
"Oh, right. Do I ever remember. You asked me if I fucked my dead friend."
Rosalie closes her eyes and clenches her teeth. "Edward. You came back. I gave you time. I hadn't seen you except for brief trips for two years. We'd promised to marry each other, so—duh, I hadn't gotten any for two years. My vibrator is on the verge of collapse—and—then—you—wouldn't—touch—me. What was I supposed to assume? Then, you 'let it slip' that she moonlighted as a hooker on the Canton docks. What the fuck was I supposed to think?"
"What I said—that I was grieving my friend—who was over a decade older than I was."
Rosalie holds her tongue for a moment, but when she looks at him again, a wry smile is spreading across her face. "Just so you know," and here she lets loose a full-on grin, "I fully expect to get hit on well into my forties."
"Dear God," Edward groans in frustration.
"I know," she drawls as she shrugs. "I'm vain, and the bragging is a rude habit—but it's not like you don't benefit from it." Then she stretches out her bare legs one at a time, causing the thin fabric of her dress to hike up.
"I thought we were supposed to be talking," Edward emphasizes, but his eyes are haplessly examining the line of her thigh. Her legs are the perfect combination of muscle and curve, and their sleek form is enough to shock him every time he sees them.
"We haven't..." She scoots closer to him and then lays her head on the side of his shoulder. "In at least three weeks." He almost thinks she's going to kiss him, but then she asks, "Why is that?"
"Rosalie—we really do need to talk." He knows he'd sound more convincing if his breathing wasn't elevated.
But she pushes him back. His head thumps against the mattress, and then she throws over a leg, and her weight is on top of him. There.
"Spit it out, Edward."
"Well, why do you even put up with me? You deserve more, Rose."
She stares at him from above for a long second. She doesn't blink. When she speaks her voice is calm and even. "Because when your dick is actually inside of me—I like it. Because you're smart. You can be funny on occasion. Because our families are friends—and family is very important to me. Because, when you're not focused on yourself, you can be pretty great. Because," and here, she pauses, before pronouncing, "because I care about you, stupid."
Edward listens to her speech. It's so very her. Forthright. Balls-out, and yet she hasn't said what they both know—what lurks in the background: they aren't in love with each other. Not anymore.
Though, Edward's not sure they ever were.
He wonders is she's really okay with that. "We're not really in love, are we?" He puts it out there.
This question doesn't rattle her.
"Edward, it's been five years of a lot of crap: law school, you being abroad and then emo, and your dad and the sale of the firm. We're not going to be lost to puppy love—but I don't think that negates what we have."
She is okay with it.
But he's not. The moment has arrived, and he needs to say it. "I'm not sure I—I'm not sure that we should—" His voice is already weak and tense, but she doesn't let him finish, regardless.
Her eyes go wide, and she demands, "You're not sure about what—exactly?"
He knows that his expression, his tone, and the way his hands are shaking are saying more than his words.
Rosalie is shaking her head—no, no, no.
He reaches out. He wants to calm her—reassure her in some way, but instead, she attacks him. Her hand fists in the cotton of the front of his shirt and wrenches him up toward her. Her knees go wide and her hips are grinding into him. Then Edward flinches as teeth cut against his bottom lip, and tongue follows in their wake.
He pushes her back. "Rosalie—!"
"No—Edward—five fucking years—you—!" Tears threaten the corners of her eyes.
There's nothing that makes him feel like a bigger asshole than a girl crying—and fuck, Rosalie never cries, so he's more ashamed than ever.It's all coming down. It's like they've leaped into some sort of free fall, and it's scaring the shit out of both of them, and Rosalie's the one who's supposed to be iron and steel—so to see her jaw shivering, her eyes reddening...
Instinct and desperation take over Edward. His fingers push under her ass, beneath her dress. He roughly pushes against the lace until his fingers find the edge, and then he's pulling at the fabric and shoving her off his lap and back onto the bed.
Rosalie's hair is coming out of its pins, and she's gasping as she demands, "Fucking—what do you fucking think—?"
"I don't deserve this," he groans into her neck. His whole hand is cupping and circling between her legs.
"Just shut the fuck up for one damn—!" And then his mouth covers hers, and he's mimicking the shapes traced down below with his tongue and lips against hers.
She jerks.
She tries to move away.
He holds her there, fingers and mouth making her stay.
He holds her, and he keeps pressing and tonguing and licking. Circles and thumbs. She's noiseless and still at first, but then she gives in, and she's kissing him back. She's moaning against his lips. Her fingernails dig in, vise-like on his arm and ass. He's on the tail-end of a winter cold, and his nostrils are hissing slightly through the strained intakes of air. His hands only stop their movements when she pushes them away and goes for his front button—at which point he yanks down the front of her dress.
He moves to palm the now liberated breasts, but with an angry hiss, she slaps his hand away. "You're making my job difficult," she snaps, and then she pushes out the button.
He kicks his pants off. He strips off his boxers.
Rose slides the lace off her ankle.
He pushes her dress up the rest of the way. She pushes back against the headboard.
He tries to kiss her.
She turns her head. "Fucking don't." She jerks her hips against his to make her point.
He doesn't try again. He grabs her thighs, lifts her up so that she's angled, and thrusts into her.
She tenses. Her hears her teeth grind. Her elbows are over his shoulders and her hands are pulling hard on his hair.
She's cursing as he moves. "Fuck. Fucking hell. Fuck you."
Pushing in and out.
"Fuck you," she gasps out, even as she holds him tighter.
He fucks her harder to shut her up.
It's fast and loud, and her ass is against the headboard. The back of her head is flush against the dry wall. The stock picture of a country flower garden is rocking from side to side on the wall above.
It can't be comfortable. It might even hurt.
"Fuck you," Rosalie hisses between pants.
Edward doesn't utter a reply. He responds by thrusting harder, and Rosalie's free hand slams back against the wall to buffer the force, gasping and squeezing him impossibly tighter.
They're lost in this—whatever it is, when he realizes that the picture above looks like it's about to fall. Edward clutches her against him and rolls them back onto the bed.
She's just begun to tense and moan in earnest when his body tenses, and the pleasure shoots through him.
He stills on top of her, and then only the sound of their breathing fills the room.
They lie there for an indeterminate amount of time.
Rosalie is the one who ends it. She pushes on his shoulder.
He rolls off of her.
He turns his head to find Rosalie not looking at him but at the ceiling. "I'm going back to the party," she states, and then she stands and walks toward the bathroom, perfect curls now in a mess and dress, rumpled.
"Rosalie, I..."
She shakes her head, but doesn't turn back to look at him. "Don't say anything. Not a word." She walks into the bathroom and closes the door.
Edward cleans himself up and gets dressed.
The shower is running when he lets the door click behind him.
He walks through the hotel hallways for a while before finding an exit sign and stepping out into the winter cold.
He walks until he's sure his lips are blue.
He is coming back inside to get his jacket from coat check when he runs into his parents.
"Edward! Look at you! Crazy boy!"
"You should stay at our house tonight." His mother is already shoving his arms through his coat sleeves.
He agrees to this, and then they're waiting for the valet to bring the car, and his dad is prattling on about the impending merger, about Edward's new role, and about how smoothly the whole process has been going. "The transition manager they sent along—a Miss Swan, lovely young woman. They couldn't have picked a better person for the job. I meant to introduce her to you tonight, but she slipped out early, but—oh! That's her! Bella! Bella!"
The name registers, and Edward turns to look at the same time their car pulls up.
His brain almost fails to process the moment.
Bella.
Bella is the manager.
Bella is in front of him.
The man next to her is the bartender.
His hand is sliding off Bella's ass.
Bella looks... she looks like Rosalie did when Edward left her not an hour ago.
They stare at each other for a broken second.
Edward opens the car door before he loses whatever he'd been holding on to.
He stays at home until his parents go to bed.
Then he goes to the nearest bar.
He drinks until they kick him out.
Then he catches a cab to his studio.
He sleeps until its almost noon. He smells like shit when he wakes up, so he showers.
He catches another cab.
He knocks on Rosalie's door.
She opens it. They stare at each other.
"I'm sorry," he says. "For everything. I'm so, so sorry."
She lets him in.