disclaimer: twilight is the property of people with real monies. 1. this is one of those "plot" chapters, heh. 2. i read The Suicide King by Racket Ghost (the artist formerly known as Nightshade##) - its all twisty and !!!! so check it out. 3. 9 days left to enter the slash/backslash contest! 4. ellecc rules as beta queen.
Heaven is high; Earth, wide. Bitter between them flies my sorrow.
—Li Po
She's motionless in the glass, suspended as if abed. The transparent case is placed on a plain, oak table in middle of the glade. The light flickers through, so that her skin seems to glow, but that can't be—skin shouldn't glow that way. It must be the layers of the encasing glass, for she's not breathing.
His modern mind thinks commercial freezer first, but then the child in him thinks, no—coffin.
He wants to wake her up.
He fingers the glass edges of the case, feeling for creases with his nails. He presses. Nothing.
He finds a rock, so heavy that his muscular legs burn when he squats to lift it, but lift it, he does. He slams it with a deafening blow onto the case. The stone shatters, but the case is unmarked, uncracked.
Still locked. Still closed.
He sweeps aside the powder and dust and finds her face again. He stares down and imagines life in that motionless pout.
He presses his lips to the glass above.
When he pulls back, her eyes are open, blinking. They smile at each other.
But then it happens.
She reaches up to touch him, but she can't. She pushes right and left, but nothing gives.
She screams—though he hears no sound. He can only stare at the white of teeth and red lash of her tongue. She scratches until her nails are bloody. She's thrashing and bruising herself, and he's on top of the case, pounding with his fists and pulling and pushing.
Nothing.
Nothing will get her out.
He wakes up panting in the dark. His neck stings. His whole body is covered in sweat, and his sheets and quilt are twisted around his thigh and underneath his left side.
The clock reads 5:59 a.m.
He lies still for a moment, taking measured breaths until his heart rate slows.
When he stands up, he stretches first thing. He rolls his neck until the stinging feels muted, and then he half-throws himself into the shower, only to jump aside when the scalding water attempts to melt off his skin. After he adjusts the tap, the temperature of the water is still against health advisory, but the rake of the burn loosens his muscles.
Then he gets dressed.
The suit is new. The shoes are not, but the polish on them is fresh. The anise-leather scent hits him as he tugs them on, and his nostrils flair as his head pangs.
Not four minutes later, he's downstairs and pushing through the glass doors with all the other desperate, groggy people.
"Americano—but I need at least three shots." He holds up his fingers just to make himself clear.
He hears his order being called back, and then he makes his way over to the counter to wait.
His new life has begun.
Emmett has jelly doughnut on his collar.
Or so Edward thinks.
Rosalie's the one to spot it. "Are you capable of eating without a bib?" she mutters, pulling a Tide pen out of her purse and attacking his collar.
"Del stole mine," Emmett insists with a straight face.
Rosalie glowers at him. "What substance is this, anyway?"
"Apple."
"It's red."
"Apples are red."
"On the outside. Is this that chemical-laden microwave crap? I told you not to give that to her."
"But we both like it!" Emmett protests.
"Freddie knows not to give that to her."
"I know. He says," and here Emmett puts his hand on his hip and imitates, "'Ah—Mr. Cullen—dat Missy Rosie gonna e'ssscizzor yer cojones if you let Delita eat dat e'store brand.'"
Edward laughs, but Rosalie looks thoughtful. "Such a good choice. He really was the perfect hire. I like him so much."
"He's fine, but I still think that Vera chick would have totally rocked the nanny costume with those hips and that—"
Emmett leaps back to avoid Rosalie's swipe.
But then Dad—Carlisle—strolls into the coffee nook, engaged in a rather technical conversation with—
Bella.
"The audit process might take at least—" Bella cuts off when she sees the three of them standing there.
Carlisle, however, doesn't miss a beat. "Bella, you're the last one to meet my son, Edward!"
They look at each other. Bella's smile is tight, and rather than extend a hand, she gives a quick wave by way of greeting.
Edward nods back. He can feel everyone's eyes on them, and he knows she's feeling them, too.
Then Bella turns to Carlisle with a smirk, her eyes seeming to determinedly fix on him. "Nepotism much?" she quips.
Carlisle laughs. "I assure you, Edward is less disruptive than Emmett."
"Right, high standards, Carlisle."
Carlisle laughs again, and Emmett immediately jumps in with a retort. "Hey, I resent that, and I'm top salesman again this month, I'll have you know, Bella Swan girl," Emmett counters back.
"I saw. I even have a pie chart that proves it."
"Oooh. Pie."
Bella shakes her head with wondering wide eyes at Emmett, and then turns back to Carlisle, "Our meeting is at two?" Her face, Edward realizes, looks weary. There are circles under her eyes.
Carlisle nods.
"Off to prepare." She taps the binder in her hand and takes a step toward the door.
"I'll go with you." Carlisle grabs his tea.
They both head for the door.
Emmett's head is tilted to the side, and there's a contemplative frown on his face."Aw, Bella seems sad. She normally laughs at my jokes."
"Well, she's missing her ring," Rosalie notes in exasperation.
"Oh, really?" Emmett's frown disappears, and then he turns to wink wickedly at Edward.
"Don't even think about it, Emmett," Rosalie warns in a clipped tone.
"Just because you don't like her—"
"She's annoying."
"Nuh-uh. What you mean is that she corrected your poor excuse for grammar on that report—and you're intimidated by other hot women."
"She's not even really that pretty."
Emmett snorts.
Edward wants to ask Rosalie, Do you have eyes? But instead focuses all of his attention on the striking array of flavor options listed on the Flavia machine.
"Whatever. I have a report to write," Rosalie mutters with an extra dose of irritation in her tone, and then says, "Happy first day of work, honey," kisses Edward on the cheek, glares at Emmett, and heads down the hall.
Edward pours sugar into the coffee cup he's been holding for the past ten minutes. "What do you mean about Bella, Em? She's engaged?"
Emmett takes his gaze looks up at him curiously. "Yeah, well, at least she was. Newbie over at Kohler and Gorman. They were together for forever, from what I know." He shrugs.
Edward gives his brother what he knows must be a fake smile, unable to stop himself. He realizes that he's probably revealing too much. Emmett—despite being a verbal idiot—gets people better than almost anyone he knows. "Huh, well, I guess I'm off for round two of orientation." Edward gives his cup a final stir.
"Sexual harassment training! Those videos are hilarious! Can I come, too?"
"Emmett..." Edward groans.
He sees her almost every day, though he doesn't see her as often as he sees others. She travels at least twice a month for various projects, so there's that, but soon he realizes that Bella has a pattern. Every day at lunch, she goes downstairs to Norland's Bibliophilia. Otherwise, she's not distant, but she's not actively social, either. She doesn't make a point of joining the other young professionals who head out to post-work happy hours. She does her job—does it well—and then leaves.
He sometimes wonders if she sprouts wings and flies away.
She also has the somewhat silly tendency of walking back from lunch with a book in her hand, like she can't bear to let it go. Reading while walking is a bad idea for most people—but it's an especially bad idea for Bella, for whom an inner equilibrium does not appear to exist.
He and Bella almost never speak directly to each other, unless they're in a meeting.
One time, he is sitting in the conference room, and she walks in early with Jessica.
Jessica plops down next to Edward, being sure to make herself known, and with no mind for the concept of professional space, reaches out and lifts his book cover, reading the title aloud, "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Cool. Is that Feng Shui or that um, Tao stuff?" she asks, leaning rather close to him.
"No, Zen is Buddhism. Daoism is different. Feng Shui is geomancy, only loosely related to aspects of Daoism." As he speaks, Edward shrinks back from her ever so slightly. Jessica's perfume smells like grape cough syrup.
Bella, who has been focused on her notes, doesn't glance up but quotes, "'You'd be surprised how many people violate this simple principle every day of their lives and try to fit square pegs into round holes, ignoring the clear reality that Things Are As They Are.'"
Jessica put her hand on her hip. "Bella, you are such a know-it-all."
"'The wise are not learned; the learned are not wise,'" Bella quips back.
Edward laughs. He ignores Jessica. "The Tao of Pooh?" he asks Bella.
She looks up at him, pleased. "Never a finer text." She smiles.
He smiles back.
She's so unbelievably gorgeous—and funny—and—
He's been staring for too long. It's too long because Bella's smile freezes, and Edward forgets whatever natural response he was supposed to have made.
He's waiting for the elevator the next day with Rosalie. She's ranting on about Carlisle's tendency to always drive a Mercedes.
"I told him I could advise him on custom-ordering something to his specifications or at least on getting a model with a bit more RPM—but he doesn't listen to a word of my advice, and there's no way to argue with him either. Your dad is the nicest, stubborn person I've met in my—"
The door opens, and Bella, book in hand, is coming out. She glances up at the same time that she takes a step.
She sees Edward.
The result is disastrous.
The tip of her shoe catches on the crack between the elevator and the floor.
She falls down with a splat.
Edward is paralyzed with indecision, palms up with fingers spread wide but arms braced back at his sides.
If he had caught her, she would have felt so...
What we would he have done?
Emmett, from behind, is the one who is pulling Bella up. "No more midday margaritas," he's joking.
Rosalie is holding out a Tide pen while clinically examining Bella's dress for any needy spots.
Bella, fire-engine red in the face, is mumbling something like, "Happens all the time. Thanks for helping." She seems to be looking everywhere but at Edward.
But then she does look.
She looks, and then she runs.
But that look.
They're still pounding on the glass. Still.