1. disclaimer: Any Twilight characters that may appear in this story belong to Stephenie Meyer. The remainder is my original work. No reproduction or other use is allowed with out my written permission. So, word out.
2. Only One chapter left (and prolly an epilogue - I want to write about Pookie, again. Seriously.)! 3. Slash/Backslash contest has some super fabulous one-shots. Final date for submission is fast approaching! 4. Keep your eye out for more PSVP updates from me in the next week or so (if you're reading my New Moon parody) because I'm going to be around family... and family requires stress release in the form of comedic writing. 5. ElleCC beta'd. She's amazing.
Be not ashamed of mistakes and thus make them crimes.
—Confucius
Low-cut mountains.
The dewy green slopes of a valley.
There's a gap in the hill where the rocks seem to pile up, and he sees the dip of the land and hears the trickle of water, and he's certain a stream must be pushing through those rocks, though he can't see from here. He's of half a mind to go and investigate when he hears the creak of a floorboard behind him.
He feels warm arms wrap firmly about his waist. The hands move upward, slinking over his chest and sliding up the sides of his neck and under his jaw until they cover his eyes.
He lets them rest there for a minute. Then he spins on her.
Her brown eyes stare up at him, intense. She's pale, but the dress she wears is paler. The fabric is soft as his hand steadies her, but not as soft as the skin and fine hairs on her arm. His fingers are moving up the slim curve of her bicep when her other hand snatches his hand away. She grips his hand tightly, and she pulls, leading him off the porch and down the hill.
They're headed toward the dip in the rocks. The sound of rushing water.
They reach the edge and they're standing there, and the water below is clear, but there are rocks littering the bed of the stream. Some look sharp.
She presses against him. She grabs both of his sleeves and pulls his arms around her. Her lips move towards his, and they whisper, "Jump in."
"It's cold," he whispers back, but all he can think about is how her breath feels so warm.
She pulls away. Her shoulders roll back. "Then we'll fall in anyway," she laughs-whispers, and her hands push on his chest, and he stumbles back.
His feet try to stop the slide, but—
Edward awakes hard and panting. His hands are perpendicular on his sides, spread out like wings, and his head is pressed hard into the mattress.
He has to make himself relax—which means he fumbles to open the drawer in his nightstand. His fingers find the bottle, and he's squeezing it into his palm and pulling himself out of his boxers. He half-groans when he finally coats himself. The sensation is wet and cold at first but then warms with the repeated tugs.
Edward doesn't even try to pretend at these times.
He imagines Bella bent over the conference table in the office. Her skirt has a way of bunching at her hips when she leans forward like that.
He recalls the tickle of her breath on his face in the bookstore. He takes this memory further and pretends he's memorized the perfect texture of her wet mouth.
He gives in and make-believes his dream was truth: that her dress is curled and buoyant in the stream's shifting current so that he can grab her hips through the chill of the water and pull her crystal-blue flesh against his own. She's shivering, but her mouth is steam when his lips push it open. Her hair is dripping, and the drops hanging off her eyelashes catch the sunlight.
They touch, and they move. They float and twist about each other like snakes in the current. Fabric floats downstream, and then her stripped skin is warming pockets of water against his chest. The way he can move her against him in the water: weightless and bent like a leaf of grass...
Edward groans as the tension shoots through him, his hand thrusting faster. He groans all the way through the pulsing rush.
When his eyes are no longer so hazy, he rolls away from the damp on the sheets. He throws his legs over the side of the bed and reaches to click on the bedside lamp. As his eyes adjust, Edward finds himself staring at the pictures on his nightstand.
The largest picture: his parents, Emmett, Del, him, and Rosalie.
He falls back down onto the sheets... wishing dreams were permanent.
The thing about it is...
It's okay.
It's all okay.
As always, he has over-thought things. His job isn't the end of the world. He likes parts of it. He likes the teamwork. He likes the product development and brainstorming, and the fact that he gets to work on international projects, speaking to people around the world. He likes his coworkers and their odd personalities. He takes comfort in the number of digits that appear with each direct deposit.
He realized the day before last what his real problem is. That it's not the work he resents. The problem is that even though the work is good, it's more than he deserves. He isn't worthy of it, because he knows that it's the type of work that someone else—someone who probably deserves and wants it more—would appreciate.
He's contemplating guilt when Rosalie knocks on his office door.
"I'm craving an overpriced steak salad, preferably with fancy lettuce and bacon," she announces, sitting in the chair on the other side of his desk.
"Is that your way of asking for lunch at that French restaurant?"
She beams back at him. "I did dress accordingly."
He notes that she's wearing a scarf. This must have something to do with it?
"What time?"
"I'll come and get you," she promises, already standing and heading for the door.
After she leaves, Edward frowns.
Rosalie's always given him an exact time before.
Lunch begins with Edward gaping and trying not to stare.
Because Bella's there—with his brother.
He's only beginning to process the situation, when "Jacob" (who is definitely not the bartender) shows himself, curses, and flashes a returned engagement ring at Bella so that she bursts into tears and agrees to "talk with him" again.
Edward wants to kick "Jacob" for being manipulative, and he wants to give Bella a stern talking to for being a sucker, because it's obvious to anyone that the fool is trying to woo her back. Then again, Edward would be even madder at Jacob—and he is mad—except that he realizes that he's the source of the guy's pain and Bella's current misery.
Oh, and it's also obvious that Rosalie's on the warpath.
When Emmett asks them to join him and Bella, Edward's torn between wanting to push Rosalie out the front door and wanting to be as close to Bella as possible. Neither of which is good, but Rosalie accepts Emmett's offer before Edward can think of what to do, and then Edward's thigh is two inches from Bella's, and Bella is sipping hard liquor and looking shattered, so she's not all that observant. Meanwhile, Rosalie keeps hissing comments under her breath at Emmett like, "What would your daughter think of you going out with random women?"
Comments that Emmett is ignoring by talking over her with comments like, "Edward, don't French restaurants have the best cheese EVER?"
Edward doesn't actually get to make any educated commentary on the fine cheeses available because Rosalie slams down her menu. "You know, Edward, now I wished we'd gone for Italian—the atmosphere here calls for some pasta putanesca."
Bella is staring at the bubbles in her glass and seems totally unaffected by the ire being directed her way.
Emmett counters her in a voice that's pissed—and Emmett rarely gets mad. "I don't know, Rosie, foie gras is on the menu. Seems like that's more your style." He gets a look in his eyes, a look that Edward knows can't be good, and then Emmett holds up his hand shaped like it's a goose beak. "Here little goosey—would you like to have some corn. Tastes good. Mmmm. Wants some more? Wait! You don't want the corn? You don't liiiike it? Well, too fucking bad, little goosey! Because you are going to open up wide, and you—are—going—to—eat—the—fucking—corn, you UGLY FUCKING DUCKLING!" At which point Emmett is furiously mimicking the force-feeding of his left thumb (corn) into his goose (hand).
At Edward's side, Bella starts chuckling. It seems she's finally paying attention.
Rosalie, irate, spits out, "It never fails. You are so unbelievably juvenile, Emmett!"
Emmett feigns being affronted. "Juvenility is nothing when compared to the ferocious force-feeding of feathered friends!" He shakes his fist in the air in rebellion.
Edward considers that the gesture looks quite French.
"'Juvenility' is not a word," Rosalie snaps back.
"But that's not to say it shouldn't be—and it's not nice to eat other creatures' livers. Livers are vital organs—speaking of which," Emmett directs his concern across the table, "you might wanna slow down there, Bella..."
Bella shrugs. She has the cognac in one hand and her phone in the other and is pressing buttons. She doesn't seem to notice Emmett's caution. So, when his next question fails to get her complete attention, Emmett does what he does: snatches her phone away and argues with Bella about her dog.
Edward is actually enjoying the relief in the tension until Rosalie speaks. Her voice is calm when she says, "So, spit it out, Bella, why'd you dump that guy?"
Calm, furious Rosalie is the worst. Edward's having memories of the day he sold the Vanquish, and how after her screaming and yelling, Rosalie'd said everything was fine, but it wasn't fine...
Bella's reply of, "I'd rather not talk about it," does little to put Rose off.
"Oh, don't tease us, Bella. He said you'd known each other for ten years." When Bella doesn't answer, Rosalie presses on, "Is it because of that guy from the engagement party a few months back? I heard about that." She winks at Bella.
It's in that moment that the great sinking feeling hits Edward in the chest.
Rosalie didn't schedule this lunch—and she normally puts their lunches in his Outlook calendar—and she agreed to join Emmett and Bella's table. Rosalie planned this—and even if she doesn't know for a fact that Edward has feelings for... She suspects. He's been too obvious, and now Rosalie's not taking it out on him—she's going after Bella.
Edward half wants to confess himself right there. He wants to apologize to Rosalie. Apologize to Bella. Apologize to Emmett for perpetuating the stereotype that all men are fuckwads.
Edward feels a burst of hope when Emmett tries to change the subject, but it doesn't work.
Rosalie's acting like a shark that smells blood in the water. "Bella, we have to head out for a happy hour tomorrow after work, wouldn't that be nice?"
He feels like taking Bella into his arms, caging her there, and running her out of the restaurant, away from his feral fiancée and her long-taloned machinations. But he doesn't do that. Instead, he grabs Bella's thigh, basically feeling her up. He withdraws it immediately, wanting to die as his fingers slide off the silk of her skin, but he's already ruined everything, and Bella's said, "yes," to meeting Rosalie.
Victorious, Rosalie finally seems to calm, at least enough to bicker only with Emmett. Edward and Bella are mostly silent, except for the occasional glib answer.
Beneath the table, Edward's fist is still sweaty and tingling.
It's when they're leaving that he sees Bella gulp down the rest of the cognac. She sways slightly after she sets down the glass, but then she takes a few steps before Edward knows it's going to happen.
He leaps forward. He catches her just as she starts to fall backwards.
He caught her.
He's holding her.
But it doesn't matter because she gives him a final bewildered look and then passes out.
"My God—this is why sane people don't drink during the work day." Rosalie crosses her arms.
"Crap," Emmett mutters. "I have that Denali meeting. I can't take her home. Edward?"
Edward expects Rosalie to throw a fit, but instead she instructs, "Call Angela. She has her home address. Grab the key out of her purse. It'll be fine. I'll explain to Carlisle." She pats his arm.
They leave for the office.
Edward, holding Bella tight against him, takes her home.
As he's exiting the taxi, the cabbie is giving him extremely suspicious looks. Then again—he is carrying a beautiful, young woman over his shoulder while rifling through her purse for her keys.
He manages to get her inside though and gently lays her on the couch. Getting her out of her coat is quite the ordeal since Edward has to be both a gentleman and a gymnast in order to get her arms out of her coat sleeves without giving her either whiplash or a dislocated shoulder. It's with a sigh of relief that he's finally able to slip off her shoes, one at a time, and brush damp strands off the sides of her brow.
Then he can just look at her.
It's peaceful, looking at her. Sketching the details of her face with his eyes. Her skin, flushed as it is, seems to have a magnetic pull on his fingertips, and he has to jerk his hand away as he finds his thumb skirting her cheek—again.
He makes himself stand. Bella will probably want water when she wakes up. He explores her kitchen. It's simple without many ornaments, but it's also obvious that she uses it. There's a coffee mug in the sink waiting to be washed. The spice rack is full, the labels water-stained and faded from frequent use. He finds a glass and fills it with water, only to think she'll probably want ibuprofen or something in addition to the water.
He goes looking for her bathroom.
But finds her bedroom instead. Unlike the order of the rest of the apartment, the heap in the center of the bedroom is something to behold. Edward has no inclination to go in at first—snooping in girls' bedrooms is creepy shit—but there's a white, medicine-like bottle near the back of the mess.
As he stoops to pick up the bottle of Advil, another object catches his eye. A book. There are lots of books in the pile, but there's only one book that could make his heart stop like it does. Sense & Sensibility. He drops the Advil bottle and then has to pick it up again.
She still has it.
She's had it all this time.
He sets the book on her desk and opens it up, flipping through the pages. It has the old book smell, and he grips the binding, holding it to his nose and breathing in the scent.
Then he sets the book down and decides he needs a drink, too.
He's humming to himself in the kitchen as he's searching for something to imbibe when he hears the creak of the couch.
He rounds the corner. Bella is sitting up, staring at him with a dropped jaw. He moves toward her, plan in mind: give her water, Advil, and then get the fuck out.
Instead he says the worst thing he ever could, "Are you all right?" which, as soon as he says, he wants to slap himself and take it back, because there's nothing to make them pretend the moment in the bookstore didn't happen. It happened, and Bella acted, gave up her fiancée, but what did Edward do? He failed. And yet, he can't focus on that right now, because Bella is staring at him blankly, looking scared and sick, and he's only being a loser and making it worse. He tries to explain. "You passed out."
She blinks, then nods. "Oh, the double shot. I shouldn't have drunk that."
Between his brother ordering it for her, Rosalie attacking her, and Jacob... Edward tries to reassure her. "Well, I'm sure the stress of being accosted in the middle of the restaurant didn't help."
She shakes her head. "I deserve much worse from Jacob."
"No, Bella, you don't." Not from anyone.
"Oh, but I do. I never really even explained…"
And there it is. He's hurt her. "Bella, I…"
"Don't say anything, Edward."
He thinks of a thousand things to say. To explain everything. To tell her the story of his life. But then, he stops himself, because when it comes down to it, there's only one thing he can say, "I'm sorry," he whispers.
She stares back at him for a minute, her face tense and her eyes flickering ever so slightly with changing emotions—and then she pulls the cover over her head.
"Bella?" he calls, wanting to know how to fix this. He can hear the sniffles from beneath the blanket and he knows he's made her cry. "Please don't hide, Bella."
He's made things worse. He's made her worse. She hasn't moved on because of him—and even though he doesn't want her to—she's agreed to meet Jacob. She's taking the steps. She can finally be with someone who loves her and not some confused chump with an overbearing family and a penchant for fairytales.
And yet he needs to say goodbye.
He peels the cover back. He touches her face one last time, brushing the tears aside, and then, because he can't stop himself, he presses his lips to her forehead. He doesn't want to let go. He feels like everything in this moment is asking him to stay—but he can't. He's been selfish enough.
He squeezes his eyes shut and pulls back, standing and facing the door.
He sends his best wishes. "I hope you have a nice evening with Jacob."
He heads for the door. He does not look back.
She does not say goodbye.
He thinks about taking a cab, but instead he chooses to walk the many blocks across town. The numbing cold and anonymous bustle of the tall city help in their subtle ways.
By the time he reaches his building, it's dark, and when he finally clicks open the door, he has visitors. Emmett is sprawled across his couch with Del curled up against him. Some strange Cartoon Network show is playing.
Edward smiles wearily as he hangs up his coat. "Uh, hello? I'd tell you to make yourselves comfortable, but it seems you've already done so..."
"Whatever. You have the bigger cable package," Emmett replies.
Del, breaking her attention from the screen, smiles up at him and says "Hi, Uncle Eddie! Where's Rosie?"
"Hey, Del." He smiles affectionately at her. "Rosalie is at her apartment."
"Oh," Del accepts with a tiny pout and then proceeds to return to her show.
Emmett warns in a loud whisper, "Unless you come with blond hair and breasts, do not—and I repeat—DO NOT interrupt Ed, Edd n Eddy without risk of early death." Then he stands up, carefully extricating himself from his TV-awed daughter before motioning for Edward to follow him into the kitchen.
Edward follows.
Emmett is leaning up against the counter, lips pursed to the side. "So..." he says meaningfully, "this afternoon."
"Uh, Bella's okay?" Edward offers.
"No—no, she's not," Emmett corrects him.
Edward doesn't say anything, because frankly, it's none of his brother's business. He reaches into the fridge to pull out two beers.
"Rosalie isn't okay, either."
Edward freezes, this time because there's more than accusation in his brother's tone. Emmett sounds the same way he did when he told Edward that their dog died when Edward was ten. Emmett sounds like he did when he had to tell his parents that he got a girl pregnant and that he was going to be a father. Emmett isn't just being accusing—he knows.
Edward turns his head slowly to look back at him.
"Thought so," Emmett mutters.
"Fine," Edward growls, rounding on his brother. "Right, I'm fucking everything up—as usual. I keep thinking I'm going to fix things—but I'm not—I know that. I just…"
Emmett stares at him for a moment, and then snatches the beer from his hand. "Yes, but that's okay."
"That's okay?"
"Yeah. Because for once you're going to be honest."
Edward pops the cap of his beer with a jerk of the bottle opener.
Emmett does the same.
"Fine, then," Edward concedes.
Emmett nods and then takes a sip from his bottle. "Now talk, you moron. Did you sleep with Bella?"
Edward's shoulders drop as he stares down at his bottle. "No, it's not like that."
"Do tell. What's it like then?"
"Bella's more of a... I don't even really know Bella—not really, but then the bigger matter is that I... God, why the fuck am I talking to you about this? Well, fuck, I tried to end things with Rose after Dad's speech at the Christmas party, but..."
Emmett finished his sentence for him, "But she took you back the next day, I know."
His brother's voice is low and gravelly, and Edward glances up at him in confusion. "How do you know?"
Emmett sucks in his bottom lip, and his face looks rather serious until he smirks and explains, "Rose and Del have girl talk. It's loud and easily overhead."
"Jesus! Why do I talk to you?"
"Shh, bro. Inside voices. You interfere with the show, and we're—" Emmett puts his hand up to his throat and draws it in a horizontal line across, and then he whispers, "You talk to me because you haven't talked to anyone about this."
"Which, come to think, maybe I had a good reason not talking to—"
"No. No. No. You don't talk to anyone because everyone in the family is in love with Rosalie except for you—and you're afraid that everyone's going to hate you if you don't walk down the aisle with her."
Edward sets down his beer. "Well, I suppose there's that."
Emmett gives him a slow nod. "Honestly, man, I think the only way that you'll piss off the family is if you continue to be a shit about it. Rosalie, if you're straight with her, isn't an emo queen like you."
"Uh, no—she's not an emo queen. She's an ice princess, instead."
"Okay, fine then. I never said it was going to be easy, but..." Emmett trails off, appearing earnestly interested in Edward's tile, before asking, "So, what's the deal with Bella? You two act like castrated rabbits in each other's presence—it's rather disturbing, actually."
Edward ignores the jibe. "I don't know. Bella and I just had an instant connection—almost like how I knew Yao-Yao and I would be friends after the first laugh—like I don't have to try to understand her or her, me—it's just easy, whereas with Rosalie, communicating can be a trial—but with Bella... well, now it's become a mess because I'm engaged, and she... well, I don't know what she's thinking."
"How romantic!" Emmett exclaims in a squeaky voice. "Now if only you hadn't promised your penis to another woman—well, then, true love would be—"
"Shut the fuck up."
Emmett frowns at him before lowering his voice. "Five-and-a-half-year-old down the hall. Learns words not good for the dinner table annoyingly quick—and even more quickly if you interrupt her show."
"I'm beginning to think Del's obsession with Ed, Eddy and Edward or whatever is—"
"—Ed, Edd n Eddy —" Emmett corrects with his index finger held up.
"—is a bit of an unhealthy obsession."
"I'm not going to disagree with you—however—back to our 'boy talk,' you need to be straight with Rosie, man—because, has it not occurred to you that if you're going to get married, it's perhaps a bad thing to be falling in love with other people?"
Edward gives his brother a level stare.
"Look, what are you afraid of?" Emmett asks.
Edward closes his eyes and tries to give a solid answer, but he all he can come up is, "I don't know."
"The worst shit that can happen is that you're not invited to a few Sunday dinners and that maybe Rosie tries to dump a cup of coffee down your pants at work. Maybe you get up the nerve to ask Bella out, but she doesn't hear you because she's reading The Grapes of Wrath that day beneath her desk and only pretends to hear you. Seriously, Edward, it may suck—but not manning up is going to suck a lot more. You need to quit over-thinking shit."
Edward gives a low chuckle.
"What?"
He smiles up. "I'm a big spaz, aren't I?"
"The worst." Emmett smiles back.
At that moment, a small figure peeks into the room.
"Hey, what's up, baby-girl?" Emmett asks.
Del looks at them with knitted eyebrows, before saying, "pizza," in a soft voice. It is a demand.
Emmett turns with hand on his hip, looking at Edward expectantly.
"There's Korean, Ethiopian, and crappy pizza available for delivery in ten minutes," Edward lists out.
"Still want the pizza?" Emmett questions Del.
Del shakes her head, negative. "Ethiopian," she pronounces in clipped syllables.
"That's my girl, a proper New York pizza snob," Emmett praises. "You want lamb?"
Another nod.
"And Edward, would you like a backbone—I mean, more over-done sour brooding—I mean, sour bread?"
"Give me the phone, ass—"
"—aspirin, too. Right?" Emmett's eyes are threatening.
Del looks concerned about her father.
Edward dials the number.
When the cartons of Ethiopian arrive, Del crawls into Edward's lap to eat. She ends up getting as much of her dinner into her mouth as on Edward's lap, but he doesn't care because she's giggling and talking about her show, and Edward gets bonus "uncle points" because he has the same name.
At some point, Del's eyes start to flutter as they fight hard to stay open, but eventually her attempts to stay awake fail, and her soft snores fill Edward's kitchen.
"Looks like it's time to head out," Emmett whispers. He grabs Del's coat and hat, and Edward holds her steady while they get her bundled to brave the winter weather outside.
Emmett is tugging on her mittens when Edward whispers, "I'm going to talk to Rosalie—tomorrow."
Emmett stops what he's doing and looks at Edward. "Uh, can you wait until Friday?"
Edward doesn't bother to hide his shock. "Why?" he demands.
Emmett puts Del over his shoulder and says, "I just want to figure something out. Give me a day?"
"But Bella and Rosalie are meeting tomorrow..."
"One day, okay?"
Despite his confusion, Edward nods, and then he walks them to the door.