A/N: Again, thanks to my few but proud reviewers. Without you, this would be markedly more difficult. For reals. Thanks also to the lovely ladies at Project Team Beta for all the great work they do for the whole Twi-Fic universe.

As a reminder, A, insane. B, socially inept. C, an ass. D, hiding something. Oh, Bella and her lists.

Song for this chapter is Kids by MGMT

xoxo

3 - Intermission

It might have been an inspiration for the choreographers of the New York City Ballet to be in the office the next day to witness the dance Edward and Bella were performing.

For every step she took towards him, he would take three in the opposite direction. Bella tried to corner him on his way back from the restroom, but without making eye contact, he had swiftly turned on his heels and threw his shoulders to his ears, suddenly opting to take the long way around instead.

At one point, Bella casually stood at the opening of his cube with her hand on her hip, patiently examining her fingernails for some time, knowing eventually the call he was on would have to wrap up. He managed to make it continue for over twenty minutes, offering the customer at least a dozen different discounts, offers and promotions before she finally gave up, throwing her hands in the air and mumbling "Definitely A probably C definitely A probably C," under her breath as she moved down the aisle.

She was likely to go A herself if this silliness kept up for any length of time.

Bella skirted back to her seat and snatched up her trusty number 2. She whipped up a thirty-second rendering of the same kitty with the polka-dot bow, sitting alone at a small café table for two, a mug of dark liquid with three wavy lines hovering above it in front of her. She quickly signed it with her initials, BMS, in the corner and jumped up, sliding her sunglasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose. She tossed the sketchpad, drawing side up onto her vacated chair, and stuffed her coat under her arm. Forcing herself not to glance in Edward's direction en route, she made her way to the elevator.

Intermission. Game paused. It was time for a break.

She sat in the small sunny café, sipping French roast from a huge white porcelain mug for almost an hour. In that time, she made a new sketch featuring Dot and her new spec'd friend. He held a mason's trowel in one paw, and was gazing with pride at the page-high brick wall he'd just built between them. His last name was Masen, after all. Dot stood on the other side looking up, now looking angry and defiant. A sledgehammer lay on the ground next to her. Would she pick it up? Bella tapped her pencil on the table, unsure.

As she finished the last details of the new drawing, a few realizations began to set in. A, without coffee, there is really no point to any of this. B, she may have left that drawing on her seat earlier in hopes that a certain someone might stop by and see it. And maybe even decide show up. And C, She really needed to get a grip on herself.

All of this animosity as a result of an overenthusiastic headset toss? Really? Why was she allowing herself to buy into these feelings of anger and hurt and…weakness that this was dredging for her? And what exactly was she even planning to say to him if offered an audience?

"Hey, why so poopy about the headset thing? Listen, this job sucks enough as it is, let's tea party and not make it any worse than it needs to be, 'kay?. Oh, and by the way, there's a tiny detective who lives in my pocket, and she keeps asking questions about you. And I think she wants to frolic in your hair."

Bella sighed, staring into the fresh molten refill on the tabletop in front of her as she stirred the liquid around and around in her mug with a spoon. She was suddenly reminded of classic QDT (Quality Diner Time) she had spent with her father before she'd moved out East.

The diner was the only real bond they had shared after, at the age of ten, she had loudly and stubbornly announced her refusal to go on weekend fishing trips with him any more. She hadn't really thought about how he might react to her proclamation, but was unprepared for the look of sheer hurt and loss and…failure on his face. Suddenly ashamed of herself and scrambling, she had quickly blurted out the idea of eating at the local diner together twice a week instead, and he had softened and agreed immediately.

And that's how Bella got stuck eating diner food eight times a month for eight straight years. Every time she thought about cancelling a date with him, she remembered that unmistakable sadness in his eyes, and straight to the diner they would go.

For all that time, she'd sat across from him in the same olive green vinyl booth, watching him stir aimlessly, and sip what then looked to her like dirty old water, promising herself that when she was grown, she would drink something far more dignified than black coffee. Like mocha latte, or margarita. Or Hull Clean.

And yet, there she was, grown, and doing it just like him, stirring away at coffee with no cream or sugar inside. The same anxious habit.

Might as well bait a hook, Sharpie on a mustache, slap on a badge and call her Chief.

Charlie Swan, Bella's father, was head of Police in the tiny town of Forks, Washington. He was charged with the responsibility of keeping all three thousand two hundred and forty six citizens safe, sound and in-line. And he did it well. Bella wondered when the time would come for her to do something well. Aside from drawing cartoon cats and screwing up her coworker relations.

Bella and her dad weren't close in the way that you might expect them to be, considering all they'd endured together. What's a single dad to do once his little girl grows up and moves away? He had cared for her, kept her safe and happy for all of her years, always overcompensating to fill the holes in her world that had been unfairly left for her. But still, after all the shared years (and dinners) together, they never truly broke through the awkwardness that seemed to nestle so comfortably between them the moment Bella had reached teenagerdom.

She went to school, he went to work. He went fishing, she drew cartoons of him returning home with his catch. She read Austen, he read Sports Illustrated. He cleaned his gun, she cleaned the kitchen. That routine had replayed itself thousands of times inside their little white gabled house for eighteen years.

Bella jumped in her seat a bit, jostled from her thoughts by the sound of ringing bells as the café door opened and a tall, gangly man walked in. Her stomach clenched. Then a bright blush spread across her whole body, starting at her cheeks as he passed by her table on his way to the counter. He carried a laptop messenger bag across his chest, was red-haired, freckled and he walked with his head high, with confidence.

It wasn't him.

And if she was being totally honest with herself, there was nary a resemblance. This whole Edward fascination thing was starting to feel like a disease.

And "disease" was an interesting word indeed. Dis. Ease. Removal of ease. She shielded her eyes from the stranger as he exited with his to-go cup in hand, as if he might be able to read her thoughts. When it came to Edward, there clearly was no ease - certainly for her and perhaps even for himself.

Bella bargained herself into one last refill. And a biscotti. Her call log was going to be remarkably sparse today. She settled back into her seat and doodled mindlessly on a fresh page, circles within circles, and forced herself to think about something besides the peculiar man with the profound green eyes and bizarre attitude problem.

She wondered what kind of mundane crime her father was fighting back in Forks right now.

Charlie's fabled wounded puppy dog face had made a reappearance on the night that Bella told him she was moving to New York.

"I just don't understand why you have to go so far away. I hear Peninsula has a pretty good Art program. And, you know, if you wanna be in a bigger city, well then, maybe you could check into the Art Institute of Seattle instead. Please Bella, just consider it, I don't like the idea of you being so far away," he had plead with clear fear and anger in his voice.

But Bella had made her decision. And once made, her mind was a rock solid fortress. "Dad, I need this. I need to do this. I'm eighteen years old, and I want to explore the world on my own for a while. Please, just be supportive, because I'm not going to change my mind."

"I cannot support this Bella. I don't think it's the right thing for you. We have a big city and good art programs right here in Washington. If you honestly want to continue with this...drawing thing, then I really think you should stay close and…"

"Stay close to what, Dad? To you? To Forks? Are you really saying that this isn't the right thing for me, or is this not the right thing for you? I am not going to force myself to stay in this stupid tiny town to make you happy and end up feeling stuck here like..." She stopped abruptly, sucking in a deep breath through her nose. Her eyes widened with the realization of where she'd almost gone with that.

The look in Charlie's eyes made the rounds between shock, anger, sadness, and...understanding. Eventually, his expression settled on something that appeared to be resigned hurt.

"Dad, I'm sorry, I..." Bella started, ashamed of herself, examining the maze-like grain in the wood floor at her feet instead of daring a look to her father's eyes.

"No, Bells, it's okay. I get it. I do," Charlie said quietly. He nodded his head once and turned around, leaving her alone in the room.

It had been four years since she'd broken her father's heart. He had silently but supportively helped her with the logistics of her move. He'd even come home from work one day with a giant plastic shopping bag from the only nearby department store in Port Angeles. The bag was filled with purple. Purple sheets, pillow cases and comforter. He didn't say anything about it, just left it by her bedroom door, and Bella never mentioned to him how wildly impractical it was to drag an entire bedding set on an airplane across the country. And when her flight had been called over the loudspeaker and she stood to say goodbye, he'd reached into the liner pocket of his Forks Police Department jacket and retrieved a small wrapped package out of it.

He'd handed it to her with the words "Go get 'em, kiddo." And off she'd gone.

Inside the package was a small set of very expensive artist-grade pencils, and an envelope containing $250 in Traveller's Cheques with a folded note inside:

To my Isabella,I'm so proud of you, and you know that, I hope, even though I'm not the best at saying things like this. You know what you want and you're going out there to get it. That is really honorable.

It's going to be pretty lonely at the diner without you.

If you need me, you know where I'll be. There will always be a home here for you.

Now go out there and show that big city what you're made of. And don't talk to strangers.

Love, Your Old Man

P.S. You are like her, but only in the very best ways. I've been wanting to tell you that for years, but wasn't sure how.

She still received letters from him almost every Tuesday. Yes, letters, made out of real paper. Charlie did have an email address through the station, but Bella suspected that snail mail was his way of staying connected to her physically, even with all the miles between them. It suited him.

He'd butted out brilliantly through all the ups and downs of her time in New York, probably in hopes that at some point she'd consider herself defeated and come home. But he also knew better. She was stubborn, and honestly, she liked living in New York. Or, you know, near New York, in Hoboken.

She'd dropped out of school five semesters in, when a dangerous potion mixed of a nosy and judgemental roommate, discouraging professor critiques, a touch of depression and a natural desire to wander made it impossible for her to continue any longer. Since then, she'd submitted her work to a few different group shows, and was always casually working on the "Dot" series, but had no immediate plans for herself otherwise.

As much as she took it to heart, sometimes she doubted that "very best ways" insight from Charlie.

And now she spent her days responding to the pissed off queries of wannabe health nuts. Her life was in a holding pattern, waiting for the next opportunity to present itself. Perhaps that would explain how the intrigue of Edward Masen had so quickly taken over her psyche. Anything to keep the focus off her own failure to thrive.

Bella flipped open her cell phone, wincing at the time and wishing she had the audacity to just bolt for the day. Instead, she made the executive decision to allow herself one last mid-day distraction.

Dialing the numbers slowly, she gnawed her bottom lip a bit while the electronic ring sounded on the other end. Why was she nervous?

"Forks Police."

"Do I have the Chief on the line?" She said with a hint of tease in her voice.

"Bella?" She could almost hear the smile on the other end.

"How's it going, Dad?" She asked, settling back into her chair and resting her feet up on the adjacent chair, and refusing to feel guilty about blowing off work. Making this call was much more important than taking any other.

Meanwhile, back in the CCCC, Edward had noticed that the girl had disappeared for a solid two hours following a dreadful morning of her chasing him down like a Lab to a stick. For a time, he'd felt like they were acting out a real-life version of the cartoon classic in one door out the other zigzag hallway routine. Avoiding her had been embarrassing, uncomfortable, and totally necessary.

Now she had taken off somewhere and was no longer attempting to corner him, and yet, instead of feeling relieved, he felt strangely preoccupied, even in her absence - or perhaps by her absence.

Although he wasn't willing to give her the chance to say it, he wondered what she wanted, and why she was so insistent on speaking with him after their odd encounter the previous day. And for some unknown reason, he also wondered where she'd gone.

He felt ashamed for confusing her and possibly hurting her feelings; it had not been his intent. Keeping a distance from others had never been a malicious or mean-spirited device, it was simply easier. It was better. It allowed him the emotional space that he needed to make his music without having to worry about others being woven into the ugly mix.

His music was private - painfully private - and the refusal to let anyone who knew him see who he really was led to a simple and pure lie. Pardon, life. When it came down to it, as long as he was able to write and perform regularly, Jasper and Alice were all he needed. Family, friends, acquaintances and coworkers did nothing but muck up the waters that he'd worked to keep clear for so many years. It was a monster he had created with purpose, and he and Frankenstein lived together in harmony.

At least, they had. Until this girl came along and failed to see (or care) how freaking unapproachable he was. A day or two more of his signature blatant ignoring and avoiding, and she would give up. He was certain of it. Admittedly, he had felt a certain rush in the breakup of monotony that the headset accident and her subsequent little quest had brought to his life over the last twenty-four hours (God, had it only been a day?), but the sooner things could get back to normal, the better.

He glanced at his watch (He only ever wore a watch on days when he would be performing. Time was more important on those days.), and began to imagine his escape. He noticed the girl walk by, presumably returning to her work after her little adventure. She was wearing tall black boots and a denim skirt, and her dark brown hair stretched to the middle of her back.

Did he just seriously notice that?

She didn't pause or even glance in the direction of his cube. Good, he thought definitively.

Then, he proceeded to appall himself through the entire last hour of work by eavesdropping on the happenings on the other side of the wall.

All was quiet for a bit, then she took a call involving a customer's severe hair loss, including eyelashes, and then another regarding a poorly packaged delivery box. She handled both with ease and care and confidence. Upon hangup, she even hummed a few bars of You are My Sunshine before a coworker stopped by her office to see if she wanted to join in a happy hour hop after work (no one had ever bothered to ask him). She seemed fine, even happy.

Maybe he hadn't rattled her as much as he'd thought. Maybe he was the one with the unhealthy absorption.

He grimaced and glanced again at his watch, tapping his foot impatiently on the worn fibers below his desk. Tonight, he would play. And this was a good thing. A very good thing. One night on the stage and his head would clear itself completely of this strange invasion of the kingdom he'd created for himself.

I lay bridges for nobody, he thought grimly, and then subsequently jotted the words down in a plain black leather journal. He quickly tossed the journal into his desk drawer and rolled it closed.

Perhaps there's a song in there somewhere.

A/N:

Aww, Charlie is such a doll. Honk if you love the Chief!

Super bonus points for whoever got the Heathers reference.

In Chapter Four, something actually happens, I promise. Phew.