Disclaimer: SM owns everything in the Twiverse, but please don't steal my plot.

I'm still getting questions about just how "canon" this story is, and well… at this point, I can't say much more without committing an egregious spoiler crime, LOL.

But I am a woman of my word. I promised Bella/Ed & Emmett/Rose, and I meant that. That has always been the destination for this Roseward fi, a destination I am very excited about…

… but I am taking a VERY different route to get there, a route somewhat supported by canon but not strictly canon. It's a subtle but important difference, and one that explains why my canon-couples-only readers might be nervous.

Just know that though this story is firstly about an elaborate, imagined Roseward past, even as it is also about how that past leads them to Emmett and Bella.

Hope that helps clear things up. And if not, feel free to send me a PM. I welcome your questions because they show me you care about these characters as much as I do. And that makes me smile. A lot.

Chapter 23: The Question of the Year

Rosalie's POV

"What are we doing, Rosalie?"

Five words, five simple words when taken on their own.

Five words, innocent enough on the surface.

"What are we doing, Rosalie?"

But when spoken on this night, in this context, by that man, with that tone…

They are the essence of life.

The essence of mine to be sure, the essence of a life I have struggled to define since its beginning nine months ago.

But as he watches me with that piercing gaze, eyes that could see right through me without the benefit of his gift, I realize something.

They are the essence of his life too.

A life he placed in my hands to cradle or crush according to my fickle whims.

"What are we doing, Rosalie?"

He so carefully poses the question, his smooth, soft delivery compelling me to reply, and in so doing, deftly sidesteps the question I asked him first.

Which I cannot allow.

"A fair question, Mr. Masen." I lean forward, searching his eyes. "And one to which I will happily reply once you have answered mine."

"I'm sorry?"

"Has your perfect recall failed you? I believe I asked you a question first. Two in fact."

"Ah," he chuckles lightly. "So you did."

I inch closer. "And what is your answer?"

"My answer," he sighs almost to himself, stroking my skin idly. He seems lost in thought, and I wonder if he plans to reply.

Until he does.

"My answer, I'm afraid, must be preceded by yours."

I blink in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"You ask if I see what we are becoming, what we are doing to each other." His voice is barely a whisper. "And though I could fashion an acceptable, honest response based on our recent interactions, even at my most astute, I can only safely speak for myself."

"I do not understand."

"I know what you are doing to me, Rosalie." He caresses my name, and I fight off a shiver. "I know the uncharted waters upon which your presence has set me adrift, the swirling tempest your nearness inspires. I know what I am becoming for you, Rosalie. Increasingly hungry, dangerously attached, and ferociously possessive.

"But all of that, novel though it may be, is meaningless if it does not serve your pleasure. None of it is worth the words I use to describe it if it is not what you want.

"So you see." He laces our fingers together, his eyes intent. "I must therefore defer and delay in replying, idle in anticipation until such time when you can answer your question for yourself."

"And how long can you wait?" I somehow manage to ask.

He raises our entwined fingers to his lips, brushing them with a promise. "As long as you'll let me."

Though my skin is unnaturally cold, my body is aflame with the heat of his confession. I wanted his honesty, craved it even. But never did I dream he would dare give it, especially here where our nonparents could overhear.

As if they know the direction my thoughts have taken, it is then the Cullens announce themselves, her comforting laughter signaling their arrival and the end of our conversation.

I am wholly unable to mind as he has effectively rendered me speechless.

Edward lowers our hands to the armrest between us but does not release his hold on me. And though instinct compels me to cower and hide, I let him hold me there, siphoning his strength.

The house lights flicker, the curtain rises, and the second act begins.

—B—I—

As 1934 rises and sets before us, those five words haunt me at every turn.

"What are we doing, Rosalie?"

In January, they underscore my mood as the first blizzard blankets the town and surrounding mountains with snow. Everything seems so fresh and new, as if a single whisper out of turn would destroy it all. And that I could not endure.

I do not answer Edward then because the moment is too sacred.

In February, they force me out of doors as Dr. Cullen and Esme secretly prepare gifts in celebration of that mid-month holiday. My father makes it special by sending me a lovely letter, full of tidings and tidbits from a past life. But his mention of my former fiancé's death ruins what peace I might otherwise find and leave me in a terrible mood.

I do not answer Edward then because he does not deserve my wrath.

In March, they envelop me as I recline upon the bench across from where he sits at the piano. He has been composing a lot of late, a sprawling tour de force fraught with tension, longing, and confusion. He does not meet my eyes as the music pours out of him, but I know he knows I am listening, and I know he knows why.

I do not answer Edward then because I am trying to hear.

In April, they give me pause as frost gives way to flora, and I reflect on my first year of immortality. For all I experienced, there is but one constant, one body as certain and celestial as the stars. And as I wonder if I would have survived without him, the answer steals my breath.

I do not answer Edward then because the truth is too great.

In May, they saturate my thoughts like so many raindrops against my bedroom window. I have always loved the rain, its cleansing power refreshing that which is parched. It is impossible to persist in our folly anymore, so we retreat to our separate quarters, arid and alone.

I do not answer Edward then because I am thirsty.

In June through September, those five words escape my mind because my nonbrother seems determined to forget they exist. He is almost aloof, behaving in a way I have never seen. Though at first I blame the shift of the seasons, I soon realize he reads my reluctance to answer him as a refusal. And as he avoids meaningful conversation—and all physical contact—I recognize how deeply he suffers in my silence.

I do not answer Edward then because he leaves me to my shame.

In October, they quicken once more as Esme approaches me one morning while the Cullen men are away on separate hunts. She lays her hand atop mine, and with a maternal tenderness she has never before employed says, "Whatever you decide, all will be well." And as I lay my head in her lap, my tearless sobs acknowledge what I cannot.

I do not answer Edward then because I am all cried out.

In November, their audacity astounds me as I can suddenly think of little else. I watch him without apology, studying as if for a final exam, and to his credit, he says nothing of it. He invites my inspection, encourages it even, and I am floored by his voluntary nudity.

I do not answer Edward then because I am in awe.

In December, they prompt me to take his hand one evening as Esme strings cranberries around the fragrant pine Dr. Cullen chopped for her decorating pleasure. The house is merry as a choral carol, and I am fresh out of time. I lead Edward away from the house before fear makes a liar of me and do not stop walking until I can safely face him.

And I do answer Edward then because I cannot wait any longer.

"What we are doing, Edward, is wasting time." His golden eyes are equal parts curious and confused, but he does not interrupt. "And though eternity stretches before us wild and unbidden, I do not wish to leave us to chance. Not anymore."

When I fall silent, he takes a hesitant step toward me. "What are you saying, Rosalie?"

I avert my gaze for a moment, harnessing the best of my courage, and turn to him again without a blink or flutter. "I want to give myself to you, Edward. Give to you as you give to me."

His eyes widen as he reads between my nervous lines, and he shivers, his grip on my hands nearly painful now. "Are you sure?"

I offer a soft smile. "Surer than I have ever been about anything."

He swallows hard, groaning. "When?"

"The doctor and Esme are celebrating the coming New Year in London."

"Yes," he says rather breathlessly. "They leave in eight days."

I nod. "The night after."

Edward's eyes darken another shade, and as it has been seven months since our last kiss, the sight of his need nearly brings me to my knees. "Are you sure?"

I lay a trembling finger against his lips, licking my own at the contact. "Are you?"

His eyes drop to my mouth as he nods, his "yes" barely audible, and I step away, knowing there is no stop if we start this now. He expels a heavy breath as he too retreats, clasping his hands behind his back.

We stare at each other across the space our desire creates, breathing and dreaming as if we share the same body. And as Edward's shoulders relax for the first time in a year, I feel the release of tension in my own.

"Nine days?" he repeats.

I close my eyes, fixating on an image of the last deer I drained to calm myself, and meet his eyes again. "Nine days."

And with those two words, his five words become anything but.

Remember that looooong note I wrote at the beginning of this chapter? Read it again if you need to. I can say no more than that.

See you again soon… I hope! xo