Chapter Summary: What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet... or so I've heard. A Rosalie by any other name, like, say: 'Rose' would be just as bi-... bossy! I was gonna say 'bossy,' I swear!

"Baby," Rosalie said warningly, "it's 'Rosalie.'"

I looked into her eyes, not challenging her; no: I was looking into her soul. She was serious and determined.

I shook my head again. "No," I whispered, barely even managing that as my screaming and crying under her hands had left me drained and nearly mute.

My throat hurt. My head hurt, and let's not talk about other parts of my body, okay?

"It's 'Rose.'" I said.

No, that's not it. It's not 'It's "Rose"' but how do I tell her she is my Rose?

I didn't know how to do that. I was hers, she could do with me whatever she wanted. And she just did. I couldn't. There was no way I could 'do' anything to her — I didn't want to — but she was my Rose, the Rose of my heart.

How to I tell her that? Something I knew in my bones, but without her ...

She was this close, this close to losing it. I tell her this thing I knew, in the whole universe of everything she knew and I didn't, ... how do I tell her this without her just totally rejecting it, rejecting me, and screaming at me and belittling me to even think that?

For who was I? A nobody from a nowhere town. And who was she?

She had Rochester and the Cullens at her feet.

Who was I to say anything, particularly anything like that?

She examined me critically, my head in her hands.

"I could beat this out of you, too," she remarked thoughtfully. "I could make you address me solely as 'Rosalie,' and you know I could."

"No, Rosalie," I whispered, "I don't think you can."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. I had just challenged her.

I don't think she liked being challenged. I don't know if she ever had been.

"You can't make me lie, Rosalie," I said defensively, "and you can't take this away from me, either."

You can't take this away from ... us. I thought.

Why didn't I just say that? I realized that it was 'us' that I was fighting for, not 'me.'

I was fighting for us.

She appraised me. "Are you willing to find that out?" she demanded.

I looked into her deadly serious eyes.

I shuddered. "I don't want to."

I didn't want her to beat me until she stopped, which in this case would be never. I just wanted her to — for once in her God-damned life — to accept this as the way things are gonna be around here from now on.

I mean, what's the big deal? Everybody had nicknames. I did. It was 'Lizzie' not 'Elizabeth.' 'Elizabeth' just sounded so ... odd, so formal, so not me, so not me, in fact, that I even had to dredge that name up from memory — Elizabeth Lucia Hale — to remember that it was my name now. But even before, it was Bella, and everybody just knew that 'Bella' was my name, and would've been surprised, shocked even, to know that my name was actually Isabella Swan, not 'Bella,' a name which wasn't on my birth certificate nor on any official document of my name.

'Bella' was just who I was. 'Lizzie' is just who I am.

What's the big deal with 'Rose'? Just 'Rose,' not the super-formal and harsh 'Rosalie'?

It was just a name, wasn't it? No big deal.

But I knew it was a big deal. It was for her — big time, obviously — and ... it was for me, too.

Somehow 'Rosalie' is how she always is to everybody, and, well, 'Rose' is how she is to me.

Sometimes.

Some very, very rare times.

Or, at least, that's how I see she is, and how she could be, if she weren't so mean, and angry, and exacting and ... well, just so damned Rosalie all the time!

I swear.

I mean, put it that way, and calling her 'Rose' is a compliment, kinda. Isn't it?

"I'm not asking what you want, or, more precisely, what you said you don't want," her hard voice interrupted my meditation on the 'beautiful flower' she was, "I'm asking what you are willing to do. Are you willing to fight for this?"

"You know I will," I said quietly.

I still didn't know why I had to, though.

She looked into my eyes. Hard.

Something happened, inside her. I didn't see anything happen at all, her expression didn't change, her body didn't change, but ... I saw something happen inside her.

Her hands moved down, and she picked me up easily, lifting me up by my armpits.

... my sweaty, stinky armpits, and (don't even think it, Lizzie), ... hairy, now. Ick.

(Shoot, I thought it.)

(Ew.)

She pulled the tub-basin from out of the corner by the door to the center of our room, our one room in our little cabin — home, our tiny home — and deposited me gently into the tub.

No matter how gentle it was, I still hissed in shock of the pain of my very tender(ized? ... let's not think about that) butt hitting the cold metal.

Rosalie had turned, when she was putting me down, but she turned right back at my hiss and examined me closely. I felt, somehow, her radiating concern, but once she saw that all I was doing was grimacing, and not — what? — screaming my head off in agony, she let me be, clinging to the side of the basin as she went to the stove.

She tested the water in the big pot, and grimaced herself, but her grimace was with displeasure.

"It's tepid," she said apologetically with me.

I didn't particularly care about the temperature of the water at present. I had had much, much worse while bathing, and very recently at that, too.

"So, you're gonna let me call you 'Rose'?" I asked carefully.

Rosalie frowned and crossed her arms, glaring at me.

There were just a ton of grimaces today, weren't there?

"I am not a person who countenances the let of anything," she seethed.

I mulled on this.

I asked again, (mostly) undaunted. "So ..." I said cautiously, "do I have your permission?"

She crossed her arms again, and said angrily, "And if I don't give it?"

I noticed that when she was lecturing me, her hands were at her sides, or she was gesticulating, or pointing at me.

I noticed, too, when she was closing herself off from me, she crossed her arms, like she was protecting herself from my assault, of all things. Like she was walling herself off from me.

That hurt. I looked down.

"You are such a recalcitrant!" she muttered angrily.

"It's not that, Rosalie," I pleaded.

"Oh," she countered disbelievingly, "then what is it?"

"It's ..." I said.

But then, what was it?

"It's mine," I said finally. "It's something you can't take away from me. It's ... no." I paused, then started over: "We've ... we've been through a lot, Rosalie .. Ro—..." My tongue wouldn't say what I was fighting for. "... and I am your Lizzie, and you are ... my Rose." There. I said it. "This is ours. This is us."

"This is us now," I dared a peek at her. She was glaring at me, coolly.

Then I dared to continue. "... and you can't take it away. It's there now."

"I don't think you are in a position to tell me what I can or can't do," she stated, arms crossed. "I can blot out this entire region of the this little, tiny corner of the world. I can erase it, and no one will know that it had existed."

I closed my eyes and hung my head.

I had no idea why she was doing this. And who was she doing this to? To me? No. She had to see I was set now. She was doing this to herself. She was hurting herself, and I had no idea why she was fighting so hard, just to hurt herself.

"Yes, Rose," I sighed sadly, closing my eyes, but I was surprised her name was coming easier on my tongue. "You can do all this, you can wipe me out and this, I don't know, cabin, and whatever else, and nobody will ever know."

I reopened my eyes. "But you'll know." I said. "You'll know, and even if nobody else knows, it's there, Rosalie. It happened, and you can't change that. I can write it in my journal to remember this, and you can take it and rip it up and rewrite it to whatever you like after you've killed me. But it happened, Rosalie. It happened." I said quietly. "And you can't change that."

I breathed in, then let it out slowly, looking at her.

Rosalie pursed her lips as she glared at me.

But behind her obviously angry demeanor, I saw something there. Was it a measure of respect?

"Well, well, Lizzie," she remarked ironically, "is that a spine I see you growing?"

I blushed and looked down at the rim of the basin, stretched and bent over an a curl, for my benefit no less. I felt like making an angry retort. I felt I had to stand up for myself.

But I already did, and this was so, so tiring. I'd been beaten like a child, and felt like one. I deserved it. I was a little ... nothing, and Rosalie had every right to belittle me.

"Yeah," I said humbly, "who'da thought, you know?"

Rosalie came right down and crouched in front of me. Even crouching, she was taller than me. I felt that she made sure I knew that, or maybe that was just her: every situation she was in, she was on top, the leader, the boss.

Must be exhausting to be so bossy; it tired me out, just thinking about her doing that all the time, and as for me? No, thanks. I never understood the popularity thing in school that so attracted girls like moths to the flame, and at home? Well, Pa was the sheriff of the County, of course he was in charge, and I was just fine with following along.

I never wanted to be in charge of anything nor anybody, even if I made noises about it sometimes, 'Oh, if I were in charge, I would so ...'

Everybody does that: complain, and then say they would do better. But I knew better than that. I saw what people in charge went through, and I knew anybody who said they'd do better were just talkers, and if they were given that power and put in charge, they'd just screw up everything way worse than what it was.

'They' meaning 'me.' Me telling people what to do? Everybody looking up to me? Looking at me?

I shuddered.

Rosalie lifted my chin making me look into her eyes.

"I did," she said quietly. She released my chin, and my head fell back to the side of the basin. "It looks good on you," she said, then added: "a backbone."

"Yeah," I sighed, not feeling victorious at all, just feeling bone tired, defeated. "Thanks." I added, and that even took everything I had to say it.

I was all curled up into myself. The basin was a large tub, I don't know how many gallons, but meant for standing in, or not even really that. But sitting in? No.

I was all scrunched up into myself. But I kind of liked this cocooned position, my knees up to my chest, head lolling on the curved side of the basin. All I needed was a pillow, and I would sleep and sleep right here, regardless of the crick in my neck I'd be sure to get.

I closed my eyes, and felt myself nodding off as I felt Rosalie regarding me, silly me, falling asleep in the tub. She was probably laughing at me and my foolishness right now.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she said gently.

I murmured some assent. I would've agreed to anything now.

I felt her leave my side to do just that: to clean me up, to take care of me.

My Rose.

A/N: Apologies to those who read these two chapters combined as one. I've written 15k words so far for this chapter (in twelve sections, if you must know), and realized last night a three am that I had to split this up. Well, I didn't quite split it up correctly, so last night I published two chapters as one. This is a (slight) chapter reorganization along unity of concepts. The re-realized chapter 75 is coming right up, and, hm? A chapter every day this long weekend? We shall see.

love, geophf