A/N - This is my first kick at the can. I love to write, but this is my very first fanfic. Rated M for language and lemons.

Disclaimer: S. Meyer named these characters. I just brought them north of the border.

Chapter 1 – The Wise Man's Son

"Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know." Twelfth Night. (Act II. Scene iii.)

Monday February 2nd, 2009

I really wasn't intending to eavesdrop, but as the volume of voices on the other side of the door increased, it became more and more difficult for me to tune the argument out. The young man, in particular, sounded really angry.

"You're fucking kidding me, Dad!" he said. "You know, it actually sounds like you believe those insane accusations were true, the way you talk sometimes."

"I most certainly do not believe them, and you know it, Son. Now control your language and get a grip on yourself. I'm just trying to give you some advice, and if you've got any sense at all, Edward, you'll take it..."

With those words, from Dean Cullen, they lowered their voices, and I felt my posture relax slightly. It was so rare to hear the Dean of the college raise his voice, and I knew he didn't enjoy confrontations, so hearing him engaged in a shouting match was definitely not the norm. I hadn't seen his son enter the office earlier because I'd been in the Registrar's personal office getting some papers signed, but as the door swung open now, the young man strode out quickly, averting his face but unsuccessfully masking the tension which inspired his quick footsteps and clenched fists.

I'd never met this son, or any of Dean Cullen's family members for that matter, but from what little I could see, I guessed Edward was in his mid-to-late twenties. His disheveled clothes and wildly unkempt hair contrasted entirely with Dean Cullen's carefully groomed, well-dressed appearance. As his son crashed out of the Dean's office, oblivious to my existence, his battered leather laptop bag bashed against the door frame. Stray papers threatened to spill out of the top flap and he muttered, "Fucking damn it" while reclaiming the papers, jamming them deeper into the bag at his side and kicking the door closed with his foot.

I blushed, hearing him curse. Not that I'm a prude or anything - I'm prone to cussing like a truck driver a lot of the time - but because I was pretty sure Dean Cullen was right behind me, and I had carefully crafted a professional persona which I maintained painstakingly while working in the Dean's office. Sure enough, when I turned around, he sighed heavily from his office doorway, his eyes betraying his embarrassment and discomfort in the wake of the argument with his son.

"Sorry about that, Isabella. I'm sure that was uncomfortable for you. That's my youngest son, Edward. He's having a bad time of it at the moment, but there's no excuse for that kind of crass behaviour. I apologize on his behalf, and I'm sorry that scene had to be the first exposure you've had to anyone in my family," he said as he calmly walked towards my desk and handed me a manila folder. "Can you please file this?" he added, and then he walked back into his office and gently closed the door.

I felt terrible for him. In the five months I'd worked part-time in the Registrar's office, I'd never seen Dean Cullen lose his shit or overreact. He had to be the most even-tempered man I'd ever met. But often the people we love most can inspire the most passionate emotions in us. I guess even Carlisle Cullen was not an exception to that predisposition. While I'd never seen his dealings with family members before, in a university this size, there was a wide array of crappy student issues to deal with, and since September, I'd observed him handle the most stressful crises with tact and fairness, never losing his impartiality or good judgment. To say I respected him was a bit of an understatement. Hearing him lose his temper with his son today, although surprising, didn't make me respect him any less. It just permitted me to see a human side of him I'd not been privy to before.

I glanced up at the clock above the door. It was eleven-fifteen and I had fifteen minutes left before I had to leave to get ready for my first class of the day. I felt the familiar rush of excitement I always felt at the beginning of a new course. I was in the homestretch of my undergraduate career, about to start my final semester. My four full-time courses had reached the mid-term point, but this year I had opted to take two half-courses to round out my course load. Having just written the final exam for a fourth year sociology half-course the week prior, I now found myself at the beginning of February, embarking on a half-course in which I'd be able to select a Shakespearean topic for intensive study. I'd selected the course more for interest than anything, since I'd completed all of my required courses for my English degree, and wanted an opportunity to reread some of my favourite works by the man who was, in my humble opinion, literature's greatest dramatist.

I rounded my desk, filed the folder appropriately and organized some other papers and documents which would need attending to in the coming days. Then I gently knocked on Dean Cullen's door.

"Yes?" he called out.

I opened the door and poked my head in.

"I'm on my way, Sir. I hope your day gets better," I added with a smile.

"Thank you, Isabella. You're very kind, as always. See you on Wednesday morning. Don't work too hard, now," he admonished gently.

I smiled at his words, but we both knew I wasn't about to ease up just because the end was in sight. I was eager to maintain my excellent GPA and my place on the Dean's list, an honour that meant more to me this year, since I had such admiration for the man who conferred that honour.

I gathered up my belongings, left the office and exited the student services building to run quickly across the lightly snow covered quad and over to the student residence apartment where I lived with my two roommates, Jacob and Angela. Dashing up to the second floor of the building and entering our three bedroom apartment, I smirked as I saw Jacob's boots and coat in the hallway where he'd dropped them last night, and his door still closed. He'd had a late one with his fraternity brothers and was no doubt still sleeping off a hangover. Angela had a full morning of classes on Mondays, so I wasn't expecting to see her.

In my room, I quickly grabbed a pair of jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt, changing out of the dressier outfit I'd worn for my shift at the registrar's office. Finding a hair tie, I pulled my long brown hair into a simple pony tail and pushed my feet into a comfy pair of warm boots. I collected my reading list, a notebook and my Norton Anthology of Shakespeare and assembled everything in my backpack. On the way out, I donned my coat and grabbed an apple to eat on my way across campus, again feeling the excitement of embarking on a new course overcome me.

As I crossed the park, the cold February air burned my uncovered ears.

"Shit, shit, shit," I chanted as I hurried across campus, kicking myself for not wearing a hat.

The wind tunnel on University Avenue was infamous among Toronto's university students. I picked up my pace, kept my sights on my destination on the other side of Queen's Park Crescent and vowed to dress properly next time. I munched quickly at the apple, and as I approached the beautiful gothic building that hosted many of my English classes, I tossed the core in a trashcan and quickly pulled open the large wooden door. The rush of warm air hit me as I vaulted through the door, and the ache in my ears slowly lessened. As I made my way down the long wood paneled hallway, I double checked the room number at the top of my reading list and confirmed that I needed to head up the wide wooden stairway and into a second floor lecture hall, one I was familiar with, having spent a great deal of time in there during my second year at U of T.

I selected an aisle seat midway back near a radiator, and made myself comfortable, awaiting the arrival of the prof, eager to see if I would be acquainted with him or her. The course calendar had reported the same information throughout semester one: "ENG436H1 Topics in Shakespeare – Professor TBA." Initially I had been wary of taking the course without knowing who would be teaching, but that seemed like such a cop out, so I threw caution to the wind and decided that my love for the material was enough to make me sign up for the course, regardless.

A flurry of movement at the front of the room signaled the arrival of our instructor. I craned my neck around the people sitting in front of me and watched as Professor Martin Brown settled in behind the podium. I relaxed in my seat and breathed a sigh of relief. I knew him well, having taken two of his courses in the past. He'd been teaching at the university for over twenty-five years, was very knowledgeable in his field and had a great approach to teaching. We also had a really great relationship. Definitely a bonus.

"Good morning Ladies and Gentlemen," he greeted us, moving over to the large oak door. "Or should I say good afternoon?" he continued, peering at his watch. "I gather you're all here because you have an immeasurable love for the Bard and his works, and if that's not true, best make a speedy retreat now. I'll close my eyes for thirty seconds so you can run for it."

He made a show of covering his eyes, and the class laughed politely as he peeked through his fingers.

"No takers? Excellent!"

He closed the door soundly.

"My name is Professor Brown, and I'll be your guide for the next four months as you pursue your own passionate inquiry into some facet of the great Master's work. We will read some of his plays and sonnets together, but ultimately you will chart your own course, hopefully in some undiscovered waters, to find an aspect of this unparalleled dramatist's work that speaks to your own heart."

Around the room, many of my forty or so peers were smiling and whispering to each other, clearly intrigued by the idea of choosing their own material for reading and topics for study. During this brief interlude, we were interrupted by the sudden reopening of the door. My mouth dropped open as the young man with a now-familiar head of untamed hair flew in and headed straight towards Professor Brown, shaking his hand.

"Sorry I'm late, Sir," he murmured, moving past the professor to drop his bag on the table at the front of the room.

Professor Brown turned back to the class with a warm smile and gestured towards the newcomer.

"Ah, Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce you to my graduate teaching-assistant, Edward Cullen?"

At that point, Dean Cullen's youngest son, Edward, turned to face the class and I saw his face for the first time as he scanned the room with the most glorious blue-green eyes I had ever seen.

Shakespeare who?

A/N - I figure you gotta have awesome eyes to compete with Shakespeare!

Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy!

Cheers,

gg