Disclaimer: SM owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is MINE :)

I love the canon couples, but I'm fascinated by the two years Edward and Rosalie spent together before she met Emmett. I cannot believe they just ignored each other all that time. So here's my version of what did happen. Canon couples will appear…eventually.


Chapter 1: Another Day

Edward's POV

It is midnight on New Year's Day.

Nineteen thirty-three has arrived, tantalizing the world with illusions of hope and possibility.

Despite the remote location of our house, the merriment of the town seems to be right outside the window, cloaking me in anticipation and joy.

My hands rake through my hair as the jubilee presses against me.

I wish it would stop.

The revelry itself is bad enough, but its ability to slither into my mind like some serpentine devil is maddening.

I need to escape.

A bark of a laugh flies from my lips at the suggestion.

As if I ever could.

There is no escape when you are fleeing yourself.

From their position on the loveseat, Dr. and Mrs. Cullen do not react to my outburst, but their thoughts betray them as usual.

They are concerned.

Of all the feelings I pluck from their minds, of all the sentiments they waste on me, concern is the worst. Akin to pity but not strong enough to be alarm, it likens me to an unpleasant headline in the post or a patient with a mysterious skin rash.

I do not need concern.

What I need is silence.

Not love.

Not compassion.

Not even eternal access to a blood-red sea.


My superhuman hearing can turn the slightest note into a symphony. But my telepathic talent, such as it is, stretches that ability to an almost perverse extent. Thus I am always surrounded by sound. None of my choosing, a paltry few to my liking.

And as such, more than anything else...more than the chance to hold my mother's hand again...more than relief from the fiery famine in my throat...what I want most in this god-forsaken world is one moment of silence.

One moment where the world does not crash against my stormy mind, threatening to plunge me further beneath the turbulence with each insipid thought.

One moment where I am as alone as I long to be.

And closer to the dead which I am supposed to be.


My head turns toward my maker, the softness in his golden eyes struggling to overcome the lifelessness in mine.

Myriad questions flit through his mind competing for verbalization. I do not bother to pretend that I cannot hear them all nor that I would be inclined to answer should he choose one.

By now, he should know better than that.

As he studies me without success, his wife squeezes his hand, keeping her eyes where I cannot read them.

It matters not. Her thoughts are clear enough.

After a minute or an hour of silence, the doctor's frozen features manage to fall, and in the lines of his mouth, I see something resembling disappointment.

As he turns back to his bride, I almost smile.

Disappointment I can handle.


It is the waiting that kills me.

Waiting for everything.

Waiting for nothing.

Ceaseless, meaningless waiting.

I can almost outrun it, I find. As I am the quickest man or beast I have ever encountered.

And in those sweet moments when my limbs make a mockery of whatever terrain I traverse, I almost feel happy. As if something worthwhile has resulted from this hell I find myself in.

But the freedom is short-lived because at some point, I have to stop.

I always have to stop.

Not for fatigue or lack of direction. But because I have but a slim margin in which to exist here, and at some point, it always runs out.

Or runs in, to be more precise.

It runs into a town, a railway, or a campsite, all of which mean one inescapable thing.


And as this world was made with them in mind, I must defer to their whims and wishes. So I cannot run at full speed where they can see. I refrain from displaying my strength in their presence.

And I accept that draining them would be...bad form.

(I was going to say "in poor taste," but that would be an untruth.)

So I come to a reluctant stop, always with a groan and a curse. And the weight of waiting crashes into me with the force of a tsunami, and I am taken down once more, losing whatever mental ground my running had gained me.

The thirst is unbearable, the uselessness a constant torment.

But it is the waiting that kills me.


Another failed attempt to outrun time brings me home long before I was due to return.

And as I reach the front edge of the living room rug, I stop short, damning myself internally.

I should have been paying closer attention.

More to the point, I should have headed north as I started to.

"My darling..."

"My love..."

"So sweet..."

"I love you..."

They were careful to abstain while I was in earshot, hence the other reason I ran so often. The doctor was convinced their consummating happiness had driven me away six years ago. And in the two years since my return, I had never caught them in the act.

Not once.



"Please...kiss me... like..."


"Yes...right there..."

I cannot move, however much I want to.

Because they do not know I am here.

They are too consumed with their own scents and sounds to be conscious of anything else.

And if I move now and they discover me, our joint mortification would be too much to bear.



"You...you are..."

"All yours...always..."

I cannot move, however much I want to.

Because I seem to lose my grace and stealth when embarrassment hastens my flight.

The last time I'd caught them in a comparatively chaste situation, my attempt to slip out of his study undetected found me falling over the desk and into the wall where I knocked his favorite Van Gogh to the floor, shattering glass all around me.

That was eight months ago.

I have not been in that room since.



"I need to be inside you..."

"Not yet."

"Please, love..."

"But it is my turn to feast..."

Their loveplay is intensifying, the genteel banter giving way to words they never say in front of me.

I block it out as best I can, feeling like a child trying to stop the wind with his hand.


"Yes, love?"


"Yes...Now, please..."

I want to resist.

I know that I should.

But I have no more fight in me tonight.

My eyes flutter shut as I lean against the mantle, removing the latch from my guarded senses.

I am awash in lust as I behold her curves and softness, the ball clenching in my abdomen as she coos and sighs.

You are not my mother.

You are just a woman.

I am envious of his position as he mounts her, coveting his strength and sensuality as he claims his prize.

You are not my father.

You are just a man.

I am neither boy nor beast as I embrace my shame and bear silent witness to their coupling, sparing one brief thought for propriety as I swallow my own sinful cries.

Evening passes, and the morning comes.

Such is the end of another day.

What do we think of Iceward? Rosalie arrives soon, so maybe she can cheer him up, LOL.

Thanks for reading! xoxo