Validation

Disclaimer

Twilight and its characters are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended and all creative rights to these characters belong to their original author. No profit is being made from this story.

For Frenchbeanz. Happy birthday, lady.

Rosalie grabs Edward's arm as he moves past her door. He stops for her and his brow furrows when he sees her face. He wonders why she is not with the man writhing in agony in her bedroom. She's left him alone?

Rosalie doesn't dare speak her request aloud:

Come.

She leads, he follows. They move quickly and are soon fifteen miles from the house.

"Rosalie, what are y-"

His words are cut off with Rosalie's lips. Edward finds his moving to meet hers. They are softer than he would have expected, given their nature, and he finds his mould easily, but not naturally. His initial stupor wearing off, he pushes her away and brushes the back of his hand over his mouth.

"What… what was that?" he stammers.

Rosalie, drawn up to her full height where Edward is slumping, is taller than he is, and she stares down at him.

"I need to be sure," she says.

"Sure of what?"

"Of this." She waves a hand between them. "That there's nothing here."

"So you're free? For him?"

"So I'm free for him."

Edward straightens. "Okay." Then his lips are on hers again, and it's hard and robotic. There is no passion - no sparks or buckling knees, desperate moans or frantic closeness. Only their faces touch, and their bodies are held as far apart as they can manage. Edward even has his hands clenched into fists at his sides. She's his first kiss, a woman confirming she doesn't want him. He's enough of a masochist to allow her this piece of him.

Then they separate, each taking a long step back. Edward is relieved, and he knows Rosalie is too. She almost smiles.

Thank you, she says.

He shrugs. For now, moving in different directions, Rosalie goes to her mate while Edward continues his tedium. The gravity of the moment haunts him until he is leaning over Bella Swan one Saturday afternoon seventy years later.

One day he will know sparks.

Thank you to superbeta Kyrene. Go show some love to Frenchie. She writes awesome lemons where we debated medieval coming-of-age at 2am or something stupid, and Juggernaut is actual win.