yes, this means you're dead
yes, this means you're dead
emmett/rosalie. pg. 866.
He could never have imagined something so devastatingly beautiful - he knows he's not that creative.
Is he dreaming? He's not even aware of himself anymore, so he guesses he might be. Either that, or he's dead. Both options obviously agree on the fact that this isn't really happening in the life he's known, in the life he's so accustomed to.
The face of an angel fills his vision, and it's this that sways him toward the “dead” end of the spectrum. He could never have imagined something so devastatingly beautiful - he knows he's not that creative. (His world is concrete, the here-and-now, and it's always been that way.) Liquid golden eyes gaze out from a porcelain-perfect face. He's never seen skin so smooth, and he feels a sudden, irrational urge to touch it, to run his fingers across her cheek. Cascading waves of pure, soft blonde hair fall in curtains on either side of her face. In the dappled sunlight, her hair shimmers when she moves, looking down at him in agony.
It isn't right that the angel isn't happy, he thinks fiercely.
And then he hears her voice, and it's so lovely that he loses all train of thought.
“Oh, what do I do?” she cries, and her voice is an anguished wail.
And even though her voice is full of pain, he knows this isn't a dream. This can only be heaven, and she's an angel, and he's dead.
In light of this beautiful stranger, the news isn't exactly earth-shattering.
He wants to move, to comfort her and make her smile. But some part of his body is broken. (He doesn't know what.) He can't move an inch. Frustration surges in him, and he struggles harder. This doesn't help at all, but it does help to drive the truth home.
He's dead, isn't he?
His angel doesn't seem to notice his struggling. She's beseeching the higher powers now, or at least that's what it looks like to him - eyes cast upward, brows furrowed in sadness and frustration. Why isn't she happy? He wonders, and then asks himself if maybe she's disappointed in him. He frowns, listening to her next words.
“I can't do it - but he can,” she murmurs in that musical voice, and he has no idea who she's talking about. Himself? He can't do anything for her in his present condition.
What is his condition, anyway? He realizes that if he stays perfectly still, there's no pain at all. No agony, none of that horrible twisting pins-and-needles feeling that he remembers all too clearly from before. Maybe he's imagining things but it feels like all his blood and all his energy is flowing away, soaking into the parched ground. As he lays there he feels some sort of weird vertigo. It reminds of him of when he's standing at the beach, knee-deep in wet sand, feeling the tide pull away from him.
Well, at least it isn't painful anymore. Isn't that a good thing?
His angel - he can't stop thinking of her as his, even though he knows absolutely nothing about her - seems to have gained a new confidence. He doesn't know what's happening anymore, because he determined face has disappeared and now he's flying. Flying through the air with the speed of…what? Almost like a bird - soundless and motionless speed. Although, of course, he doesn't know anything about being a bird.
As the scenery in his line of sight flies by, he can't help it. His consciousness falls away, and he thinks, Maybe I'm not dead yet.
x x x
Emmett's face, rapt with wonder, gazes up at her from his cross-legged position on the floor.
“You tell that story so beautifully, Rose.”
His voice is like a small child's, awed and humbled by the enormity of everything. This is why she loves him so much - his personality is innocent, seeing the world through clear, simple eyes.
He's like a little kid, only bigger.
Rosalie laughs at him. “You've heard it a thousand times already.”
“But I love hearing your voice,” he insists, looking up at her. Rosalie, sitting on the bed, can't help but smile down at him. She slides to the floor and lays her head against his broad chest.
“Are you sure you don't remember anything?”
“Well,” he says, “if 'remembering' means 'being able to recite your wife's stories', then yes, I do remember.”
She snuggles closer to him. His arms wrap around her waist and she tilts her head back to kiss him. It's long, slow - Emmett's way of proving that he can behave himself.
Rosalie smiles against his lips and he mutters, “Good. Keep being happy.”
emmett_rosalie
emmett/rosalie. pg. 866.
He could never have imagined something so devastatingly beautiful - he knows he's not that creative.
Is he dreaming? He's not even aware of himself anymore, so he guesses he might be. Either that, or he's dead. Both options obviously agree on the fact that this isn't really happening in the life he's known, in the life he's so accustomed to.
The face of an angel fills his vision, and it's this that sways him toward the “dead” end of the spectrum. He could never have imagined something so devastatingly beautiful - he knows he's not that creative. (His world is concrete, the here-and-now, and it's always been that way.) Liquid golden eyes gaze out from a porcelain-perfect face. He's never seen skin so smooth, and he feels a sudden, irrational urge to touch it, to run his fingers across her cheek. Cascading waves of pure, soft blonde hair fall in curtains on either side of her face. In the dappled sunlight, her hair shimmers when she moves, looking down at him in agony.
It isn't right that the angel isn't happy, he thinks fiercely.
And then he hears her voice, and it's so lovely that he loses all train of thought.
“Oh, what do I do?” she cries, and her voice is an anguished wail.
And even though her voice is full of pain, he knows this isn't a dream. This can only be heaven, and she's an angel, and he's dead.
In light of this beautiful stranger, the news isn't exactly earth-shattering.
He wants to move, to comfort her and make her smile. But some part of his body is broken. (He doesn't know what.) He can't move an inch. Frustration surges in him, and he struggles harder. This doesn't help at all, but it does help to drive the truth home.
He's dead, isn't he?
His angel doesn't seem to notice his struggling. She's beseeching the higher powers now, or at least that's what it looks like to him - eyes cast upward, brows furrowed in sadness and frustration. Why isn't she happy? He wonders, and then asks himself if maybe she's disappointed in him. He frowns, listening to her next words.
“I can't do it - but he can,” she murmurs in that musical voice, and he has no idea who she's talking about. Himself? He can't do anything for her in his present condition.
What is his condition, anyway? He realizes that if he stays perfectly still, there's no pain at all. No agony, none of that horrible twisting pins-and-needles feeling that he remembers all too clearly from before. Maybe he's imagining things but it feels like all his blood and all his energy is flowing away, soaking into the parched ground. As he lays there he feels some sort of weird vertigo. It reminds of him of when he's standing at the beach, knee-deep in wet sand, feeling the tide pull away from him.
Well, at least it isn't painful anymore. Isn't that a good thing?
His angel - he can't stop thinking of her as his, even though he knows absolutely nothing about her - seems to have gained a new confidence. He doesn't know what's happening anymore, because he determined face has disappeared and now he's flying. Flying through the air with the speed of…what? Almost like a bird - soundless and motionless speed. Although, of course, he doesn't know anything about being a bird.
As the scenery in his line of sight flies by, he can't help it. His consciousness falls away, and he thinks, Maybe I'm not dead yet.
x x x
Emmett's face, rapt with wonder, gazes up at her from his cross-legged position on the floor.
“You tell that story so beautifully, Rose.”
His voice is like a small child's, awed and humbled by the enormity of everything. This is why she loves him so much - his personality is innocent, seeing the world through clear, simple eyes.
He's like a little kid, only bigger.
Rosalie laughs at him. “You've heard it a thousand times already.”
“But I love hearing your voice,” he insists, looking up at her. Rosalie, sitting on the bed, can't help but smile down at him. She slides to the floor and lays her head against his broad chest.
“Are you sure you don't remember anything?”
“Well,” he says, “if 'remembering' means 'being able to recite your wife's stories', then yes, I do remember.”
She snuggles closer to him. His arms wrap around her waist and she tilts her head back to kiss him. It's long, slow - Emmett's way of proving that he can behave himself.
Rosalie smiles against his lips and he mutters, “Good. Keep being happy.”
emmett_rosalie