FANFICTION: I WAS ONCE A LOYAL LOVER
Title: I Was Once A Loyal Lover
Rating: PG13 to R-ish
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Edward/Emily
Disclaimer: Twilight. "American Gothic."
Summary: Edward, Emily, and a casserole. Oh, the many ways to fall in love.
Author’s Note: Unbeta’d.
“My Sweet Potato,” Emily’s mother says. She’s sitting in a green dining chair, and she reaches out to pull a five year old Emily to stand between her knees. Her fingers, dusted white with flour, cup Emily’s round face. Emily smiles, all gums and tiny teeth, as her mom asks “Want to help Mommy in the kitchen?”
Emily gives an enthusiastic nod, reaches up to twine her pudgy fingers with those of her mothers. “Yes.”
Kim laughs, the sound of it is infectious, and Emily finds herself mimicking the sound coming from her mom’s open mouth. The world tilts as Kim scoops Emily into her arms, walks them into the kitchen. She sets Emily on the counter, kisses her cheek with an exaggerated kissing sound. Mmm-wah.
“Can you stir this for me?” Kim asks, setting a large glass bowl beside Emily. Emily glances down at its contents, something brown. I doesn’t look appetizing at all.
“What is it?”
“Cake batter,” Kim answers, handing Emily a large wooden spoon. “Chocolate.”
Emily’s eyes widen. “Really?” She eagerly questions.
Kim laughs, pats Emily’s knees before opening a cupboard to pull down a baking tin. “Really.”
Later, when Kim pulls the cake from the oven, the heavenly smell of it filling the house, Emily gasps. It’s like magic, she thinks as she watches her mom flip the pan onto a wire rack. Kim gives the metal dish a jiggle, then pulls it back to reveal a steamy dark cake. Emily is transfixed, watches avidly as heat rises from the top of the cake. It’s impossible to believe that the dark mess she stirred has turned into this delectable treat.
“I want to do this,” she declares, pushing up on tiptoes to get a better look. The plastic step stool she’s on slides back just the slightest at her movement.
“Do what, my Sweet Potato Pie?”
“I want to make cakes when I’m bigger. I want to make magic.”
As time passes one thing remains constant, Emily always seems to find herself in the kitchen. She begins with small tasks for Kim, washing potatoes and stirring lumpy batters into something smooth. Soon, Kim moves Emily on to bigger tasks, such as dicing vegetables and shredding chicken hot from the pot. Later still, Kim begins to sit back, let Emily take charge of the kitchen. She moves fluidly around the cramped space, a natural.
Emily’s time in the kitchen starts as a casual interest in making cakes the same way Kim Young does, but over the years it morphs into something more. The kitchen, Emily finds, is where she is most comfortable. Most at home. As Emily’s life changes over the years there is always the secure knowledge that the recipes in her books will always be there, just within reach. There will forever be a need for a teaspoon of vanilla extract, a pinch of salt, a few cups of flour, or a dollop of butter.
When Emily’s parents decided to divorce there is the reassuring company of an old Betty Crocker cookbook and sugar cookies to be made. When Emily meets Sam for the first time it results in an Italian pot pie and butternut squash crumble that melts on her tongue. Hurting Leah is the most perfect cake Emily has ever made. It is moist and of the darkest, richest chocolate known to mankind. It sits on a glass cake stand for nearly a month, until it is stale and the frosting has hardened. Still, Emily can’t bring herself to take even the smallest of bites, and so it is put into the trash. Sam watches sadly from the kitchen doorway as Emily lowers the dessert into the garbage bin, tries to hide her tears.
Cooking, and baking, is Emily’s way of dealing. She remembers telling Kim, the night before she moved in with Sam, how some people write journal and others run, but the best way for her to handle all her emotional baggage is to sweat it out in the kitchen. Her mother had smiled, said, “Oh, my Sweet Potato, cooking isn’t just about dealing. You can heal people with your food. Give them hope and happiness and strength. I’ve seen you in the kitchen, how much love and devotion you put into everything you do. That’s the magic you worked so hard for. Don’t stop for anyone.”
And so, that is how Emily finds herself in the tiny kitchen of her and Sam’s home, the window above the sink open to send in a salty breeze. It ruffles the dainty white curtain, and for a moment the small vegetable garden Emily works so hard to keep alive in the North Pacific weather comes into view. Emily sighs. She has an itch on the side of her jaw, but her fingers are covered in potato and flour. The last thing she needs in Sam gently teasing her about how she always seems to get flour in the oddest of places when she works in the kitchen.
Deciding to ignore the irritating little itch for now, Emily thinks back to hours previous. She’d received a call from Edward Cullen, just past the eight o’clock mark, informing her that Bella was sick. Apparently the tiny brunette was bed ridden at the Cullen household and unable to come over and help Emily set up for the barbeque later that day.
“I’m coming over,” Emily had announced as Edward apologized once more on Bella’s behalf. There was a sharp intake of breath on the line, and then “You don’t have to.”
“I know that,” Emily answered with a roll of her eyes, her mind already sorting through a lifetimes worth of comfort food. Pot pie and some sort of berry tart? A large bowl of thick soup with a sinfully dark chocolate brownie for dessert? Was there still chicken broth in the fridge, Emily wondered. She certainly hoped so; she didn’t want to use the canned kind. She felt it was too salty for her taste. “I want to.”
There had been a long pause, and then Edward’s voice had flooded her ear. “Okay,” he’d said, and it reminded her of the most heavenly of cakes, moist and with the lightest dusting of powdered sugar. She’d felt a tiny surge of guilt as she glanced through to the dining room, where Sam sat doing the daily crossword. All those old SAT words he never got a chance to use being put to some sort of use.
After she’d hung up, Emily had taken down a few of her cookbooks, determined to find the right thing to bring to Bella. In the end she’d been able to narrow her options down to a spicy corn chowder and potato latke.
“What do you think?” She’d asked, setting two large cookbooks on the table. In doing so she effectively covered the crossword, ensuring that all of Sam’s attention would be on her. “Bella’s sick and I’ve got to make her something. So, corn or potatoes?”
Sam had smiled up at her, and her chest had done a familiar tightening. “You’ve got to?” he teased, as one of his hands had risen to slip against the round curve of her hip. Emily’s breath had caught, and she’d nodded mutely, let Sam ease her body closer to his. He was warm and solid against her, lips hot on her neck as he breathed “Make them both.”
&&&
Emily’s old Civic rolls to a stop before the Cullen household. She has to lean forward, crane her neck up, to get a good view of the house. Huge seems the only appropriate word. Looming, even with its open windows and bright sunlight flowing through it. Her tiny home with Sam suddenly feels shack like, cramped and with not enough room for the two of them. Emily shakes her head, quickly shoves the thought aside. She likes her home, the cozy comfort of it, how she bumps into Sam in the hallway as they go about their daily routines. How can the Cullens live in such a big house, she wonders. It seems a bit cold, all that space to wander around in and never bump into someone. A house to get lost and disappear in.
The front door swings open. The vampire in the doorway is short, decidedly female. Emily smiles at her as she walks up to the boxy Honda. The vampire is less pale than Emily expected, and she suppresses a shudder as she recalls Bella telling her once how vampires look more alive after they’ve fed. Even with knowing that the girl before her has just fed, Emily is able to recognize how beautiful the vampire is. Breathtakingly so, and she supposes that what make them such fierce predators. A little part of Emily, so rarely seen, breaks to the surface. She finds herself suddenly acutely aware of her own face. Her ugly scars, and all her old insecurity.
“You must be Emily.” The willow like vamp before her smiles, taking the plastic Tupperware, with ‘Property of Sam and Emily’ written on the bottoms in black Sharpie, into her arms. She cradles them against her chest, and Emily wonders if the heat from the food feels different to a vampire. “I’m Alice.” She sticks out her hand for Emily to take, tilts her head to the side as though sizing the taller woman up. “I’ve seen you before. With Bella when the wolves aren’t around.”
“Oh.” Emily casts a quick glance at the car. She’d forgotten about the powers, and now she’s not so sure she wants to be in a house where her thoughts and emotions can be read, where her future is always known. She’s about to open her mouth to tell Alice that she doesn’t have time to stay long, just stopped by to drop off some food for Bella, when a movement on the porch catches her sight and the explanation dies on her tongue, melts away.
Edward Cullen is looking at her. Emily registers that quick flash of surprise people get when they first set eyes on her. That look is usually followed by the guilt for having turned away, and further still it is followed by determination. People begin to stare, but not really see her, as they try to prove to themselves that nothing’s wrong. One of Edward’s hands comes to rest on the railing as he frowns down at his shoes before glancing up at Emily.
She resists the urge to bring her hands up, to cover her face. Instead, Emily straightens her spine and meets Edward’s gaze. She wants to tell him that she wasn’t always like this. There’s was a time once when she had a full smile, when it didn’t seem like she was scowling all the time. She wants to take his hand, pull him to a mirror and make him understand. She was beautiful. Once. On the porch Edward nods, and Emily is suddenly stricken with embarrassment. He’s read her thoughts, seen the old her and how sometimes she likes to stand before the mirror after a shower and turn just so, how her face is perfect for one fleeting moment before Sam knocks on the bathroom door, asks if she’s drowned standing up in the shower.
“Emily.” Edward greets when she reaches the porch steps. Emily likes the way her name sounds on his tongue, the way it drips off slow like molasses. Edward stills, and Emily lets out a horrified gasp, murmurs a quick apology and quickly follows Alice inside. She scolds herself as she follows the black haired waif towards the kitchen. She thinks this must be what the pack mind is like. No secrets. When they enter the large cooking space, she notices Bella sitting slumped on a stool. She’s wrapped in a brightly colored quilt, and turns to Emily with a tired smile when she approaches.
“Hello,” she croaks, then lets out a heavy groan and ducks her head towards the counter. Emily lays a sympathetic hand on Bella’s back, her palm working small circles along the younger girl’s spine the way Kim used to do to her. Bella sighs into the granite countertop, her body relaxing at Emily’s soothing touch.
“How are you feeling?” Emily asks softly, leaning forward to get a better look at Bella. Her hair is a tangled mess, and her eyes are rimmed with red.
“Awful,” Bella moans, bringing her arms up to cross against the cool counter top. “But Carlisle’s been giving me medicine, and Alice says I’ll be fine by next Thursday.”
“That’s good.” Emily smiles. “I brought you food. Do you think you can eat?”
Bella lifts her head from her arms, smiles gratefully at Emily. “You didn’t have to-”
“Nonsense,” Emily interrupts with a wave of her hand. “You’re my friend. This is what friends do. Now, do you want corn chowder or latke?”
Bella pauses, her smile faltering for a moment before coming back full force. “Corn chowder, please.”
A large white bowl of chowder slides in front of Bella before the words have a chance to fully leave her mouth. Both Emily and Bella glance up, surprised to see Alice standing on the opposite side of the counter. She gives a toothy grin, taps a pale finger to her temple and leaves the room. Emily turns to Bella once they’re alone.
“Do you ever find that frustrating?” She asks, pulling back a barstool to sit on.
“No.” A beat. “Sometimes, yeah.”
Rating: PG13 to R-ish
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Edward/Emily
Disclaimer: Twilight. "American Gothic."
Summary: Edward, Emily, and a casserole. Oh, the many ways to fall in love.
Author’s Note: Unbeta’d.
“My Sweet Potato,” Emily’s mother says. She’s sitting in a green dining chair, and she reaches out to pull a five year old Emily to stand between her knees. Her fingers, dusted white with flour, cup Emily’s round face. Emily smiles, all gums and tiny teeth, as her mom asks “Want to help Mommy in the kitchen?”
Emily gives an enthusiastic nod, reaches up to twine her pudgy fingers with those of her mothers. “Yes.”
Kim laughs, the sound of it is infectious, and Emily finds herself mimicking the sound coming from her mom’s open mouth. The world tilts as Kim scoops Emily into her arms, walks them into the kitchen. She sets Emily on the counter, kisses her cheek with an exaggerated kissing sound. Mmm-wah.
“Can you stir this for me?” Kim asks, setting a large glass bowl beside Emily. Emily glances down at its contents, something brown. I doesn’t look appetizing at all.
“What is it?”
“Cake batter,” Kim answers, handing Emily a large wooden spoon. “Chocolate.”
Emily’s eyes widen. “Really?” She eagerly questions.
Kim laughs, pats Emily’s knees before opening a cupboard to pull down a baking tin. “Really.”
Later, when Kim pulls the cake from the oven, the heavenly smell of it filling the house, Emily gasps. It’s like magic, she thinks as she watches her mom flip the pan onto a wire rack. Kim gives the metal dish a jiggle, then pulls it back to reveal a steamy dark cake. Emily is transfixed, watches avidly as heat rises from the top of the cake. It’s impossible to believe that the dark mess she stirred has turned into this delectable treat.
“I want to do this,” she declares, pushing up on tiptoes to get a better look. The plastic step stool she’s on slides back just the slightest at her movement.
“Do what, my Sweet Potato Pie?”
“I want to make cakes when I’m bigger. I want to make magic.”
As time passes one thing remains constant, Emily always seems to find herself in the kitchen. She begins with small tasks for Kim, washing potatoes and stirring lumpy batters into something smooth. Soon, Kim moves Emily on to bigger tasks, such as dicing vegetables and shredding chicken hot from the pot. Later still, Kim begins to sit back, let Emily take charge of the kitchen. She moves fluidly around the cramped space, a natural.
Emily’s time in the kitchen starts as a casual interest in making cakes the same way Kim Young does, but over the years it morphs into something more. The kitchen, Emily finds, is where she is most comfortable. Most at home. As Emily’s life changes over the years there is always the secure knowledge that the recipes in her books will always be there, just within reach. There will forever be a need for a teaspoon of vanilla extract, a pinch of salt, a few cups of flour, or a dollop of butter.
When Emily’s parents decided to divorce there is the reassuring company of an old Betty Crocker cookbook and sugar cookies to be made. When Emily meets Sam for the first time it results in an Italian pot pie and butternut squash crumble that melts on her tongue. Hurting Leah is the most perfect cake Emily has ever made. It is moist and of the darkest, richest chocolate known to mankind. It sits on a glass cake stand for nearly a month, until it is stale and the frosting has hardened. Still, Emily can’t bring herself to take even the smallest of bites, and so it is put into the trash. Sam watches sadly from the kitchen doorway as Emily lowers the dessert into the garbage bin, tries to hide her tears.
Cooking, and baking, is Emily’s way of dealing. She remembers telling Kim, the night before she moved in with Sam, how some people write journal and others run, but the best way for her to handle all her emotional baggage is to sweat it out in the kitchen. Her mother had smiled, said, “Oh, my Sweet Potato, cooking isn’t just about dealing. You can heal people with your food. Give them hope and happiness and strength. I’ve seen you in the kitchen, how much love and devotion you put into everything you do. That’s the magic you worked so hard for. Don’t stop for anyone.”
And so, that is how Emily finds herself in the tiny kitchen of her and Sam’s home, the window above the sink open to send in a salty breeze. It ruffles the dainty white curtain, and for a moment the small vegetable garden Emily works so hard to keep alive in the North Pacific weather comes into view. Emily sighs. She has an itch on the side of her jaw, but her fingers are covered in potato and flour. The last thing she needs in Sam gently teasing her about how she always seems to get flour in the oddest of places when she works in the kitchen.
Deciding to ignore the irritating little itch for now, Emily thinks back to hours previous. She’d received a call from Edward Cullen, just past the eight o’clock mark, informing her that Bella was sick. Apparently the tiny brunette was bed ridden at the Cullen household and unable to come over and help Emily set up for the barbeque later that day.
“I’m coming over,” Emily had announced as Edward apologized once more on Bella’s behalf. There was a sharp intake of breath on the line, and then “You don’t have to.”
“I know that,” Emily answered with a roll of her eyes, her mind already sorting through a lifetimes worth of comfort food. Pot pie and some sort of berry tart? A large bowl of thick soup with a sinfully dark chocolate brownie for dessert? Was there still chicken broth in the fridge, Emily wondered. She certainly hoped so; she didn’t want to use the canned kind. She felt it was too salty for her taste. “I want to.”
There had been a long pause, and then Edward’s voice had flooded her ear. “Okay,” he’d said, and it reminded her of the most heavenly of cakes, moist and with the lightest dusting of powdered sugar. She’d felt a tiny surge of guilt as she glanced through to the dining room, where Sam sat doing the daily crossword. All those old SAT words he never got a chance to use being put to some sort of use.
After she’d hung up, Emily had taken down a few of her cookbooks, determined to find the right thing to bring to Bella. In the end she’d been able to narrow her options down to a spicy corn chowder and potato latke.
“What do you think?” She’d asked, setting two large cookbooks on the table. In doing so she effectively covered the crossword, ensuring that all of Sam’s attention would be on her. “Bella’s sick and I’ve got to make her something. So, corn or potatoes?”
Sam had smiled up at her, and her chest had done a familiar tightening. “You’ve got to?” he teased, as one of his hands had risen to slip against the round curve of her hip. Emily’s breath had caught, and she’d nodded mutely, let Sam ease her body closer to his. He was warm and solid against her, lips hot on her neck as he breathed “Make them both.”
&&&
Emily’s old Civic rolls to a stop before the Cullen household. She has to lean forward, crane her neck up, to get a good view of the house. Huge seems the only appropriate word. Looming, even with its open windows and bright sunlight flowing through it. Her tiny home with Sam suddenly feels shack like, cramped and with not enough room for the two of them. Emily shakes her head, quickly shoves the thought aside. She likes her home, the cozy comfort of it, how she bumps into Sam in the hallway as they go about their daily routines. How can the Cullens live in such a big house, she wonders. It seems a bit cold, all that space to wander around in and never bump into someone. A house to get lost and disappear in.
The front door swings open. The vampire in the doorway is short, decidedly female. Emily smiles at her as she walks up to the boxy Honda. The vampire is less pale than Emily expected, and she suppresses a shudder as she recalls Bella telling her once how vampires look more alive after they’ve fed. Even with knowing that the girl before her has just fed, Emily is able to recognize how beautiful the vampire is. Breathtakingly so, and she supposes that what make them such fierce predators. A little part of Emily, so rarely seen, breaks to the surface. She finds herself suddenly acutely aware of her own face. Her ugly scars, and all her old insecurity.
“You must be Emily.” The willow like vamp before her smiles, taking the plastic Tupperware, with ‘Property of Sam and Emily’ written on the bottoms in black Sharpie, into her arms. She cradles them against her chest, and Emily wonders if the heat from the food feels different to a vampire. “I’m Alice.” She sticks out her hand for Emily to take, tilts her head to the side as though sizing the taller woman up. “I’ve seen you before. With Bella when the wolves aren’t around.”
“Oh.” Emily casts a quick glance at the car. She’d forgotten about the powers, and now she’s not so sure she wants to be in a house where her thoughts and emotions can be read, where her future is always known. She’s about to open her mouth to tell Alice that she doesn’t have time to stay long, just stopped by to drop off some food for Bella, when a movement on the porch catches her sight and the explanation dies on her tongue, melts away.
Edward Cullen is looking at her. Emily registers that quick flash of surprise people get when they first set eyes on her. That look is usually followed by the guilt for having turned away, and further still it is followed by determination. People begin to stare, but not really see her, as they try to prove to themselves that nothing’s wrong. One of Edward’s hands comes to rest on the railing as he frowns down at his shoes before glancing up at Emily.
She resists the urge to bring her hands up, to cover her face. Instead, Emily straightens her spine and meets Edward’s gaze. She wants to tell him that she wasn’t always like this. There’s was a time once when she had a full smile, when it didn’t seem like she was scowling all the time. She wants to take his hand, pull him to a mirror and make him understand. She was beautiful. Once. On the porch Edward nods, and Emily is suddenly stricken with embarrassment. He’s read her thoughts, seen the old her and how sometimes she likes to stand before the mirror after a shower and turn just so, how her face is perfect for one fleeting moment before Sam knocks on the bathroom door, asks if she’s drowned standing up in the shower.
“Emily.” Edward greets when she reaches the porch steps. Emily likes the way her name sounds on his tongue, the way it drips off slow like molasses. Edward stills, and Emily lets out a horrified gasp, murmurs a quick apology and quickly follows Alice inside. She scolds herself as she follows the black haired waif towards the kitchen. She thinks this must be what the pack mind is like. No secrets. When they enter the large cooking space, she notices Bella sitting slumped on a stool. She’s wrapped in a brightly colored quilt, and turns to Emily with a tired smile when she approaches.
“Hello,” she croaks, then lets out a heavy groan and ducks her head towards the counter. Emily lays a sympathetic hand on Bella’s back, her palm working small circles along the younger girl’s spine the way Kim used to do to her. Bella sighs into the granite countertop, her body relaxing at Emily’s soothing touch.
“How are you feeling?” Emily asks softly, leaning forward to get a better look at Bella. Her hair is a tangled mess, and her eyes are rimmed with red.
“Awful,” Bella moans, bringing her arms up to cross against the cool counter top. “But Carlisle’s been giving me medicine, and Alice says I’ll be fine by next Thursday.”
“That’s good.” Emily smiles. “I brought you food. Do you think you can eat?”
Bella lifts her head from her arms, smiles gratefully at Emily. “You didn’t have to-”
“Nonsense,” Emily interrupts with a wave of her hand. “You’re my friend. This is what friends do. Now, do you want corn chowder or latke?”
Bella pauses, her smile faltering for a moment before coming back full force. “Corn chowder, please.”
A large white bowl of chowder slides in front of Bella before the words have a chance to fully leave her mouth. Both Emily and Bella glance up, surprised to see Alice standing on the opposite side of the counter. She gives a toothy grin, taps a pale finger to her temple and leaves the room. Emily turns to Bella once they’re alone.
“Do you ever find that frustrating?” She asks, pulling back a barstool to sit on.
“No.” A beat. “Sometimes, yeah.”