Author's Note: Written for the twilight20 community at Livejournal. Prompt: Lines. I'm not a professional palm reader, but I did quite a lot of research for this fic. My apologies to the professionals if I've referenced anything incorrectly.
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. Romeo and Juliet Act I, Scene V
Warmth.
Amazing warmth.
I had no doubt as Bella caressed my palm that her skin would be the warmest touch I ever knew.
The sun, low and burnt orange against the fuchsia and violet sky, filtered in through the windows of my room. The light refracted off my skin like a prism, sending hundreds of shards of radiance against the walls. It looked like one of those infernally tacky disco balls from the 1970's. Bella, however, smiled at the dozens of rainbows, seemingly in awe. Her fingertip traced the blue veins at my wrist, creating invisible patterns against my skin, tempting me to shudder with pleasure.
Nothing else mattered when our skin touched.
"Did you ever have your palm read?" she asked suddenly, a vague air to her voice as she drew my hand into her lap.
I settled back against the pillows on my bed, folding my right arm beneath my head. Knowing instantly that I'd never done anything like that since Carlisle changed me, I searched my limited human memories for one centered on the pseudoscience, but found nothing. I didn't think I seemed like the type to believe in fortune telling and gypsy's tricks. I always was a skeptic and when you can read minds—well, you can always find a swindler.
"Not that I can recall," I offered, closing my eyes as she trailed her finger down the center of my hand. "Have you?"
"Yeah—Renée—well, it was one of her passing interests after we went to a local Renaissance festival. She got her palm read and was so excited at her prospects that she bought about a dozen books on palmistry and we learned how to do it so she could impress her friends and flirt with men."
I chuckled; I couldn't help it, really. I'd only seen Renée a handful of times, but she did seem the type. "So you both learned then?" I arched an eyebrow skeptically, and curiously awaited her reply.
"A little. It's not too difficult. After you learn the technique it just involves a bit of interpretation. It's often misused for predicting the future, but really you're just predicting potential. The lines on our palms can and do change—well, on regular humans anyway, I don't know about vampires—and we do have free will, so we can change our own fate at any moment."
I instantly noticed two things about what she'd said—one, she said vampires with far too much ease and calm in her voice. It never ceased to amaze me that she really thought she wanted to be one of us. If I were only allowed sixty seconds in her mind, no doubt that's where my psychic probes would drift. Did she really want to become a monster? And second, the concept of free will—humans are so fickle, they change their minds at the drop of a hat. What good can come from reading palms if the future can't be predicted? What information is there to gain?
"Read mine," I said abruptly, rolling toward her, propping myself on my left side.
Her cheeks instantly turned the most delicious shade of pink, tempting me, and I could hear her heartbeats increase ever so slightly, as if she was nervous.
"I'm not very good," she replied, her gentle caresses coming to an end as she fidgeted—a sure sign of apprehension.
I moved closer and met her gaze, all the while fighting off the urge to smirk up at her. Dazzling, she'd called it, and I loved her reaction of being dazzled. I widened my eyes, unleashing their full potential upon her and blindly reached for her hand again.
"Please?" I purred, making my voice as alluring as possible.
"Edward—I'm—really not that good," she was beginning to stammer. Yes, nearly there.
In the fraction of an instant I had changed my position, moving quickly to mirror her cross-legged pose, never breaking my eye contact with her innocent, chocolate-brown eyes. "Please?" I pleaded again, resting my hands on her knees, slowly sliding them toward her thighs as I leaned in even closer.
Ah yes, the familiar fixed stare. "Yes," she whimpered and, though I loathed tearing my eyes from hers, I found better reward when I let my lips descend upon her throat.
I brought my hands up to her face, gently cradling her head in my hands, tilting it up slightly to give me better access to her delicious skin.
I kissed a familiar path along her jaw, breathing in the scent and taste of her, savoring the way she made me feel—that I could be good at this. I felt her fingers thread through my hair, guiding my mouth up to hers. I smirked against her lips as she inhaled sharply, her heart rate increasing steadily. She molded herself to my body and I did try to be gentle, but my eagerness and immorality was getting the better of me. Indeed if my heart was still beating, no doubt it would be racing by now.
She broke away, gasping for air, and I took the opportunity to cool things down. She had no idea how easily I could get carried away, no idea how she made me feel, and no idea how much I truly wanted her. I reached behind me for her hand, still fisted in my hair, and threaded my fingers through hers, drawing her wrist toward my mouth. I could feel the rush of the blood coursing through her veins, smell the aching sweetness beneath my lips—the scent I had memorized from the first moment we came into contact. Ambrosia, truly.
"Now I believe, Madam Swan that you need to see my palm," I murmured against her skin, regretfully tearing my lips away as I placed her hand back into her own lap.
"What?" she asked, a little breathlessly. "Oh, yes."
"Which? Does it matter?" I forced myself to consider the task at hand with an open mind and not let my thoughts drift where they would much rather go—if I had no conscience whatsoever I'd be doing more than kissing Bella.
"Yes, it matters," she replied, her breath and heartbeat almost under control. "You always read the hand you write with, the hand you favor."
"But I can write with both hands," I offered smugly.
"Show off," she muttered, shaking her head.
I couldn't help but grin.
"I presume you are naturally right-handed, since that is the one you tend to favor?" She held her hand out expectantly."
I nodded, placing my right hand in her left one. "You presume correct."
The warmth of her flesh was already seeping into mine, it was an irresistible sensation. She began by turning my hand over and over in hers, trailing her fingertips slowly over my palm, my knuckles, my long fingers. If I had the ability to shiver, I'm sure I would have been shuddering by now; it was positively titillating. She seemed to make small visual observations, raising her eyebrows and smirking occasionally.
"What's so funny?" I demanded
"Oh nothing," she replied, smirking again.
I instinctively looked down at my hand and then back up at her dark eyes quickly. Damn my inability to read her mind.
"The hand is divided into three parts—the fingers represent the mind, the top half of the palm represents day-to-day life and our conscious self, and the bottom of the palm represents primal instincts, nature, and the subconscious self."
I was impressed. Clearly she had studied the ancient art. Not that I believed it in the least.
"We begin by observing the fingers and thumb and the general shape of the hand. Your fingers are long and narrow with elongated fingertips too—that's a sign of creativity and intelligence by the way." Her voice seemed begrudged to admit it. "And—" she paused, taking imprecise measurements of the length of my fingers compared to the length and width of my palm. "You've got water hands."
"Water hands?"
She cracked a smile. "The hand shapes are named for the classical elements: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Yours is water. Your palm is oval-shaped, your fingers are long, dexterous, and tapered, the length of your palm is equal to the length of your fingers, and you have few deep lines—your hand is marked with thinner, finer lines. Those with water hands are quite caring toward the people they love, can be emotional, are artistic or creative, and are happiest in a quiet, peaceful environment. Oh, and conical fingers can be a sign of psychic ability too."
I was stunned. Few people have possessed the distinct ability to stun me into a near stupor, but Isabella Swan had the impressive ability to surprise me quite frequently. She was correct too, of course.
Though I didn't retain many memories from my human existence, I particularly remembered the close relationship I had to my parents and friends. That transferred to my vampire family as well. We were family in all the ways that mattered. Carlisle and Esme were the parents I could have chosen for myself if I'd been given the chance, and Rosalie, Emmett, Alice, and Jasper were as close as siblings could get. We didn't all grow up together in the traditional sense, but the camaraderie, support, and understanding we provided one another was something only family could provide. And then there was my relationship with Bella. Though I would never believe I could be anywhere near good enough for her, I would always put her first and show my love for her in all the best ways I knew how. If she'd let me, that is. I felt more deeply toward Bella than I did about anyone else in my existence.
I suppose I could acknowledge that I was emotional as well. I'd gone through my bout of 'teenage angst' when I'd left the family seventy years ago, but without a doubt the most emotion and passion I could ever possess was in regard to Bella. Feelings of happiness, surprise, ecstasy, euphoria, love, hope, understanding, and acceptance were all wrapped up in her. Any negative emotion I'd ever possessed since meeting her was my own fault. When I left her I created a world of apathy, contempt, depression, envy, guilt, grief, hatred, shame and suffering—for both myself and her. I could never forgive myself for that—but she could.
It was no secret that I did enjoy the peace of silence and the ability to express myself through music but, nevertheless, if she was truly reading my palm… what else could it say about me? I always thought I did a brilliant job of wrapping myself up in a little enigma—maybe I was more transparent than I'd previously thought.
Her mellifluous voice was speaking again and her fingers were gently smoothing over my palm. I wanted to give her my utmost attention; this was proving to be fascinating.
"Now, there are three lines that are found on nearly every palm—the heart line, the head line, and the life line. These are the lines that palm readers would spend the most time on. The heart line can represent health and emotions. Your heart line," she continued, tracing a slightly deeper line at the top of my palm running from my little finger to my middle finger, "is fairly short—I assume that referenced your ill health in your human life. Your heart line curves upward though—which is always good. You have a few lines extending upward which represents true love."
She blushed at this—something I adored about her. I leaned in swiftly, pressing my lips to hers. "That's you," I breathed, tracing her bottom lip with my tongue, causing her to shudder and smile.
It took a moment for her to find her focus again when I pulled away. "B-but you have a downward line branching out from beneath your ring finger. That could mean that you view yourself in a negative light."
Truer words were never spoken. She knew I hated being a monster, knew I'd never forgive myself for the way I'd left her. There were parts of myself that I despised.
She squeezed my hand to regain my attention, which never truly deviated from her no matter what my outward expression might have displayed. "But I'm here to make sure you don't do that too often," she offered encouragingly.
I nodded, but I doubted I would ever be truly comfortable in my skin, especially if Bella got her way and became a vampire.
"Your head line," she interrupted, tracing a straight line that began between my thumb and forefinger stretching no more than halfway across my palm, "characterizes the ability to think, focus, and reason. The head line represents the strength of our mind."
I couldn't help but notice that my head line was the deepest, most prominent line on my hand. I had always been rational, studious, and skeptical.
"Not only is your head line deep, but it's short too. Short head lines signify extreme intelligence and—" she paused, narrowing her eyes at me, a smile flirting at the corner of her mouth. "—A short temper or difficulty controlling emotions. That wouldn't describe anyone in this room," she teased.
Seizing the opportunity, I pasted a grin on my face and growled softly, a low rumble reverberated through my chest.
"And what about my life line?" I asked, quickly snatching up her right hand, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles.
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "That's a tough one."
She traced a thin line starting just above my thumb and curving down toward my wrist. I instantly noticed the well-defined break in the line and the fact that the bottom half of the line was slightly deeper than the beginning portion.
"Most modern palm readers don't equate the life line with the length of life, but rather the major changes through our lives, the quality of our lives, and the energy and vitality we approach life with. Let me see your left hand."
Using vampire speed, I turned over my palm and placed it in her right hand. I instantly found the same line on my other hand, noticing obvious differenced between the two hands.
"In most people, the other lines on the palms are often similar between the two hands, but people's life lines rarely match. The left hand often displays our original destiny, the path we were intended to take. The right hand shows the changes that have occurred, moving us away from our course. The more distinct the two life lines—"
"The bigger the changes in that person's life," I interrupted, glancing down at my hands.
"Yes."
Bella's voice was soft, almost uncertain and melancholy. "Your two life lines are very different. Your left hand shows a long, faint line with a few downward branches. Your original life may have been long—in human years, but might have been troubled."
I froze in place, letting the information sink in—I'd wondered thousands of times what my life might have been like had I not caught the Spanish Influenza and gone off to war in France instead. Could Bella be right?
No, of course not—this was like a parlor trick, a game… but her diagnosis had been accurate thus far. True, she knew my past and could let that sway her 'reading' but why would she? Bella wasn't malicious or vindictive. Maybe palm reading wasn't predictions of the future at all, rather, a personality diagnosis, which could be significantly more important, believable.
But her theory—could it be true? Was this the closest I could come to answering the question that had plagued me for the last eighty years? What might have become of me if I'd not contracted the flu and had Carlisle not changed me? Would I have sustained nerve damage from the gas used in the War? Lost my money and job when the Stock Market crashed, or lived a sad, lonely, meaningless existence because Bella was not born yet?
"Here, on your right hand, your life line starts and then completely stops before a new shoot begins—a major life change."
"Like becoming a vampire," I cut in, sighing.
She nodded and squeezed my hand again. "Maybe Carlisle gave you the best chance at a happy life."
That was undeniable. Carlisle had unknowingly given me the best gift of my life—time. He bought me time to wait for Bella, and I would be grateful for eternity.
Sudden inspiration struck and I turned Bella's own hands over and looked for her two life lines.
If my heart had still been beating—it would have stopped dead.
"I have two broken life lines," she said smugly, tearing her hands away from me only to put her palms in my face. "It's fate, Edward."
I knew what she meant instantly—her becoming a vampire. Well, two could play at this game. I wrapped my arms around her and drew her against my chest as we fell beck on the bed. "What about things like marriage lines?" I demanded, sliding my hands up her back, tangling in her hair.
She positioned her hands on either side of my face, holding herself over me. "Most modern readers don't believe they represent marriages anymore, but rather serious relationships toward jobs, faith, or other commitments," she retorted, seemingly satisfied.
I removed my right hand from her hair and held it up for her to see. "Humor me. How many marriage lines do I have?"
She narrowed her eyes at me before turning to look at my hand. Her expression gave the answer away before her lips parted.
"One," she admitted, tracing the tiny crease at the outside edge of my palm beneath my little finger.
I smirked, rolling us over on the bed so that I was now hovering above her. "Give me your hand." It wasn't a request.
She didn't move.
"I'll just dazzle you again," I vowed, smiling down at her.
She rolled her eyes and sighed, turning her right hand over reluctantly.
One narrow line marked her beautiful skin. It sent a thrill through me, I couldn't deny it.
I bent low over her face, my lips brushing hers. The immediate pounding of her heart was the only encouragement I needed. "It's fate, my love," I replied, letting my mouth descend upon hers.