Raindrops

"Footloose."

"Seen it. Blah. Veto."

"You're un-American for saying that, Edward."

For some reason, we always have to spend Monday through Saturday discussing what we're going to watch on Sunday for movie night. I don't know if this is normal for most couples. Maybe normal humans have this conversation in ten minutes while they stand in front of their movie shelf at home or at the local Blockbuster. Edward and I, however, are already two steps removed from normal, as I'm the only one with a pulse, and I'm an eighteen-year-old girl engaged to a teenager who's actually about ninety years my senior. Yeah, we're soul mates, but our taste in movies isn't always going to match.

Like right now.

"You can't stand to watch Buster Keaton films, but I'm the one that's un-American. In the vernacular of your generation, Bella, 'WTF?'"

I can't help but giggle at him. "Please don't use text-speak in front of me. Such language is an affront to my delicate sensibilities." Edward doesn't like to cuss in front of me, claiming it's ungentlemanly to swear before ladies. However, I know he uses words like that when he's with his brothers, and Emmett certainly has no problem using his colorful vocabulary in my presence. I prefer Emmett's way—no point in hiding who we really are from each other.

Edward laughs louder than I think he expected to; people are turning around to see what's so damn funny. We're in the local diner, sneaking me some greasy food that Alice has expressly forbidden me from partaking of (stupid wedding dress), sitting in the furthest corner for a bit of privacy.

"Furthermore," I continue in the lower voice I normally use around him, "I never said I can't stand to watch your precious Buster Keaton silent films. What I can't stand is a Keaton marathon. I can watch one at a time, but I have my limits."

"You're just prejudiced against mimes." This is accompanied by a smirk. I throw a French fry at him.

"Why do you have to say that while I'm eating?" I demand playfully. "You know mimes freak me out. You're going to put me off my dinner, thank you very much." I am exaggerating, of course. A little. Mimes do freak me out, but not enough to spoil my appetite.

"Well, eighties dance movies freak me out," Edward replies smugly.

"That's not what you said about Dirty Dancing," I remind him in a sing-song whisper. His smile drops instantly.

"I told you never to bring that up again, especially not in public." His eyes dart around rapidly, but his body remains completely still, in that inhuman way of his that used to make me nervous but now kind of turns me on. Speaking of getting turned on…

"Nobody can hear us. And I don't see why you're so embarrassed about it," I say casually. "That was a sexy movie, intentionally so. It's perfectly normal for you to—"

"Bella."

"What?" I take a satisfying bite out of the remnants of my illicit cheeseburger, pretending I don't notice that Edward looks ready to throttle me. "I certainly didn't mind. In fact," I let the dreamy look drift across my face, "it gives me something to look forward to."

"That's it," Edward hisses at me. He turns toward the waitresses, who are standing around the coffee pot whispering about whatever trivialities waitresses usually gossip about, and calls out, "Check please!"

Five minutes later I'm perched on the trunk of his Volvo, watching as the local jalopies pass us by on the highway. Edward is at my left, leaning against the bumper. Five or six more cars are in the parking lot, but we're the only two people out here. The peppermint in my mouth stings a little, and I'm glad it's nearly melted away.

"You shouldn't have brought that up," Edward says seriously. "That was a humiliating night for me."

"I'm sorry, Edward," I sigh, wondering why he's so sensitive all of a sudden. "But I really don't see why that night was such a big deal. You had an erection. Not a first for you. In fact, I don't even remember you expressing any embarrassment at the time. We certainly had a good time kissing."

"You still shouldn't have said anything about it in there. And it was a first for me, just…um…" He looks down, and I swear to god, he'd be blushing right now if he had any blood in his veins.

"Your first what?" I whisper gently.

He mumbles something that sounds like "Mrhr-brr-shr."

"What was that, Edward?"

"Masturbation."

I feel my face go pink, and I find the asphalt very interesting all of a sudden. "Oh." I ponder this for a few moments and realize how difficult it must be for him to discuss this. He's never mentioned that particular activity to me before. Ever. "Why would it be humiliating?" I ask him gently. "I mean, I get why I should have kept my mouth shut in the diner. And I am sorry about that, really. But I don't understand why you'd be ashamed of…getting some relief."

"Bella, I was raised not to even swear in front of ladies," Edward reminds me. "What do you think polite society had to say about self-gratification in my day? Science actually told us it was unhealthy for the body and mind. The Boy Scout manual even warned against it, for heaven's sake. And my parents were so strict…"

"I see." I reach over and tug Edward's hand into mine, deciding not to make a crack about the repressive Boy Scouts nor ask why he's still holding to ideas that have already been medically disproven and wouldn't make a difference to his immortal body anyway. "It's okay, Edward, really. It's a natural thing. Everybody does it at some point or another, and it's nothing to be ashamed of."

He's quiet for a minute, letting me thread my fingers through his, before he straightens up and looks at me curiously. "Everybody?"

I smile shyly, keeping my face pointed down.

"What do you…?" Edward steals a glance around the parking lot, then moves directly in front of me. "What do you think about?"

"Not Patrick Swayze or Kevin Bacon, that's for sure," I grin archly, getting a laugh. "Actually…" I slip my fingers through his belt loops and tug him closer, until he's resting between my legs. I reach upward and let my lips and tongue just graze the cool edge of Edward's earlobes. "I think about doing this." Without further preamble, my mouth attaches itself to the skin below Edward's ear, my fingers creeping under the hem and over his stomach, and before I know it he's groaning into my shoulder and letting his hands slowly snake their way inside my shirt.

After fifteen minutes of our public make-out session—I think I'm starting to develop a taste for those—I break away for some air and offer to continue this 'discussion' at my house. Charlie's working the evening shift, which means we've got the house to ourselves. Edward agrees, thank god; he's not the only one who needs relief, you know. He smiles suggestively and gives me one more kiss.

"I'm still using my veto on Footloose."

—

"What are we watching?" Alice says, leaping lightly over the back of the couch and landing on my left. On my right, Edward sighs, bored out of his skull.

"iCarly marathon," I answer, guarding the remote control in my left hand, away from Edward. I know he could take it if he really wanted to, but it's the symbolism of the gesture that counts. "It never ceases to amaze me how many illegal things they get away with on that show."

"Were those teenagers assaulting that kid with a bungee cord and a wedgie?" Alice asks, smoothing out a wrinkle in her slacks.

"Yes," I answer lazily, reaching for my glass of lemonade. I've had a long day enduring Alice's outrageous wedding plans, and right now I feel a pressing need to veg out in front of the TV and watch a stupid sitcom. "The premise is that they host an internet comedy and broadcast their crazy tween antics over the web. They've even made a point of the fact that government agencies, including the local police, monitor their show. Yet they commit crime after crime and never get arrested, because they're young and it's 'funny.'"

"I see," Alice mumbles, passing me a plate of snacks. "And why isn't that chubby boy wearing a shirt?"

"That's Gibby," I tell her, helping myself to a seedless grape. "That kid's gimmick is that he's shirtless at some point in every show. It's kind of disturbing, actually."

"I remember a time when that would have violated several public decency laws strictly based on his man-boobs," she informs me. I'm not even sure whether she's exaggerating. "And this is on Nickelodeon? Is this the same network that gave us Pinwheel?"

"You're dating yourself, Alice," Edward says, amused. "Bella's too young to remember that infantile show."

"Don't act like you didn't watch it with me," Alice taunts him. "You made fun of me for watching a puppet show for pre-schoolers, but you were right there at your piano, playing along with the theme song."

"Aw, really?" I coo, planting a little kiss on Edward's chin. "That's just so sweet. Do you think you can learn to play the iCarly theme song for me, too, please?"

With a long-suffering exhale, Edward nods in compliance. "If you wish, love." That's one more reason why I love him: always willing to play along and be a good sport.

"What happened, bro?" Emmett calls from the dining room table where he and Jasper are playing Congkak, a Malaysian variant of mancala. "Did you lose your man-card already?"

"Shut it, Emmett," Edward says automatically. "You surrendered yours in 1935."

"Did not!" my big brother protests. (Technically he's not my big brother, but I feel stupid calling him my 'future-brother-in-law.' That makes him sound like an accountant or something equally lame and impersonal.) "I'm all man, buddy."

"Emmett!" Rosalie screeches from her room on cue. "Did you pick up my tampons?" Seriously, I know Rosalie is hard to love most of the time, but every so often, she's completely awesome.

"Yes," Emmett grumbles back. "But why do you need tampons, baby?"

"I don't," Rose says breezily, flitting down the stairs, "but I need humans to see me buying them."

"But they didn't see you buying them," Emmett whines, "they saw me buying them."

"Same thing," his wife replies, though to the rest of Forks, they aren't actually married yet. I wonder how that works, exactly. Our former classmates at Forks High talked enough trash about foster siblings merely dating. Getting married will be sure to cause a stir. Is it even legal in this state? Is that something I should expect to have to deal with myself in the future?

"But it's embarrassing!"

Rose checks her reflection in the window, then leans down to kiss Emmett's head. "You'll get over it, just like everybody else."

"What was that about your man-card?" Jasper teases, capturing more stones from the mancala board. "Because I think Rosalie effectively ripped it in half."

"I'm not the one watching a show about a fourteen-year-old girl and her goofy web show," Emmett points out, returning his attention to the game. "Damn it, Jasper, are you beating me?"

"If you'd focus less on proving your manhood," Jasper tells him, "and more on strategy, or hell, even the basics of paying attention, this would not come as a surprise."

The boys keep at their game, and after a little while, Alice says, "Why are they so fascinated with homeless people on this show?"

"I think the writers feel their target demographic just likes the sound of the word 'hobo,'" Edward gripes.

"That makes sense to me," I comment. "I babysat my neighbor's kids last week, and they made up a song about hobos playing broken oboes in Hoboken."

"Wait, Emmett," Edward calls out. "Don't start your turn with that hole; Jasper's got a plan worked out for that."

"Thanks."

Bored with the show, which seems to have devolved into a series of computer-geek insults and food jokes, I start to hand the remote over to Edward, but Alice snatches it from me instead. "I want to see this," she mutters, eyes glued to the screen. "Why does the blond girl keep talking about meat?"

"For some reason, hungry equals hilarious," I answer with a shrug.

"It's a throwback to I Love Lucy, I believe," Edward adds. Then he gives me this worried look and asks, "You have heard of I Love Lucy, right?"

"Daaa da dut, dada dut duh-duh," I sing, enjoying the sheer relief on his face. Good to know that childhood summer I spent parked in front of the rerun channel finally paid off.

Another few sight gags pass onscreen, mostly involving truly ridiculous pop art that I would never in a million years pay money for, let alone be able to make a living from like the lead character's older brother seems to do. "Not that one, Emmett," Alice says. "Jazz will trounce you. Bella, is my gaydar on the fritz, or is that—?"

"No, it's not just you," I tell her. "That preppy nerd Neville isn't technically a homosexual—he's got a crush on the main character—but they do make him play it kind of gay. I think the producers are trying to make a point or something."

"What point? That gay twelve-year-olds should pretend to be straight so they won't get the shit kicked out of them?" She shakes her head in disgust. "Not a good message."

"See, I don't think that's it," I tell her. "He's usually the crafty bad guy, and he gets the shit kicked out of him all the time."

"So now gay people are inherently evil and weak?" Edward remarks. "Oh, that's a much better attitude to promote."

"Maybe they're trying to make a pop culture reference," I suggest. "There's an episode where they give him a pet porcupine named Mr. Tibbles, like that guy in From Russia With Love."

"Number One," Edward supplies. "The villain with the Persian cat." We watched that movie three weeks ago. Edward just about lost his mind when I told him Sean Connery was a crap Bond compared to Daniel Craig.

"Yeah, him. I think they're shooting for a cultured Bond villain with this character." Emmett sighs, contemplating his next move, then reaches for one of his stone depressions. "No Emmett," I say calmly, pretending I'm still concentrating on the show, "that's just what he wants you to do. Try the next one."

"Okay, thanks…wait a minute."

Everyone erupts into boisterous laughter.

"I do believe we've discovered your special power," Rosalie declares, giving me a rare smile. "The ability to fuck with Emmett."

"About time, I say," Edward grins at me. "Usually I'm everyone's target, especially yours, so this is a nice change of pace."

"Don't think everyone won't get a turn," I smirk, reaching up to muss his already messy hair. "Just remember, I do it out of love."

"Dear lord." Edward rolls his eyes, reaching around me in an ineffective attempt to steal the remote from Alice. "If you 'love' me any more than you already do, I think I may die of mortification."

"What do you think is more shameful," Emmett asks the room, "dying of shame itself, or dying during sex?"

"Depends on the shame," Jasper says knowingly. Alice and I both shoot him a look, but I know better than to ask how he'd know.

"Why does every conversation with you have to lead back to sex, Emmett?" Edward demands. "We're watching a children's network over here."

"Edward," Alice interrupts, "everyone keeps calling the doorman 'Lube' as a nickname for Lewbert. Even if the TV could hear you, I think it's a bit late to worry about corrupting the network."

"Somebody think of the children!" Emmett teases. "Bella, please give my brother back his man-card."

"I'm more interested in answering your question," I say honestly. "If you die of shame, that's just a shame for you, but if you die in the middle of sex, well, then you shame everyone you left behind. Just think, no open casket, unless your lover or, god forbid, your kids care to explain why you have such a huge smile on your face."

"That's just a myth," Jasper says, removing his next grouping of captured stones into his storehouse. "Lividity doesn't set in that fast."

"I have to say," Rosalie pipes up, "that kind of sucks. For the partner left behind, I mean. Especially if other people know about the cause of death. Not only does it look like your sex killed your lover, but without the smile, it looks like you killed him or her with bad sex."

"What would you know about bad sex?" Emmett demands immediately.

"See, I can't bring myself to take that shot," I whisper to Edward. "He just makes it too easy."

"I can hear you, human!" Emmett howls.

"You lose," Jasper announces.

"Damn it!"

I cluck my tongue and shake my head. "No man-card, no stones, and apparently no sexual prowess…maybe Emmett can answer the question about dying of shame."

"And what would you and Edward know about sexual prowess?"

"Nice try, Emmett," Edward replies, standing up and tugging me by the hand. "Let's take you home, love."

"Oh my god!" Alice shrieks. "Why hasn't that girl's guardian been arrested for child endangerment? He's set the house on fire four times in four episodes!"

"Goodnight, Alice!" I laugh over my shoulder on the way out the door, suddenly very anxious to get home. I know, by the way Edward is holding one of my hands in both of his, that his shirt is coming off tonight. Don't ask me how that works—I just go with it. Just like he knows, by the way I'm tracing his knuckles with my fingers, that mine is coming off, too.

~.~

"Bella!"

I jump a little, caught unawares by Edward's sudden presence in my living room. "Edward," I gasp. The guitar riff is still exploding in my ears, so I yank my earbuds out, turn off the iPod, and switch off my vacuum cleaner. "You startled me. I wasn't expecting you until later."

Edward leans down and kisses my forehead. "Sorry, love. I couldn't stand to wait any longer. Would you like some help?"

I put Edward to work washing windows while I finish up my vacuuming, putting the iPod back in place as I move. I don't realize until I catch my lover staring at me that I've been singing along to the music the entire time. Curiously enough, he looks slightly annoyed.

"Problem, Edward?" I kneel beside the Hoover and wrap the power cord around the two built-in hooks. "I know I don't have quite the singing voice you have, but I didn't think it was terrible enough to merit a dirty look."

"I'm not giving you a dirty look," he protests, though his expression softens a bit. "I just hate that song."

"'Carry On Wayward Son'? How can you hate that song?" I ask him, rolling the vacuum into the hall storage closet. "It's a classic."

"Hardly," Edward disagrees with a roll of his eyes. "Brahms Lullaby is a classic. That is just...overindulgent drivel."

"I'm sorry," I quip, "I didn't realize you had something against overindulgence on principle. Your massive house and collection of cars would indicate otherwise."

"That's different," Edward insists, turning back to his Windex and Charlie's picture window. "Musically speaking, the whole of the sixties and seventies were about gluttony of sounds. There was no restraint at all. Just look at Hendrix."

This absolutely will not do.

"One," I state flatly, "Hendrix is god. No ifs, ands, or buts."

Edward glances at me briefly and smiles, clearly amused with my Religion of Rock. "Hippie much?" He always seems to forget that even though my personality is vastly different from my mother's, I was in fact raised by her and share in some of her interests, including music. That, and he's unaware that my Gran and Pop-pop were hippies. Sleepovers with Gran featured "The Wind Cries Mary" and "Dust in the Wind" as my lullabies.

"Ask his holy apostles," I deadpan, "Stevie Ray Vaughn and Carlos Santana. I do believe you're a fan of both."

Edward just laughs. I sit on the couch to sort through Charlie's mess of old newspapers and magazines on the coffee table. If there's anything more boring than fishing, it's reading a freaking magazine about fishing.

"Two," I continue, "I find it completely ridiculous that you've dismissed two entire decades worth of music because you hated the experimentation going on within a few genres. And three, we weren't talking about Hendrix or that generation of rock, we were talking about this one song by Kansas, which, by the way, isn't even from the same decade. I think you hate it because you either don't understand it, or you do understand it and you don't like the meaning."

"You do realize Kerry Livgren was high when he wrote this, don't you?" Edward points out. "And I don't think I need to remind you what kind of drugs your deity was on."

"My primary point is that you're not hearing the right message from this particular song." He always has to be right, and this time I'm not letting him win. I know something and he doesn't—how often does that happen? "It's about not giving up, even when things are stormy. Sometimes it's hard to accomplish our tasks in life, but we carry on, and we have our reward when it's done." My father, I decide, needs to stop depending on me to purge his periodicals for him; the recycle stack is huge.

"There are always a million different ways to interpret something as short as a song," Edward argues, "and your interpretation is not what I get from this one." He fishes around in the TV cabinet and finds special wipes for cleaning Charlie's flatscreen. "The speaker is overly hopeful for a restful afterlife he has no evidence of. Now your life's no longer empty, surely heaven waits for you. Based on what, I ask you? The voices he said he hears when he's dreaming? Livgren was enamored with spirituality to a ridiculous degree. His band eventually broke up over it."

"I think," I reply carefully, removing my piles of publications from the coffee table and grabbing the furniture polish and cleaning rag from the couch, "I can see you in the song, too."

Edward stays quiet for a moment. "How so?"

"Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man. If I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don't know." The lemon scent of the polish fills my nose, and I wipe the top of the low table, enjoying the circular motion of my hand. "That song has you pegged."

"Hmph," Edward grumbles, but he doesn't say anything else. We work silently for a while, and I decide not to play anything on my iPod this time. Naturally, Edward is done tidying the entire downstairs by the time I've finished dusting all the furniture and throwing out back issues of Saltwater Sportsman Monthly. I quietly excuse myself for a shower before we leave for our day-trip to Seattle. On the way up the stairs, I filter through a mental catalog of songs that will sound great reverberating against the bathroom tile.

'*******'

Edward sits stiffly in the driver's seat through the whole drive. There's no music on, which only ever signifies a conversation waiting to happen, but it's a long way to Seattle, and he's quiet. He's taking me to the Fremont area, famous for its overall quirkiness. There's a statue of Lenin there, and Alice said if we arrive before two o'clock, I'll be able to decorate it before anyone else does. I've got a multi-colored wool poncho and a straw sombrero stashed in the trunk. Alice also mentioned that Edward would have to assist me in reaching Lenin's head, but I don't hold out much hope that he'll put his hands on my ass this time around. Damn it.

Fremont has got to be the weirdest place I've ever been. And I'm from Arizona, a state brimming with artist communities. We drive around, taking in a few sights, like the red Bitters building with a giant rocket attached to the corner of the rooftop, before I make Edward park the car so we can walk around. I find a crazy lamp in one of the shops, perfect for Renee, and arrange to have it shipped to her. We pass a lime green building with the word "Funhole" over the door in whimsical letters, and I speculate whether that place is an arcade or a brothel or both. A random hobo walks past us, talking animatedly to a middle-aged couple, acting as their tour guide. Seriously, why did my mother feel the need to move all the way to Phoenix for a more exciting life when she could have just come here?

"What were you singing in the shower earlier?" Edward finally asks. We're resting under the Aurora Bridge, watching children climb the giant statue of a troll eating a Volkswagen Beetle. How did those kids manage to make it all the way up this steep hill on foot to get to that thing and still have energy left to play? "Something about 'war children?'"

"Oh, yeah," I reply, looking at the absurdly long fingers of the troll's hands. A little red-headed girl with blue shoes clambers up, laughing. "That was 'Gimme Shelter' by the Rolling Stones." I feel my face flush with discomfort. At the time I sang it for the express purpose of getting on Edward's last nerve, but that seems so petty now. "I know I was butchering it, but I—"

"No, you weren't," he says quickly. He takes the clips out of my hair and lets the strands fall. "Actually, you made it sound quite profound."

I close my eyes, just enjoying the gentle tugging as Edward works out the tangles in my hair with his fingers. "My Pop-pop used to sing that song. He saw the Stones perform it live in '69. Said it was the scariest concert he'd ever been to."

"Scary?" Edward echoes. "Why?"

"It was the Altamont concert in California," I answer gravely.

Edward stops. "The one where the Hells Angels provided stage security and stabbed that young man in the audience?"

"For brandishing a gun, yes," I elaborate. "One of the bikers also punched a musician from Jefferson Airplane. Pop-pop said everyone was either drunk or stoned or both, and the whole thing was one big nightmare. Fortunately Gran was home with a baby—my mom, I mean—but it really made an impact on him. He said after that, he stopped going to concerts and stuck to vinyl and eight-tracks."

After a contemplative moment, Edward asks, "How does the song start again?"

Confused but willing, I begin with the haunting 'ooh-ooh-ooh' sounds, like ghosts or wailing winds. That part sounds better in the shower. "Oh, a storm is threat'ning…my very life today. If I don't get some shelter…oh yeah I'm gonna fade away."

To my surprise, Edward joins me in the chorus. "War, children, it's just a shot away, it's just a shot away."

"Was it really awful back then?" I whisper. "With Vietnam and the draft and drugs everywhere?"

"It was," Edward confirms, resting his head on mine. "I managed to avoid the draft, but Emmett didn't. December of that year was when the government started using a birthday lottery to determine the order of calls for induction, and his legal date of birth came up sixth. We could have gone to Canada and changed our names and birthdays again, but he said he was willing to go to war."

"I didn't know that," I say softly.

"Mhmm," Edward nods. "Rosalie was furious with him. She was worried about air strikes, you see—that much firepower would have blown him to pieces and incinerated him. Still, he felt like it was something he needed to do. He said it was wrong for immortals to dodge the draft when fragile humans were being sent out to die." Surprisingly enough, or perhaps not really surprising at all when I think about it, Edward sounds ashamed. "Carlisle faked Emmett's medical exam so that no one would realize he had no pulse." I feel Edward's hands on my shoulders, gripping just a little tighter than his usual light touch, as if he needs support, or to feel that I'm real. "Emmett wrote all the time, usually in code so he could tell us where he was. He came back in '71 with golden eyes, but…well, that's for him to speak about."

I touch Edward's fingers and wonder if they're harder than the troll's. "Do you wish you'd gone?"

"No. I didn't agree with our country's presence in the war, and I knew the American public was being fed a pack of lies about our success there. I also didn't want to be tempted by all that blood, or hear all those terrible, murderous thoughts. But I do wish sometimes that I'd had Emmett's strength of character." One cool hand finds my waist, and I feel myself being turned around. "Most of all, I was scared, Bella. I wasn't brave like my brother, or like you."

"Me?" My voice cracks. "Edward, I'm scared of everything. Surely you can see that."

"No." He shakes his head and pulls me in closer. "You're not afraid to be alone with me, even though you know I could kill you. You've never run from me. You're perfect."

"Don't be daft," I chide him gently. "I'm a pain in the ass, and you know it. I sing songs you hate, even after you say you hate them, I tease you too much, I almost had an asthma attack trying to walk up the hill to get to this troll, but I wouldn't let you carry me, I take unnecessary risks with my life in general, and I'm always pestering you to do things you don't really want to do." I place a kiss on his chest. "Tell me I'm wrong, I dare you."

"You're not wrong." The smile in his voice is adorable. "Bella, you are absolutely a pain in the ass. But you're my pain in the ass."

Laughing, I say, "How about we feed the pain-in-the-ass human, then go home."

(*)

"Raindrops keep falling on my head..."

Movie night would be so much less annoying if Edward hadn't already seen every film released before I was born. "I saw this at a little cinema in upstate New York," he tells me.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was released in the fall 1969, coinciding with the Cullens' stay in Watertown, NY. I know that Emmett, Alice, and Jasper went to Bethel, NY that summer to attend Woodstock, while Edward and Rosalie turned up their noses at the entire ordeal, loathing the music, the herd of dirty hippies (unlike my grandparents, who were clean hippies, thank you very much), and the massive use of LSD that made for a terrifying jumble of mental images impossible to ignore. Instead Edward and Rose went to the movies and happened to see a trailer for Butch Cassidy.

I know that Edward met Paul Newman in New York City over Thanksgiving that year and congratulated him on his performance as Butch, and that Mr. Newman was polite but mostly wanted to be left alone so he could take his four-year-old daughter Clea ice skating in Central Park. I know that Edward completely believes that the real Butch Cassidy, a Mr. Robert Parker, did not die in South America, but came back to the U.S. in the nineteen-twenties (thanks for spoiling the ending for me, my darling), and believes anyone who says otherwise (namely Charles Kelly, Mr. Parker's biographer) is a pinhead.

I know all this better than I know the actual plot of the movie I am currently watching, because Edward is the type who talks over any film he's seen before, and he won't shut up. At this point in the picture, all I know besides Edward's anecdotes are that Butch Cassidy is taking Sundance's girl for a bicycle ride with this absurd song about raindrops in the background, and there are six-shooters and bank robberies.

"Edward, please." I stroke his face tenderly, my index finger resting on his lips. "I'm trying to watch."

"Sorry," he smiles back, fingering a strand of my hair.

And even though I know in five minutes he'll interject again, probably about Robert Redford and how the Sundance film festival is named after his character in this film, it's okay. Because he's here. Edward is right here, arms around me, the two of us tangled in chenille and pillows and skin and firelight from the nearby hearth. Little by little, I'm finding his flaws and quirks, and he's finding mine, and there's nothing quite so marvelous as learning that we are not illusions of perfection engaged in mutual obsession, but real people in love with each other, making a good life together.

A/N: Story derived from my drabble "An Ordinary Night," which can be found in chapter 9 of

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Stephanie Meyer. References to real places and public figures are used fictitiously. iCarly is copyrighted by Viacom International Inc.