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 Table of Contents

Summary
1. 1: Blue Dress
2. 2: Devil with the Blue Dress

-3-
 Summary

Sometimes it's the little things that make all the difference. 1970s Edward for The
Age of Edward Contest. Rated M for profanity and ascorbic acid content over the
FDA's RDA.

-4-
 1: Blue Dress

The Age of Edward Contest

Title: Blue Dress

Your pen name: algonquinrt

Type of Edward: Disco Edward, circa late 1970s

If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this contest visit:
The Age of Edward C2 Community:

http:/www(DOT)fanfiction(DOT)net/community/The_Age_of_Edward_Contest/7012

He sat on the white couch in the white room with his feet planted on the white
fucking carpet, thinking that he may as well be sitting in a hospital waiting room as
sterile as the place looked. Flicking imaginary lint off the denim-look leisure suit, he
crossed and uncrossed his legs. She was taking too long and it was annoying him.

She seemed to be doing that more and more these days.

He couldn't figure out what her problem was tonight. He'd laid everything out for
her on the bed before he'd even gotten dressed, from underwear to shoes. All she
had to do was put the damn dress on and get her ass out here so they could catch a
cab. She'd better be wearing the dress when she came out. He didn't ask for much
anymore, only very simple requests. Was it too much to ask that she put on his
favorite dress tonight?

The door finally opened and his heart clutched. She was a vision before him, and
he was reminded of the first time he'd seen her in that dress: the night they met.
She'd been dancing in the middle of the damn club, oblivious to everyone around
her.

He'd seen only the back of her dress at first, the open back revealing that she
couldn't be wearing a bra, and when she turned, two points made it apparent that
not only was she not wearing one, but she apparently was turned on by moving her
body in front of a crowd. When the music switched over to a slow song, she made
-5-
her way to where he was standing at the bar. You wouldn't think a brunette could
pull off that color blue—a pale shade that reminded him of ice—but she managed to
make it look foxy. Her eyes were a startling hazel contrasted against the blue eye
shadow she wore, and her dark hair curled down to her shoulders, held off her face
with a large barrette.

"Buy me a drink?" she'd asked him in a clear voice, not the simpering whine most
of these girls came at him with. Before he knew it, they were back at his apartment
and he was fucking her senseless. Of course, that was a year ago, before she'd
hooked up with a few girls who wanted to be at the disco every damn night.

He stood as she began to walk toward him. It was a good thing he did, because
she stumbled in the ridiculous sling-backs she insisted on wearing, and he caught
her before she hit the floor. The shoes were silver, matching the sequins on her
dress, and he knew she'd probably end up wiping out at some point in the evening.
She may be pure sex on the dance floor, but the girl couldn't walk across a room
without tripping over her own two feet.

He could see the telltale signs of what had caused the delay. Her eyes were a little
too bright and slightly red-rimmed, and she seemed to vibrate in place, even as she
twirled for him.

"Happy?"

He gave her a half-smile in thanks. It was such a small gesture, allowing him to
choose her outfit for tonight, but it reminded him that they'd had a happier time. If
only she'd been able to keep making these small gestures, things could have been
perfect. The trivial, however, became lost in the bigger picture, and they'd stopped
paying attention to the simple things that made them both happy.

He didn't touch her as he held out her wrap for her. He knew she'd undoubtedly
refuse to coat-check it, only to lose it under a table at some point. As usual, he'd be
left to hunt for it before they could leave. The evening may as well have been
scripted before they even left the apartment, but he was determined to see it
through, even knowing how it would end.

They were in a cab before she finally clued in that something was different.

"You shaved off the mustache?" She probably didn't mean to sound so accusatory,
but he reacted defensively anyway.

"I was sick of it. It's not me. None of this is me."
-6-
 Had he really said that out loud or just thought it? He meant it though. The disco,
the leisure suit... all of it was a scene he didn't belong in. Not that it mattered
anyway; she rarely paid attention.

"I think I like you better without it," she finally announced, as if he really would
care what she thought.

Of course, he was lying to himself. He'd probably always care what she thought.
Even long after tonight, when this conversation was nothing more than a memory.

When they pulled up outside the club, he climbed out of the cab first, holding out
a hand to help her. He was hoping to prevent a fall while they were still outside.
She'd be in a bad mood before the evening even started if she ripped her stockings
or dress before they made their way inside. Instead of tripping, she proved him right
and exited the cab without her wrap. He had to crawl back in for it while she
shivered in the cold night air. He handed her the wrap and walked ahead of her to
the door, ignoring the long line of people shimmying in place trying to keep warm. A
nod from the doorman granted them admittance, and they were through the doors
and inside the smoky club before the annoyed hopefuls in line had finished rolling
their eyes.

She made a beeline for the ladies' room, claiming she needed to check her
make-up, but he knew there was only one thing getting freshened up in there, and it
sure as hell wasn't her cosmetic application.

He sighed and headed for the bar. It was going to be a long night.

By the time she reappeared, he'd already gotten their drinks: one of her ridiculous
Tequila Sunrises and whiskey, neat, for him. He couldn't figure out how she drank
that crap, but then again, he couldn't figure out a lot of things about her anymore.
She took off to hook up with some friends and he trailed along in her wake, a
position he found himself in more and more often these days.

Still, she'd worn the dress. He wasn't sure if he'd really expected her to, assuming
she'd see what he'd laid out for her and scoff, wearing something newer or flashier.
Compared to the things she'd been wearing lately, this dress was positively virginal,
lack of bra to the contrary. It was as if she'd figured out what made him happy, only
now, when it was too late.

She downed her drink quickly, then tilted forward and kissed him with
desperation. It was a hot, open-mouthed kiss that led him to believe she knew it too.
He was nearly pulled into her orbit before she took off toward the dance floor again,
-7-
camera flashes going off regularly as she joined the celebrity set that had all but
replaced him.

He watched her dancing, her hips moving and dress swirling as she joined a group
line. Once upon a time, he'd have joined her. Once upon a time, though, she'd have
wanted him there.

After the first night, they went out dancing maybe twice a week, though they were
inseparable from the start. She was working as legal secretary, but wanted to be a
writer. He asked which firm, hoping like hell it was neither his own nor a rival, and
she admitted she worked for a firm that specialized in family law.

He wasn't really the going-out type, preferring a night home watching television
with client notes in front of him, but he loved watching her move. She regularly
tripped and dropped things when they were together, but on the dance floor, she
was magic. He wasn't much for the attention, but couldn't bear the sight of other
men asking her to dance, so he joined her more often than not, the two of them
drawing their share of stares: some admiring, but most jealous.

He would often come home from the office to find her in his apartment, dinner on
the table, and a new shirt or suit would be laid out on his bed. Those were the nights
he knew they'd be going out, and at first, he'd been excited by it. A night out
dancing always led to an even better night of amazing sex once they got home.

Now he watched her, posing and simpering for the cameras, happy that her
picture would show up the next day in the gossip columns, or next week in the pages
of a magazine. Why people were so concerned with who was out drinking with
whom, he had no idea, but he knew that she'd been referenced less and less as
"companion of heir" and more as "socialite," which was ridiculous knowing her
blue-collar roots. She'd been drawn to the exotic celebrity crowd like a moth to the
flame. Too bad she was unable to recognize that her wings were getting singed.

The way things had been lately, he hardly remembered that giddy girl, so excited
to be meeting celebrities and ending up in gossip columns. Those first couple of
months, everything had seemed glittery and bright, and moving her in had been the
best idea he'd ever had. Living with her meant more time to sleep after nights out.
More sex. More of those sweet, stolen moments when they showered together or
brushed their teeth side-by-side before bed.

Unlike most couples, there was never an argument over toilet paper placement
(always over) or toothpaste use (always squeeze from the bottom of the tube).
They'd found a rhythm that was so natural it was effortless. Until recently, that is,
-8-
when he felt they weren't even from the same planet. Still, she'd worn the dress. He
hadn't even needed to touch her tonight to feel reconnected. It simply felt as if she
was trying to make him happy. Then she'd kissed him... Sometimes, it was all about
the little things.

Of course, the little things could crack the foundation as well. There were the
added nights going out dancing that started to creep into the schedule. The number
of times she raced off to the bathroom with her friends and came back jittery and
hyper. The night when he'd been sitting on the couch playing Eric Clapton's latest
album when she wanted to go out, and she'd taken it from the turntable and flung it,
smashing the vinyl to bits.

He'd nearly hit her then. He'd been close, but instead, he'd grabbed his keys and
left the apartment, crashing at his brother's apartment until she tracked him down
the next day, crying and apologizing and blaming a headache she'd had all day. That
was the night he'd started to suspect their problems may have something to do with
her bathroom trips at the club.

His money was her money. She didn't pull that much down and he had more than
he'd ever be able to spend in a lifetime. Of course, she took that to mean he didn't
check the account statements, and the girl who'd felt awkward about him buying her
things suddenly started taking out cash in fairly substantial withdrawals. Sure, some
of it was spent on clothes and shoes and jewelry, but she didn't have all that much to
show for it. Which meant his money was undoubtedly going right up her nose.

He caught sight of her then, and she met his eyes, smiling and gesturing to her
friends before she left the dance floor, shimmying her way over to where he stood.

"Why are you such a downer, baby?" she purred at him. "You know, if you want
something to make you a little happier..."

Why couldn't she understand that all he needed to be happy was for her to believe
in what they had, rather than the glitz and the glamor and the powdery white lines?
She was a fucking angel in this damn blue dress, but she was no longer the girl
who'd originally worn it. She was someone different, someone who believed in the
facade instead of the foundation.

Lost in thought, he followed her to the bar, accepting the drink she handed him as
well as her hand reaching into his pocket for his money clip. He wondered if she
spent her own money at all these days, or if he was simply a well that never dried
up. She batted her eyelashes at him, and he watched her mouth move, but he heard
nothing but the soft slosh of the whiskey in his glass as he raised it to his mouth and
-9-
downed it quickly. She wasn't that far behind him in finishing her own, and followed
up by taking his hand and leading him to a booth in a dark corner, empty of all but
abandoned drinks and a telltale dusting of powder. She climbed onto his lap, and the
dress and her smell and familiar feel swirled around him, clouding his thoughts.

"All I want is to make you happy, baby," she whispered into his ear. "Just to please
you. Can I please you?"

She kissed him then, whisper-soft kisses along his jaw from his ear to his mouth.
He knew she was high. He was sure of it. Yet her mouth gave no sign of it, offering
the sweet kisses that reminded him what it had been like to fall in love with her. Of
afternoons spent on the couch watching old movies on television and making out like
a couple of teenagers. Of naked picnics in bed on Saturday mornings, the Times
spread out between them. She'd do the crossword in pen and they'd eat donuts or
other crap food before making love instead of having lunch.

It shifted then, with her kiss. He thought he'd needed only to see her, to believe
that she wanted this. It wasn't enough now. He needed to possess her, to have that
tangible proof she was still his. He lifted her off his lap just enough to arrange her
dress and free himself before lowering her again—not penetrating—just to feel her
against him. The contact was feather-light: a mere brush of wetness against him. His
breath caught at the sensation as a reminder of the days in which repeats of that
first night were unsure; every coupling was an intricate dance of desire partnered
with insecurity.

As that first brush led her to lower herself further, sliding herself along his length,
he watched her eyes, half-closed and unfocused. He couldn't remember the last time
when sexual contact had made him feel so connected to her. Lately it had been
quick fucks against the wall in the bathroom after a line with her friends, or a quick
rush to get off on the couch in the living room when they got home. As his mouth
met hers again, he realized they'd already spent more time on foreplay than they'd
probably spent on the entire act in the past several months.

Her eyes were hypnotic as she broke their kiss.

"Baby, please," she begged. "I can't stand it. Please let me feel you."

As if he could ever deny her? With a small shift, he was inside her, silencing her
moan as his tongue met hers. He dug his fingers into her hips, allowing her only the
slightest movements, in case anyone was watching. As she moved in tiny arcs over
him, it would look like a heated make-out session instead of what it really was.

- 10 -
 It was his turn to moan as she moved faster. His muscles shook with the effort it
took to remain still; too much movement would reveal them. As she moved faster, he
felt helpless, closing his eyes and mumbling into her neck. "So good, baby. Yes. So
good. Ah, god... ah..."

He wasn't going to last. He couldn't risk moving his hand, but scraped his teeth
along her neck to the hollow of her collarbones. She whimpered, and he couldn't
resist the temptation to bite her, marking her neck and bringing her right along with
him to climax.

He panted against her chest, feeling better about her than he had in ages. She
still loved him. She still wanted him. Maybe they could talk about the coke and the
partying. Cut out the coke and they'd re-negotiate nights out dancing with nights
home spent talking like they used to have. He couldn't remember the last time
they'd had a real conversation.

He was still trying to pull himself together when she lifted herself off him, fixing
her dress and hair impatiently, as if she'd merely been inconvenienced. She reached
for her purse, and he hoped she was simply as eager as he was to discuss things.

Instead, she reached inside and pulled out her lip gloss, checking her face in a
compact as she reapplied the makeup he'd kissed off.

"Can we go home now? Please? We need to talk..."

She covered his mouth with her hand, and he could see exactly what she'd say in
just a minute already bubbling up in her eyes.

"I'm not coming back with you, Edward."

"I can stay a little longer..."

"No, I mean I'm not coming back at all. I'm going to crash with some friends for a
while... My things are already packed in the closet. I can come by and get them
when you're at work or..."

That's what had taken her so long. Throwing her things into suitcases while he
waited on the couch, wondering when everything had gotten so out of control. He
wondered how long she'd been planning this, and how many people knew.

This had all been an elaborately staged goodbye? Wearing the dress without
complaint, her flirting. She lifted her hand and ran her fingers through his hair
- 11 -
before stroking his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Edward. Really. You just seem to want something different from life.
The whole white picket fence and station wagon and boredom. There's so much out
there to experience, and you just aren't interested."

She turned and walked away, and he doubted she even heard him reply.

"All I ever wanted was you, Bella."

A/N: All standard blah-blah belongs to SM... c'mon, you folks know the
drill. Inspiration for the story actually came from the Depeche Mode song of
the same name. Thanks to adorablecullens for story guidance and MsKathy
for beta duties and general hand-holding.

- 12 -
 2: Devil with the Blue Dress

A/N: As usual, all Twilight geegaws property of Stephenie Meyers.

So, I had ZERO plans to extend this fic, but, well, what Team Rich Wood
wanted, Team Rich Wood got. Thank you, ladies, for being so generous with
your money for the Support Stacie Auction. With this one, you will get more
than you bargained for, since the epilogue for this one split in two logical
parts. Part I was based on Depeche Mode's Blue Dress. Part II (below) on
Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels' Devil with the Blue Dress.

Thank you to philadelphic and Feisty Y. Beden for the plot bunneh, and to
Feisty for beta duties because everyone else wussperved. This section, like
it's predecessor, has a wussperv rating of 0%. Go hide under a blanket.

He sat at the table, drumming his fingers on the white linen tablecloth. She was
late, again. He took another sip of his bourbon, wondering whether he should leave
or continue to wait for her. Odds were she'd gotten so involved in spending his
money, she forgot all about lunch. She'd realize later on this afternoon, and greet
him at the door in nothing more than lace and high heels in an attempt to seduce
him. Truth is, he'd rather she just get drunk and pass out instead.

To be honest, the thought of that alone kept him at the table. He'd rather wait for
her now than have to bother with her later. She was the perfect political wife:
beautiful, a lovely hostess, and able to do and say exactly the right thing at the right
time. She was also cold, empty, and apparently, barren as the Sahara. There would
be no children, and she turned her attention to shopping to fill the void, while he
rapidly lost interest as she focused on having the newest or most expensive she
could buy.

He sighed again and looked at his watch. He'd give her ten more minutes, and
then he was giving up and heading back to the office. He lifted his head from his
drink to look around. He hated this place, but she loved it. It was full of people who
only cared who saw them here, not about the restaurant itself, and the food was shit.
At least they had a decent bar.

He checked his watch one more time before reaching for his wallet. Enough was
enough. He had work to do, and constituents to serve. As he laid the bills down, he
saw a flash of chestnut brown, and his heart skipped a beat. He'd lost track of how
- 13 -
many times over the past few years he'd seen a color or a mannerism or heard a
laugh and thought of her. In the beginning, he'd hoped. Maybe it was her. Maybe
she'd come back. She never did though, and he moved on, only to have these brief
reminders of what he'd once thought he had.

This time it was a woman, far too thin to be her, rushing to bring papers to her
boss. He wondered for a moment where she was now as he passed the assistant. He
hoped she was happier than he was. Shit, he hoped she was still alive.

Just as he passed the woman, she whirled, bumping into him. Instinctively, he
grabbed her, remembering how used he once was to catching a clumsy girl in his
arms. He looked down as she stuttered her apology, and gasped.

"Bella?"

"Eh-Edward?" she stammered in reply.

He held her until he was sure she had her balance, then took a step back.

"It's uh... good to see you," he offered.

In truth, he wasn't sure what it was. He'd thought her dead. He'd seen her so
often in her thoughts that this gamine waif in front of him seemed a stranger. He
hadn't pictured her alive, a little older, less frenetic. She'd taken the boxes when
he'd been at work, her key left on the dining room table. The last time he'd seen her
he'd fucked her in a booth, then watched her walk away. The reality of her was
foreign.

"It's wonderful to see you, Edward. I've..." she trailed off.

This was no place to talk to her, in front of many curious eyes that would later
have wagging tongues.

"I'd like to... would you..."

He huffed, and raked his fingers through his hair, shorter now than the last time
he'd seen her, and somewhat tamed to match his public image.

"Look," he continued. "I'd really like to know how you've been. Would you like to
get a cup of coffee, or something?"

It was risky, being seen with her, but then again, he was known to meet his
- 14 -
constituents from time to time. In a public setting, in business clothing, a cup of
coffee wouldn't draw that much attention.

"I'm sorry, but I have to get back to work. My boss," she indicated with a tilt of her
head, "frowns upon long lunches. As if I've even taken one this week."

"Then I'd say you're due. One cup of coffee? For old-time's sake?"

She hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she nodded. He wasn't sure whether
to smile or vomit, as he felt like doing both at the same time. Awkwardly, he reached
for her arm, then thought better of it, and put his hand in his pocket, gesturing
toward the door with his other hand.

Once outside, she fell into step as easily as if no time had passed at all, their
movements in sync. Neither said a word until they were seated in a little diner a few
blocks from the restaurant.

"I'm..."

"I..."

They began talking at the same time, laughing nervously.

"You go ahead," he said.

"I don't know where to begin," she confessed.

"You're still working as a secretary?"

"Yeah," she replied. "I'm lucky to have found another job. The one I had when we,
er, well, I finally got fired."

He sipped his coffee, unsure of what he should say.

"Look, I'm sorry about everything, Edward. I screwed up, big time. I was so
caught up in everything and I don't know what I was thinking. I lost my job. I
squatted on friends' couches. Then when I ran out of money, I realized they were
only friends as long as I was partying. With no money for blow, well...

"I went to a clinic, you know. Got myself cleaned up, and came out and started
over again."

- 15 -
 "You seem like you are doing well."

She smiled ruefully.

"Better, maybe. This job isn't the greatest, but it's a paycheck. I have a few close
friends, but I'm a homebody now, as strange as that must seem."

"Are you happy, Bella?"

She met his eyes.

"I wouldn't say happy. I know life is too short to have so many regrets, but I can't
help it. I lost so much."

He looked down at the table, tracing cracks in the Formica with his finger while
the silence stretched between them.

"So, uh, you're married?"

He closed his eyes for a brief moment before looking up.

"Yes. She's..."

How could he get through this conversation without lying? Once, he'd been able to
tell her anything.

"She's the perfect political wife," he finally answered.

"Are you happy?" she asked in a small voice.

"No," he ground out. "She can't have children. She hosts a damn good party, but
she doesn't do anything else other than spend my money. I can't tell you the last
time we had sex, much less the last time we had an actual conversation that didn't
involve an event or a campaign function. So, no, I'm not what you'd call happy."

She reached under the table for his hand, giving it a quick squeeze.

"I'm so sorry, Edward. Sorry that I screwed up. Sorry that you aren't happy. If I
could go back..."

Oh god. He couldn't allow himself to think about it, not even for a minute. To go
back to before the drugs and the clubs and the mess. To go back to the sweet girl in
- 16 -
the beautiful dress.

He looked up and saw her eyes swimming with tears.

"I need to get back to work, and I'm sure you have laws to draft and
what-have-you, so..." She trailed off.

"Can I give you a ride back to work, at least?"

"I think that would be okay."

He tossed a twenty on the table and walked her back to where he'd parked. She
gave him the address of the firm where she worked, and he pulled out into traffic.

"Look, Bella, I regret the way things ended with us. I should have tried harder."

"You couldn't have done anything differently."

"But still..."

"No buts. I did it all on my own. I don't think there was a single thing you could
have said that would have changed my behavior in the slightest. I had to come to my
own realizations, and it's my fault that I got there too late."

"Can I see you again? As friends, I mean. Could we at least talk sometimes?"

They had reached her building, and she lifted a folded newspaper from the seat
between them. On the front page was a picture of the state's lieutenant governor
and his lovely wife. She held it out to him, and he looked at the picture of himself
and Tanya as if they were strangers. He saw her in the royal blue dress with the
shoulder pads and pearls, the very picture of a political wife who was in love with
her husband. Only he knew she was the devil incarnate, and he'd sold his soul for a
picture with nothing behind it.

"I'm sorry, I don't think so. Your public image is very important, and I don't think
you need to be seen with an ex-girlfriend with a history of drug problems. Thank you
for the coffee, though. It really was good to see you. I hope you find happiness,
Edward."

She let herself out of the car, and he barely heard her before she shut the door:

"I wish I'd known back then you were the only thing I'd ever truly want. Now it's
- 17 -
too late," she whispered.

He watched her rush into her building, knowing that he'd let her walk away from
him for the second time.

- 18 -