themidnightson: (Default)

From: 360-339-2730 (Edward)
I know what I have to do now.
5.11 pm Wed, Nov 23

themidnightson: (Default)
From: 360-339-2730 (Edward)
I know what I have to do now.
5.11 pm Wed, Nov 23
themidnightson: (Removed in the process)
Edward doesn't have to be told by either of them the myriad reasons why they need to turn themselves out a few weeks after they arrive in Rochester. They're always going to attract attention, but they need to at least appear normal and comfort the sensibilities of those who shouldn't be left wondering.

The rhymes and reasons are always the same, only the trivial details change. That Senior King decides to throw a late Winter ball, to honor his nieces’ engagement, and makes the charitable donation of tickets for all the doctors and their families is simply convenient more than celebrated.


The rich and affluent, and the hanger's on to the rich and affluent, of Rochester waltzed each other around the floor. They talk at tables pressed to the edge of the floor, starting with the weather and the season moving into the topics in vogue and on to the city events to come, circling always the edge of polite business.

Anything but the world outside their doors. All the while back stabbing and conniving at each other with each thought matching their syrupy words.


Just because he understands it all (and hears it all) does not mean he has to embrace it.

Edward does what's required of him (introductions to the Senior, to so many others he smiles at without caring; middling chit chat about the weather and seasons, his sister and brother-in-law, Eastman's seasonal concert, about King's boycotting heir apparent) until it isn't, and he can slip the crowds.
themidnightson: (A Little Less Than Seen)
Edward has told many lies in his life.
You . . . don't . . . want . . . me?


More lies than the number of days he's been whatever state of living this is.

I've let this go on too long.

You're no good for me, Bella.

Lying doesn't bother him by and large. He doesn't lose time on it ever.

And I'll make you a promise in return.

I promise this is the last time you'll see me.

I won't put through anything like this again.

Because he doesn't care about the people he's lying to.

You can go on with your life
without any inference from me.

It will be as though I never existed.
themidnightson: ([Person] Bella - Beautiful Together)
It's seamlessly easy to arrange the trip itself.

A few clicks of a mouse. A phone call with Alice to get more on the weather and insider places fan's would go. One phone call each between Chief Swan and Carlisle and Esme, to comfort him that, of course, Bella would be well taken care of and that the four of them were going camping for a week. She'd never be more than half a day’s drive away from home, in case she changed her mind and wanted to come back.

Then to wait down one last week, before --

Edward brushed back the hair from Bella's cheek, leaning in to press his lips against her temple, saying softly so as not to rouse other sleeping passengers, only his, "You have about twenty minutes to landing now."
themidnightson: (Default)
stop stop stop the past from turning

He's not sure how it happened.

He could recount the details. Who left when and why and where they were going and for how long. But he doesn't know why he didn't figure out they were alone in the house until the thumping sound started. He'd been reading. Maybe that was it. Even if he hadn't missed the direction of her thoughts. But the thumping was so constant, so unchanging, it brought him back from written words and he laid there listening to her, to it.




Finger twined in her hair, as though her great strength could rend the black hair from her head, as though the wall wouldn't give way if she kept rocking back against it so hard, as though she were utterly alone in the house.

His feet took him there without any true intention. It's hard not to hear something so loud and so drastic. He wonders how Japer left her here at all today, and had he himself even noticed any signs that would have made this a likely assumption. And he was going to turn around and walk away. Except the thudding noise stopped when his footsteps did. For a sniffle of a nose that can't run and a choked down sound.

And he can see her. The way her knees are trembling. Both through her eyes, and through the strip of light dividing the wall from the door, even in the dark of the closet she's hiding in. Only a few feet to his left of where's he's stopped in the hallway.

"I know-" mixes with I'm sorry. I just "-you're there." wanted to see something.

Tell me there's something there.

He could walk away. She's used to him walking away now.

He let them stay, because he's the only one who really doesn't get a vote. Carlisle said it was his choice, but everyone is already over the roof. They just don't want to step on his feet to be it. But they do, and he lets them. And know they do, and still lets them. But he doesn't have to be in the same room. Doesn't have to fake this grand perfect friendship she keeps throwing him visions of.

He could walk away. Again. Like always.

With a frown, he leans against the wall and slides down to sitting.
Carlisle and Esme will both have his head if he leaves her here like this.

He feels her frustration grow. Because as close as he is, she knows he isn't. She has nothing in the past and what she has here is the imperfect points of the future she knows were right, aren't changing from her purview, and he still isn't here. He's less than three feet from her and he isn't at all the person she was running to. And not having the future in the midst of the terror of being unable to touch her past sends her off again.

The shaking. The grasp of her fingers in her hair. The quieter sound of her head hitting the wall.

Edward frowned at his own knees. It's only a passive, receptive, gift. And he'd call it more frequently a torture when not relating it to either education or protecting his family. He can't push. He can't seek. He can't go looking. He can only stare at his knees feeling helplessly unable to give her even some small bit of what she wants to find inside herself of her past previous to waking up as one of them.

He shakes his head even though she can't see him at all.

"It's only blackness. Not even whispers."

She sobs harder, and, as if in perfect unplanned unison, both their heads fall back against the walls behind them. Neither of them miss it, and he hopes, desperately she'll leave it alone. But nothing is a coincidence in Alice's head and she chokes out words, hard and bitter and pleading and broken all at once.

You were supposed to make it better.

Edward sighed. Heavy and put upon. Closing his eyes. It's only the newest thing he's forced to bear for his family. How many things can he continue to stack on top of himself for Carlisle and Esme's happiness? Even Rosalie had attached herself slightly more to the idea of Alice once the fashion topic came up, and Emmett loved the idea of having more people to rough house with and bait into playing.

When he didn't say anything, her thoughts cycled back to the original problem. There is no future, there is no past. And Edward stared at the wall as a sob echoed from the tiny closet once more. She isn't Esme, who he knows how to comfort with music and laughter and just letting things be okay or Carlisle who can be managed in any emotion with some effort. He can rile Rosalie from a funk usually by severe baiting, and Emmett never comes down enough things aren't solved by sex with his wife.

She's Alice. Entirely new. Entirely unknown.

Who is trying desperately at this moment not to hate him for not being someone he isn't. For the fact she's sitting next to the person who's supposed to be her best friend for all of eternity and beyond, but instead is still utterly alone. Devoid of her own past, Devoid of her promised future, alone in this house waiting for Jasper to return.

He knows that feeling. He lives that feeling. The one of being so close to the things that make the most, perfect, pristine sense, but that there is a glass wall between you and it. Whether it's something you, or your past actions, built, or something created by the status quo or other people. He's been behind one for so many years, and it tears at the pieces in him that have deep seated resentment.

He watches her vision dance and distort, flickers of other things he's had to watch, come and go and come and go, and she just grips her hair harder. She wants him to go away. She doesn't. She wants Jasper to be here most of all. Or Esme, maybe. Because there is the sensation of mother. But all she has is Edward, who doesn't want her.

He frowned, his shoulders sagging, and clenched his eyes closed hard.

Her voice next was the tiniest whisper, an apology for wanting him and hurting him, which says nothing of the fact he can tell how much she doesn't want to be apologizing, how much all of this hurts. "You said you needed me."

It flashes into her head, drug up from memory not a sudden vision, and she shudders at the same time as he stiffens:

They're sitting on the porch, staring at the sunset. A sky riotously lemon-orange shade, fading fast, with the scent of the salty blowing in from the distance. She curled up next to him, an arm wrapped around his, and she'd been saying something, or maybe they'd just been sitting in a perfect silence. There's the faint sensation of wry amusement, but easy felt. Comfortable.

Her head is against his shoulder, and her spiky black hair brushes his chin and lips, when he turns to look at it.

Saying, very quietly, very certainly, "I need you."

Alice sighed against his arm, content, home.

Edward eyes opened, staring at the grains in the wall. He didn't need her. He didn't need very much in all of the world. The things he did need he could name on one hand. And all of them, all of them, had broken him open, raped and flayed his sanity, only to piece if back together like a forsaken, for granted puzzle and shoved him back the only place he could remain half-heartedly part of this world.

He didn't want to need anything, if that was how it went, ever again.

But he didn't mean he wanted to be the cause of that in someone either.

He didn't have any words that would help -- she knew that already, she knew how he felt and what his decisions were -- but he did the only thing he could think of that might at least help her until someone else could. Help the pain and the utterly unavoidable lack of feeling there was nothing else in the world there.

Edward reached out to the side, in that slice of light, and laid his hand down, palm up.
Then, after a good minute of her staring at it, Alice placed her tiny hand inside his.

And they sat in the inescapable silence of need and lack of answers, together.

themidnightson: (Of course I'm listening)
Edward's been absent the last few weeks.

No one on either side of the door should be that surprised -- as the bestest, sweetest, temptingest, not to mention most stubborn and obliviously noble, snack cake in the whole wide world was chained to a hospital bed in Forks Hospital which made the stalking and counting of breaths, er, we mean the care and and watching over of Isabella Swan as she recuperated from the events in Phoenix his high priority.

Today she was released to her father's keeping. For first time in weeks, Edward hadn't ignored the door with immortal (im)patience, which brought him to the supposed End of Time and Space. Where he's currently looking over a stack of notes and books the Bar delivered with his bottle of mineral water.

The top ones look like floor plans and some others like blank music paper, some not.

And the ones falling through the air to the floor are long lists.
themidnightson: ([Person] Bella - Walking Away Together)
The Back Door opens and closes.

Two people leave, one dressed for the weather and one decidedly not.

The snow is still covering the ground except for well worn paths that have turned slushy and gray-brown. But it isn't falling right now. And Edward paused, while the door swung closed, to look across the expanse. Would anything feel far enough here to him? Was it just another distraction from?

Except he could not chance these things;
And he did not trust the Front Door after all the things it had thrown at them.
themidnightson: (Not Human)
It's been forty-three minutes and sixteen seconds.

Edward is standing in the ER, staring straight ahead of him.

Straight through every person and object collected before him.

Surgery is about to start two floors away; and he's not even attempting to cover his focus.
themidnightson: (Edward Cullen is watching you)
He's tried. He knows he can't stay home yet, and he's already proven he can't stay there, and he's spent hours convincing himself it wasn't right to go to her like this. Especially not like this, in this state. It'd be disgraceful. Improper. Imbecilic.

Somehow he stills ends up, on his knees besides her bed, his arms crossed over her blankets at the very edge and his cheek resting on his layered hands. His body is an excruciating riot of fire from not having hunted since before the whole incident, but even in the agony of her scent he's loath to leave the first place he's felt he could breathe and think again in days. For any definition of those ideas.

And so he stays there. Not touching her for her safety, at war with his nature and his recent memories, enraptured by her slow breaths and the flicker of her eyelids and the soft words she murmurs from somewhere so very, very far away from him.
themidnightson: (Default)
Edward, in his black-accented grey peacoat, with school books casually slung under one arm and against a hip, is standing in the doorway, giving the room an eloquent haven't you done enough already this week look.

If he was human he'd sigh. He does roll his eyes when he steps in closing the door. Why would he want to go to Biology and deal with the only 'normalcy' left in his life anyway?
themidnightson: (Removed in the process)
For the first time Bella is as convenient a reason to leave as she is something he cannot stop himself from going to.

He winds himself around her deep, brown eyes and figuring out what she means by each of her words when her mind continues to be an endless silence, almost forgetting so many times. At least until she's sleeping and the rest of it slowly falls back against him in the waves of her peaceful breathing.

He goes back for clothes -- when she's far enough into her sleep cycle she won't wake for being dislodged -- and other things. Like the voice that permeates his thoughts before he's even a mile from the house. Still turning over the few words and fact he's been given, mixing them with looking through the past.

Edward's steps stayed soundless in the house, passing two of his family members without their notice, and he'd been headed to his room but he can't avoid certain turns of the endless loop when it comes in that voice. Somehow it's easier to hear in these early morning hours. After the unending, but passing, days. And Bella.

In less than a blink, he ends up by to the window all the way across the room in Carlisle's study, looking out of it, without looking at him -- yet without focusing away from him. His voice quiet, but nothing near a whisper, when he squinted at the tall tree with the owl rustling the leaves.

"Tell me, if it had been me, and you had undeniable proof that I was--" lingering pause, more than rejecting one. "--gone, that you would have done it differently."
themidnightson: (Ready to Run)
I'd like to speak with you first. Later on.

He'd said words, and Edward had given a ghost of agreement.

If it could be called an agreement to just meet Carlisle's eyes. Meet that face that looked and felt right. That wasn't spiked vitriol and malice. Before he'd faded from the room. He didn't even balk at where his feet took him. Jasper retreated after his own. Alice collapsed into Carlisle and Esme, into the riot of emotion Edward understood well.

She sees his departure before he does, before she's even curled into them. But she won't tell. There are greater things of importance to her bearings right now. The endangerment and the terror of nearly having nearly lost her parent (again). She needs them now, needs Carlisle.


when the closet door opens and Front Door closes,

doesn't know or want to know
or care what he needs.

There's the breath of a pause, barely half of a second, long enough and too long all at once, before he strides toward a corner booth. The look he gives the already trembling wait rat gives it the permission to scamper away orderless in terror. He frowned at himself, at his own reaction, and rubbed his forehead.

His fingers slid down to pinch the bridge of his nose and he closed his eyes.

He didn't need to see anyone to know where they were anyway.
themidnightson: ([Person] Bella - Sleeping)
"In the last hundred years or so," his voice was teasing, "I never imagined anything like this.
I didn't believe I would ever find someone I wanted to be another way than my
brothers and sisters. And then to find, even though it's all new to me, that I'm good
at it… at being with you…"


Lessons exquisitely crafted, Painstakingly drafted

He watches her sleep, paying attention to keeping her warm enough, to the tangle of her hair on her pillow, and the way her eye lashes flutter. The hours bring all his words back to him. They replay like lines in a play he's read a hundred times. The words that he knows, and the ones that are so well known by time they've lost sound and shape entirely.

There are admissions he wishes he could make, things that have never fallen from his lips in decades. Words she has no warning or preparation for, no frame of reference. That don't invalidate his statements, so much as sit by them. He knows what love is, and he can claim to having been loved and being loved, to having loved and to loving, but not in the way she would assume he meant if he said it.

His traces the apple of her cheek with a finger tip, slipping across her cheek bone, the shell of her ear, and then down along her jaw, stopping only when she frets and mumbles something about cold. Holding still even when she chooses to rub her face against his chest rather than her blanket. And in that act of unconscious faith and comfort, she can silence his fears, his past.

That he has been offered this precious impossible gift, when all he has known of love was that which left him, when all six of them retreated to their special, singular worlds, alone and adrift. Elusively, swiftly, pulled into and pushed away, aware with beyond all intimate borders of what he was offered, what he had, and what was forbidden to him -- until now.
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