For a short while after my stay in the hospital, Edward avoided meeting my gaze whenever he could. There was tension in his shoulders, tension that retreated only when I found myself in his arms, my head tucked under his chin, his eyes out of sight.
I clung to him, those first few days, fearing that his refusal to look at me would lead to him leaving or stemmed from him realizing that I really wasn't much to look at, after all. I had sustained some awful bruising, and swelling, but makeup had done wonders on the marks on my face. No matter the reason, he was different and I couldn't figure out why.
I let it go, albeit half-heartedly, and he uncharacteristically let his guard down, perhaps because he could finally enjoy our joint survival of the ballet studio ordeal without dealing all of my suspicions.
"That's what's different about you," I exclaimed, laying a hand on his arm after he'd accidentally met my gaze.
He flinched away.
"Edward? What happened to your eyes?"
He remained silent, fuming, and my mind made the leap quickly. Human blood…red eyes…James had red eyes…
"Edward," I demanded, my voice low. He heard my pulse accelerating and sighed, turning towards me, allowing a deeper glimpse into those unfamiliar burgundy eyes.
"I drank your blood," he explained simply, and his fingers brushed gently across the scar on my hand, the one place on my body where his cold touch had no effect.
I caught his fingers when he would have taken them back, entwining them with mine. "I know I thanked you for saving my life, but I don't think I professed any proper gratitude for that particular aspect of the task."
For the first time since before the whole incident, his smile seemed genuine. "Don't ever feel put out because I've done something to keep you safe."
"And don't you try to hide your sacrifices."
"My sacrifices?" he asked, his tone biting. I followed his gaze down to the cast on my leg and rolled my eyes.
"It could have been worse," I reminded him, and was rewarded by him turning away once more, his eyelashes settling down stubbornly over the furious color that both fascinated and frightened me.
His eyes returned swiftly to the normal gold that I loved, and I often noticed either his fingers or my own lingering upon the vicious mark on my hand, but the subject was never broached again.
Disclaimer: These are stupid. Stephenie Meyer isn't writing fanfiction (except, didn't she secretly for a contest or something?). Anyway, I'm not her.