It's been a long time since I've written Twilight fic, but I think I'm getting back into it. I have two big stories I want to write for the fandom, but first, here's this little tidbit
It was raining outside.
Carlisle was at the hospital, and I was sitting on the sofa, reading a love story. I remembered that as a human I hated the very book I read now. I hated all love novels in the last chapters of my human life. A perfect romance seemed like a childish dream, then. Now I knew better. Carlisle was my perfect. Our life wasn't perfect, and the way we chose to live it made it even harder, but as long as we were together, we could survive anything.
Even if sometimes it felt like we were just surviving.
The first year of my new life was certainly more surviving than living. I felt my love for Carlisle from the moment I awoke, but I felt so many things at once those first few months, I didn't know what to make of any of it. Eventually, my romance with him blossomed, as slow and beautiful and natural as a flower in spring. I feared Edward resented me for it, though. Sometimes when I would think of him, he would shoot me a glance like a steel blade. I thought that he was upset with me for stealing away his creator, companion, and friend. It turned out that wasn't the case, though.
One day, Edward was acting generally sullen, and I tried to comfort him. I knew he didn't like much to be touched, but I risked putting my hand on his shoulder anyway.
"What's wrong?" I asked him.
He shrugged off my hand.
I sighed. Edward never let me in when he was in one of his moods.
He let out a frustrated breath at that thought.
Actually, he never really let me in ever.
The chair Edward had been sitting in crashed against the floor when he shot up. "For Christ's sake, Esme, you aren't my mother!" he'd yelled at me, and he stormed out of the room and out of the house.
I was still a mess that night when Carlisle came home. It had been stupid of me to assume that just because Edward saw Carlisle as a father he should see me as a mother. To assume that he would let me into his life, let alone his thoughts, his problems.
Edward didn't come home until the next morning, and a few weeks later, he told Carlisle he was leaving for good.
That was the last time I saw Edward. Four years later, I still thought about him often. If he could hear my mind now, I knew he wouldn't appreciate the light I thought of him in: a lost son, scared and misguided and alone.
I shook my thoughts out of the past and returned them to my book. I didn't get the chance to concentrate long, though, as there was a quick knock at the door. I took a moment before answering it, knowing that it would seem more normal for whatever human had come to call. It seemed odd that someone would just drop by when it was raining. Perhaps an automobile outside was failing to start and they needed help.
I opened the door, and standing there was Edward. He was drenched through every layer of clothing and water was dripping steadily out of his hair. His hands were tucked into his pockets, and he was staring down at his own feet.
He didn't meet my eyes when he said, "Hello, Esme."
"Hello, Edward," I said, in the most welcoming voice I had. I wished he would look up at me.
He shook his head at the thought, but complied. His eyes were red, but the amber seemed to be coming back to them. He was back on the wagon.
"'Back on the wagon,'" he quoted, then laughed one hard laugh. He judged himself too harshly.
"You judge me too kindly," he countered.
I smiled at him. "That's because I love you." I wanted to tell him that everything would be fine, that he could come back, that we would love him as much as we ever did, but I stopped myself. He wouldn't want to hear those things from me, I should wait for Carlisle to tell him. Edward doesn't want a mother, he doesn't need one. Instead, I offered, "Would you like to come inside?"
Edward seemed to ignore the question, and he stared at me for a long moment. Then, ducking his head back down in what seemed to be embarrassment, he said, "Maybe I do."
I almost chastised him for his bad grammar. 'Maybe I would,' not 'maybe I do.'
"No," he said. "Maybe I do… need a mother."
I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to think. Somehow, my arms opened themselves up, and with an audible squish of wet clothing, Edward was hugging me.
I was so happy I felt like I would have cried if I could have. Edward had come home, and he'd come home as my son. I was never letting him run away again.
He laughed. "Thanks mom."