Under the Covers Disclaimer: I dont own anything Twilight. S. Meyer deserves everything she gets, I just like to play with the plot bunnies every now and then :] Summary: Uh, I dunno. A little prediction by Edward pre-change, on the day he falls to the Spanish influenza. I know, its silly, but I wanted to try it out :] Review?
He rolled out of bed, the wrought iron frame groaning ominously in the still room. He splashed his face with warm water from the basin, catching glimpses of his dream between handfuls; there was a girl - in the most peculiar dressing, and pants, no less! - with dark hair and the widest, deepest eyes. She was standing in a meadow, glorious sun tumbling over her like the locks of her hair. He saw his own face, his own body; he had his mouth pressed against the hollow of her throat, her face - beautiful, goddess - transfixed in a half-conscious state of a delicious looking pleasure.
He dropped the water into the basin, hushing the strange, aching cry his heart had emitted. He dressed alone in his room, pulling on trousers, buttoning his shirt, each time picturing her in some familiar predicament, each time with him. One, in a dark compartment with strange lights, with long, wistful glances and wary sighs. Another, in a wide, misty field, him defending her before a crowd of scary, unfamiliar creatures. Then, a last one, in a long room with polished floors, twisted in a mass of shattered glass.
Lacing his boots, he was struck with the sensation of running, his heart in his throat. The sticky sweat that had plagued him earlier in the morning still stuck to his skin, creating a clammy sensation as he took the stairs one by one, leaning drowsily against the railing.
The front door was ajar when he entered the foyer; there was a muffled siren somewhere outside. He saw ambulances fly down the road, and felt cold sweat down his back; he felt dizziness in his bloodstream, and as he swayed on the front stoop, he closed his eyes.
There she was, again, another fragment of a dream. Her dark hair was spread across a pillow, her lips parted in easy, quiet sighs.
His name passed through them softly.
His eyes jerked open at the sensation of falling. He stumbled down the steps, his legs too weak and numb to carry him carefully. He watched the ground rush up to meet him, the heat in his spine overpowering, and felt the bitter warmth of the pavement against his cheek. On the sidewalk on a deserted street, he succumbed to the sweet dreams with the dream of her face parallel to his.
He barely recalled his twisted rescue. It was all dreams and restless sleep, where he began to fall in love with her, his beautiful, imaginary girl.
The dreams blurred like the years, his eyes and ears forever searching, waiting for those endless eyes, that bone-cracking scent. In a subconscious part of him, he knew that his insomnia was forever-long; yet, it felt to him that maybe, if he ever found her, if he ever captured the beauty that plagued his restless day dreams, he would finally be allowed a subconscious reprieve, a sleepy submerge of his thoughts into calm space.
Now, he whispered incoherently into her ear as she slept, brushing those long, silky locks back from her flushed, warm cheeks.
He dreamt, now, even though he never slept; however, just truly seeing her, touching her, was enough to satiate his sleepless needs.
She stirred against his chest and opened her doe-like eyes, searching his soulless mind. He cupped her face, breathing deeply.
If I sleep forever, will you still be in my dreams? he whispered, winding an auburn lock around his finger.
She smiled sleepily, pulling him closer.
Im never far. Always just under the covers, she murmured, sighing into his chest as she slid back into sleep.
Yes, this was good enough for him.
I hope it was good enough. Whew.