Edward inhaled the scent of the sterile room, the scent of sick human being, the scent of sweat and the strong scent of chemicals, hiding the fainter smell of urine. Bella's heart monitor beeped relentlessly, plodding on at a steady pace. Edward was, as usual, sitting at her sickbed, watching her intently. There was nowhere else for him to go. True, Charlie had offered him a room in his house in Forks, but in all honesty, he'd rather be here, where he was needed, even if it were only a little bit. He had a few more hours to go before the visiting period was over, before the doctors ushered him out, before he had to return to the hotel room and his solitude and his cheap dinners.

The doctors said that the infection was spreading through Bella's bloodstream at an accelerated pace. That's what the report was a month ago. A month ago, she had slept less; she had been strong enough to get out of bed occasionally. She had been strong enough to be pushed around in a wheelchair when the weather was nice. The doctors said that it was only a matter of weeks, possibly even days before Bella stopped breathing, until Bella's heart stopped beating.

The doctors said it was only a matter of weeks, possibly even days before Bella died.

Isabella Marie Swan was twenty-two years old, daughter to Forks' chief of police, Charlie Swan, and the love of Edward Cullen's life. Even though he was right there, sitting next to Bella, he felt empty, cold and hollow. It's been a long time since he heard Bella's laugh, seen her smiles and the utter fright in her eyes when he told her he would be out hunting. She was clearly afraid of losing him, but ironically, now he was losing her.

It wasn't that no one was looking for a cure for the young woman. That was quite incorrect. They were desperately looking for a cure. It was just that this sort of thing had rarely ever been encountered before and it seemed that their work was going to be in vain, for Bella Swan was fading faster than their efforts were creating results.

Edward studied her intently, as he so often did when he was alone with her, now that she was so quiet. Her skin had lost its healthy tone and was a sickly white, rather than its previous, radiant pale complexion. Her hair had grown longer during her stay at the hospital, now reaching way past her shoulders and was fanned out on the pillow in mahogany webs. Her cheeks were gaunt and her eyes were shadowed with dark rings.

Seeing that a thick piece of hair was drifting in the puffs of her breath, he reached out his hand and brushed it back from her forehead, unhesitant to touch her after the relentless days he had stayed by her side, watched her. Six years ago, he was wary to even let her touch him as she had so often attempted. Now, there was no hesitation.

Her eyes fluttered and she stirred, her breathing hitching. She looked up at Edward, a weak smile touched her lips. It pained him to see how someone who used to be so full of life, was now so frail. The corner of his mouth lifted in a sort of bitter smile as she reached for his hand. He took it and leaned forward to place a soft kiss on her forehead.

"Edward," she rasped. "Edward, I..."

Something happened then. She started to cough, hacking and wheezing violently, her small body convulsing. She covered her mouth with part of the starched white sheet, curling in on herself. Edward sat, frozen and helpless as her coughing fit finally began to subside. With horror, he watched as she drew the sheet away from her mouth and saw that a dark red stain had blossomed there.

She looked up at him once more, her eyes surprisingly clear, and she smiled grimly at him, more blood bubbling from her lips and staining her teeth as she started to violently hack into the sheet again. Edward, frantic, positively slammed the buzzer for the nurse as Bella coughed. The nurses ushered him out, hustling and bustling around her bed.

Edward stayed in the lobby for three hours, waiting for results. Finally, a nurse came to bring him into her room, leading him to her bed side. Bella was breathing shallowly, her chest rising up and down in short intervals. She turned her head slightly to lock eyes with him and Edward saw something there that struck fear into his heart.

Bella was well and truly dying this time. Right there in front of him.

He pulled a chair up to her and took the hand that she had offered, grasping it gently and threading his fingers through hers. She was trembling from weakness.

"Edward," she began, but he held up his hand, silencing her.

"Don't talk. You will waste your strength."

"No, Edward, I…" she cleared her throat, wheezing a little. "I have to say this."

He stared at her.

"Edward, thank you so much."

He raised his eyebrows at her in question.

"Thank you for staying with me for all these months. You could have been anywhere else, but you chose to stay here, with me. Thanks, Edward, for being—" She dissolved into a vicious fit of coughing again, the convulsions wracking her small frame. Once she calmed, she started again. "Thank you, Edward, for being here, with me."

He stayed silent, just watching her, tears pooling in his eyes. "Why aren't you angry?" He whispered, mostly to himself.

"Because that's not the last emotion I want to feel." She smiled softly at him, reaching her hand out to caress his face. "Besides, why should I be angry? It's my own fault for meddling in things I shouldn't have."

Again, Edward just stayed silent, lost for words.

"Edward?" He focused on her again and found that she was gazing at him with pain-glazed eyes. "It hurts, Edward."

"I know, Bella."

"Don't go, please."

"I will not be going anywhere."

"Thanks," she whispered and started to cough again.

Twenty-two minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, Bella Swan's hand went limp and her heart went still.

Twenty-two minutes and thirty-nine seconds later, Edward Cullen cried.

It was the first time in more than a century.


An adaptation of Pen Against Sword's story, under the same title.

There were some references to House, M.D.

Diclaimer: I don't own Twilight. It belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

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