Author's advisory:
This One-shot/Drabble is intense. It was written experimentally in response to a "what-if" discussion between me and my beta. Carlisle is pushed way out of character. Some may see him as harsh and cold, even violent. There is a lot that is not explained — a lot left to the reader's imagination. This is meant to leave an emotional impression, not to be a narrative tale. Read with an open mind.
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Uninvited
Edward arrives home to an empty house. Not a single thought for miles. It makes the quiet deeper.
They've vacated to give the coven leader private time with his errant spawn. And that would be me.
He stretches his neck and shoulders in an unconscious gesture to relieve tension. The tension is familiar: the silence of conviction, the guilt of his offense, the gnawing ache of Carlisle's perpetual disappointment.
He peers into the study. Desk has been cleared. A sturdy bench placed on one side, a thick switch across it.
The rod that will not be spared.
Open window. Rustling foliage. A breeze. Beautiful day.
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"I asked forgiveness. Do I at least have that?"
Edward knows his tone is confrontational, not conciliatory. He can't forgive himself, why should anyone else?
"Surrender, son. Don't fight me." Carlisle sighs.
"I'm not fighting you. Why do you always think that?"
The pity in Carlisle's eyes is vinegar in the wound.
Edward begins to undress. Carlisle reaches out to touch him. To reassure him, perhaps. The boy freezes. Embarrassment burns.
He forces his fingers to follow the routines of fine motor movements. Button. Buckle. Arm muscles rebel against the pull of fabric. Hands go numb, refuse to grasp. And yet, the torturous task is soon completed.
Naked in someone else's territory. So wrong. One should feel free without the restrictions of artifice. Instead he feels … trapped, the opposite of free. Compelled by submission, subjugated by his own anger.
The skin of his chest rests against the cold desktop, and, irrationally, he feels more stable, protected, supported, not so alone. Soreness blooms around the edges of his ribs and hipbones on the desktop, his knees on the bench – he owns so little flesh to cushion them.
Carlisle notices… Edward's hands are trembling as Carlisle fastens the wrist restraints to the far side of the desk.
"Are you afraid… of me?"
That question is too complex to answer simply. Maybe too dangerous. So he responds defensively instead.
"I don't understand why you tie me down. It's not as if I'm resisting."
"We've already discussed this, Edward. You said you understood."
Carlisle kneels in front of him to make eye contact. Edward turns just enough to make that impossible, resentfully refusing to acknowledge any kindness.
Carlisle launches into the salient points of the convoluted explanation again - why he believes this particular approach is necessary for Edward. Blah blah blah. Carlisle touches the side of Edward's neck as he talks. It's a touch meant to be affectionate, but it only serves to intensify the terror of being too vulnerable. He wants to cry, but he won't. He focuses on his breathing. He shudders. Don't touch me.
Edward has heard it all before. Now it's just a drone. The reading of rights to a multiple offender. Edward is all in his head… out of touch with his body, his instincts. Can't just strike out at others indiscriminately… One minute depressed, the next minute enraged… Blaming of others – murderous… Hating of self – suicidal… Diagnosis: emotional swings due to lack of communication between mind and body... Eighty years of talking, and here we are, worse than ever... So many years of psychological turmoil... Tried everything else... Break through the emotional scar tissue… You want release, don't you?
Edward awaits execution, his forehead pressed hard against the polished wood. His mind seethes. This endless amateur psychobabble will truly be the death of me, Carlisle. Just do what you have to do and get it over with… you're the boss of me, and you have to prove it… and there's fuck-nothing I can do about it. So just get on with it…
"Tell me what you're feeling."
Oh spare me! You played God, making me in your image. You fed me the forbidden bloody fruit - against my will. You transferred your loneliness to me. You created a cursed and deadly creature, and now… the helpless you render me stings far more than when I was an ignorant, fragile human, just a link in the food chain. Surely by nature's laws, you should just kill me if I'm as defective as you say. Nature doesn't fix its mistakes. It annihilates them. What am I, your experiment, the failed one?
Edward will not open his eyes. He presses his lips together so the words don't escape. There's an invective flood behind the lock of his teeth.
Carlisle says aloud, "You know that I care for you."
Response desired, but not required. None given.
You care too much. Edward tries to block out the aching sadness in the coven leader's thoughts. You've created an inescapable Hell – for both of us.
Carlisle turns the rod between his fingers thoughtfully. Edward opens himself to the other's thoughts to assess the delay. Carlisle's mind is equal parts anxious doubt, self-recrimination, and unrelenting will.
It begins.
Carlisle inflicts the first whistling blow sharp to the back of his thighs. Edward's mouth opens in a mute cry as he gulps air.
Again.
The house is completely silent except for the sound of the strokes and Edward's breathing.
The boy does not cry out. He cringes but does not flail. As the whipping progresses, Edward moans and his breathing escalates. His skin flinches.
From far away, the sound of a vehicle engine fades into hearing. Edward's body reacts before he can consciously name the sound. This is a sound that usually wraps him in joy, just like the unique sound of her heartbeat. Bella's truck is turning onto the private road from the highway.
Carlisle stops, waiting, motionless, expressionless.
The expanse of pain in Edward's chest suddenly far outweighs any other bodily sensation. He holds his breath, every sense funneled into hearing.
No!
Wheels on pavement. A truck door slams. Light footsteps approach the front door. An impotent rattle – it is locked. She shuffles back into the yard from the front porch. Now they can hear her breathing just below the window. Her scent catches at the edges of his reason.
Edward softly groans, "Nooooo!"
He starts to frantically whisper, "Don't make a sound. She'll think no one is home. She'll leave." Edward tries to get up. He pulls at the restraints.
Carlisle considers. He holds the boy down, immovable. He whispers icily, "You do not have permission to get up. Don't you dare break those straps."
Edward stops struggling, but frantic tension still crackles like live wires in his limbs and back. Obedience has its limits.
Carlisle makes a silent decision, creasing his brow, setting his jaw.
"We shall continue."
Edward panics. He strains his neck to look at Carlisle.
"She's still there!" He hisses.
"Yes," says Carlisle coldly.
"She will hear!" Edward whispers in horror.
Carlisle is silent.
"Carlisle?" Edward pleads weakly, but there is no response.
"Yes," says Carlisle finally.
He means for Bella to hear. Humiliation washes over him, hot shame then cold fear. His head sinks to the desktop. He keeps his voice too low for human hearing, and makes his best attempt to remain rational.
"Please! Don't let her hear. She can't bear it! I can't bear it!"
"You can bear it."
"Edward?" an invisible but very present Bella calls from below.
The sound of her voice makes Edward's voice cracks in its desperation. "Tell her to go away. If you care anything for me, you'll do that for me." Tears make sight impossible. "I've been obedient to you, haven't I? I've submitted to this medieval farce without complaint, without a struggle. It's not necessary to further humiliate me, is it? I'm sorry! Please! I've said it again and again! What more do you fucking want from me?"
Carlisle's right hand clenches and unclenches around the thick switch.
"Be grateful I do not require her to witness your punishment, Edward. She should be made aware there are consequences to her selfish, thoughtless actions."
"You wouldn't! Not as I am!" he pleads desperately. "She has never seen… We have never…" he pauses uncomfortably.
"I know, son," Carlisle says, his internal tone suddenly tinged with compassion. "I know you and Bella are not intimate." He rests his left hand on Edward's lower back. Edward flinches at his touch. "I will respect your modesty – visually, but now that she has invaded the privacy of our home, involved herself with issues that are not her concern, I will not protect you, or her, from what she may witness - audibly. Now, face forward, please."
Carlisle brings the switch down in a strike that so shockingly breaks the quiet, Edward is not sure what jars him more, the sound or the sensation.
She moans beneath the window. "Please don't hurt him."
Unphased, Carlisle continues the whipping, landing blow after stinging blow from the unmerciful switch onto Edward's bare thighs and buttocks.
Though it is impossible to remain completely silent, Edward manages to restrict his exclamations to breathy gasps, mostly muted by the flesh of his forearm.
Bella is now openly sobbing below the window.
A soft breeze sweeps across Edward's exposed skin. The coolness does not refresh, but instead causes the invisible welts to lament with her.
Carlisle steps between Edward's legs, spreading his knees farther apart.
Edward, teeth clenched, tries to swallow an audible sob of despairing pride. It is echoed by the young girl suffering with him in the yard below.
"I didn't mean for this to happen this way, Edward, but perhaps it is for the best."
Edward, knows any moment now he will betray the pain. He can barely keep it in. But knowing she is there, he musters muteness for another nine strokes, then…
He hears the broken wail, registers it as hers, before he realizes it is his own.
She screams his name, and he cries out with the next blow, his pride cracking like a narcissist's mirror, helpless to shelter her from his own unleashed emotions.
Carlisle pauses and stands back.
Edward can feel, and almost hear, his own hysteria approaching like the roar of an approaching earthquake, an act of nature, a storm. All the words and emotions dammed up for the agonizing past 20 minutes are ejected from him in heaving undulations. Random words tumble out over inchoate sobs. He can't protect her from his suffering. She is hearing his loss of coherency, and there's nothing, nothing, he can do to contain the drowning deluge and the violent quaking.
He realizes he is covering his face with his hands. They are no longer restrained. He can't remember when release came. Has he broken the restraints?
He lies face down on the desk until the main force of the upheaval has passed, until he finds some familiar linear and logical thought in his mind's chaos and his body's distress. As soon as he can silence himself, he raises his head and listens for her. Nothing but the breeze outside – wait… no… too far away… there is a sound…
"She ran. She's at the edge of the trees."
She's there. She's crying. I have to go to her.
He pushes up with his arms, but his balance is off, and he can only awkwardly wriggle backwards to try to stand. His legs will not support him at first, but Carlisle catches him securely under his arms until he finds the strength. He stands unsteadily as his arms are sheathed in fabric, and a robe tie knotted at his waist. Carlisle holds him by the shoulders until he stops trembling and takes a tentative step forward.
"I have to go to her." Edward says softly.
Carlisle surveys Edward's face carefully.
"Go to your room. I will tell her to come up."
"She's… she's intimidated by you."
"Well," Carlisle said smiling. "I can't allow that. Now, do as I tell you. I will talk to her."
Reluctantly, Edward obeys. With a groan, he takes a second limping step towards the study door.
"Please be kind to her, Carlisle. I love her. I need her."
"I always have been. I always will be. Now go!"