Thanks to shoefreak37 and Alby Mangroves for the beta work. All mistakes are my own.

Edward sat in front of his desk, pushing paperwork around and pretending to be busy. The day was dragging by and he had no interest in being at work, especially at a job that wasn't a career, wasn't what he was supposed to be doing with his life. The cramped little office that smelled like paper and stale coffee wasn't his choice. He never thought he'd long for the odor of disinfectant, blood, vomit, and piss.

Carlisle was a doctor and Edward had followed in his footsteps, happy to step in and work alongside the man he admired most. He had never seen Carlisle more proud of him than the day he graduated from medical school; his father was practically beaming. It was a special moment between father and son, a fulfillment of a dream Carlisle had, but something he'd never pushed Edward into. Though Carlisle had always expressed a desire for one of his children to follow him into medicine, he'd never been forceful. Edward was gifted in science, however; it seemed like a natural progression.

He loved being a doctor. Working in the ER was stressful and demanding, but there was a sense of pride and accomplishment. Most injuries were minor—broken bones, sprains, and cuts that needed stitches—but on the days when a major trauma was admitted and Edward got to assist in saving a life, well, there was just no better feeling. It was exhilarating.

Edward had never put much trust in God or church or Jesus. His convictions were held in science, believing that medicine was a much better choice for his loyalty, not some unknown deity. Science was tangible, real. He could rely on medicines and treatments to provide cures. God didn't always answer prayers. When Angela got sick, cracks in that faith began to appear.

At first, he had been sure Angela would pull through, that the treatments would work and their lives would continue on like nothing had gone awry. As she began to slide downhill, he felt like he was falling with her. And when she reached her lowest point just before death, he found himself on his knees in the hospital chapel, staring at the crucifix behind the alter and wondering why.

When she died, he was lost and angry, his faith completely gone. Medicine had failed him. His training had failed him. He was a doctor, committed to saving lives, and he couldn't save the one person that meant the most to him. God had failed him, too, refusing to answer his prayers, immune to his tears.

Edward had taken a leave of absence after that—a leave that was supposed to be temporary. He was too bitter to work in the ER, the desire to save the loved ones of other people no longer present within him. A job that had once been hopeful and fulfilling left him feeling bereft and full of resentment.

Two years would pass before he felt the urge to return to work again, and even at that point he wanted nothing to do with patients or doctors or hospitals. His father had pulled some strings, called in some favors, and helped him land an administrative position with a non-profit organization that provided free health care.

He didn't want the job, didn't want to do something that had any ties to his previous career, no matter how tenuous the link. Carlisle had been unrelenting, convincing him of the good he could do, how it would be good for him to get out of the house and do something productive with his time. He knew that his father thought this would be a stepping stone. Edward could see it in his eyes, the hope that this would help him move back into his career as a doctor, little by little.

And so Edward had argued. His father made it seem as if he'd wasted two years of his life doing nothing, but Edward had needed that time to grieve, to learn to live as one half of a whole. At some point, however, he realized he would have to at least attempt to join the world again, to become a productive member of society. Finally, he gave in, if only to make his parents happy. His job was unfulfilling and boring, but at least they were proud of him for making an effort. But sitting at his desk in his tiny little office, he found himself longing to have a stethoscope in his hands.

Edward doubted the ER would ever be the place for him again; there were too many things that could go wrong, too many chances to mess up. He wasn't sure if he could deal with losing the life of a patient after an accident or an unexpected ailment. He definitely knew he wasn't ready to watch someone wither away from the effects of a terminal illness. The thought of entering into a private practice seemed promising, but what kind of doctor could he be if he couldn't deal with death?

Everything in his life seemed to link back to Angela and Edward wondered if he'd ever be able to sever those bonds—to not think about her every time he went to work, every time he came home, every time he tried to pull his life back together. Would she haunt him forever?

/|P|\\

Two weeks passed with the wrinkled receipt sitting on Edward's nightstand, taunting him. He found himself staring at it at night when he was lonely and the house was quiet. It was still strange for him to be alone. He missed the feeling of a warm body next to his, the smell of a woman on his sheets. He'd tried a few times to pick up a random woman, intending to bring her back to his house for just one night; it would be nice to find a release that wasn't brought forth by his hand. Edward hadn't been able to follow through, though.

He'd gone out to countless taverns and pubs, sitting at the bar watching, waiting. Edward remembered the first time he'd gone out looking for a one-night stand, when he'd forgotten to remove the shiny band from around his finger. He'd been annoyed with himself when he'd realized it, disgusted by the blond that was attempting to chat him up, brushing her breasts along his arm and whispering in his ear. Did she not see his wedding ring, not care that he was some other woman's husband?

Edward had felt sick, not even bothering to make an excuse as he fled. Despite having nursed only two drinks throughout the evening, he'd thrown up all over the sidewalk, guilt churning in his stomach. It felt wrong for another woman to look at him that way, to touch him and fantasize about him. All he could think about was Angela, wondering if she was the only woman he would ever want.

That was how most of his attempts had ended, with him leaving before anything progressed beyond conversation. There was one night when he'd come closer, going so far as to follow a woman home. He couldn't take her back to his house, wouldn't defile the home—the bed—he'd shared with Angela in that way. He didn't even remember the woman's name, just that she was blond. Edward stayed away from brunettes; they reminded him too much of what he'd lost.

When they'd arrived at the woman's shithole of an apartment, she'd tried to kiss him, but he'd turned his head, the pungent odor of stale cigarettes and some fruity drink lingering on her breath. Her perfume was too strong and everything about her was all wrong. He missed Angela's soft skin, her warm brown eyes, and that look she always gave him when she was turned on. He closed his eyes and tried to remember—to forget—as the unnamed woman began to undress him, trailing sloppy kisses down his neck and torso. He felt like he was being licked by a dog.

He stood still as a statue while she undid his belt and lowered his zipper. When she yanked down his pants and let them drop to his ankles, he realized that his cock was just lying there—limp, flaccid. The blond seemed undeterred, dropping to her knees and engulfing him in her mouth. She licked and sucked; the slurping sounds coming from her mouth made him feel like gagging and he wasn't even the one with a dick shoved down his throat.

Annoyed, Edward pushed the woman away. He didn't bother to button his shirt or fix his belt before he left, simply pulling his pants up and tucking his traitorous dick inside his boxer briefs. Blondie called after him, but he ignored her, not stopping until he saw the flashing neon sign inside the window of a liquor store. He stepped inside and bought a fifth, unscrewing the cap as soon as he stepped onto the sidewalk.

By the time he reached home, he was stumbling and the bottle was half gone. He continued to drink until he passed out, intent on blaming the whole experience on whiskey dick, even if he hadn't really started drinking until after it happened.

That was the last time he'd made an effort. Though sitting in front of his computer and whacking off to internet porn wasn't nearly as gratifying as being buried inside a warm, tight pussy, there was no guilt involved. He didn't feel like he was betraying Angela and his cock didn't betray him.

Picking up the note again, he stared at the numbers even though he'd memorized them right after finding it in the pocket of his jeans. It had been two weeks. Perhaps Bella had forgotten him, or maybe she'd gotten so drunk that she didn't remember meeting him at all. Steeling his nerves, he punched in the digits. Part of him almost wished that she wouldn't answer or that she'd blow him off. He was venturing into uncharted territory and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to act.

On the third ring, a sleep-filled voice mumbled a hello and Edward immediately cursed himself, realizing belatedly that it was after midnight on a weekday. He was so out of practice at trying to be human, interacting with people around him. His family were really the only people he spent any time with and they'd learned to deal with him, their expectations of his behavior lowering with each passing day after Angela's death.

"Hi, this is, uh, Edward…Edward Cullen."

"Edward," Bella sighed. Her voice was deep and throaty, thick with sleep, and he could hear her sheets rustling in the background.

"Shit, it's late. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called. I just—"

"Calm down, Cullen. It's not that late."

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing Bella. I just…wanted to talk to you."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Start talking."

/|P|\\

The next day, Edward sat at his piano, fingers running lightly over the keys. He pushed down a chord, listening to the out-of-tune sound ring out into the quiet of his house. It sounded like he felt—coarse and conflicted. The piano hadn't been tuned in years, not since the desire to play had left him. It sat in the corner, a bleak reminder of what he'd lost.

He pressed discordant keys, comforted by the sour sounds. There was no rhyme or reason to his banging, just a way to release the pent up anger and frustration. He thought of Bella. He thought of Angela. He hit the keys with his fist and slammed the cover shut.

Edward had played often when Angela was sick, the melodies a soothing balm for his aching heart. She enjoyed listening to him play, commenting that it helped her relax, to forget the pain and the uncertainty of her future. The evening she died, he had played for hours into the night, unable to deal with the quiet inside their home. He hadn't played since, unable to find the music again.

Angela had been the person to convince him to play. She'd bought him lessons for his birthday several years after they were married. He felt silly, a grown man taking lessons, but the piano was something he'd always wanted to learn. He'd played a little as a child, but was too energetic to sit through lessons, to learn to read music and use the proper technique when playing. Taking lessons again, things came easily for him. He was no prodigy, but he was decent.

Edward stared across the black expanse of the piano top. The once shiny instrument was covered in dust; it had become a random space where he threw down the newspaper, mail, keys—any item that didn't really have a home. He closed his eyes and remembered it as it once was, covered in family photos, each in matching silver frames, a vase full of fresh flowers in the center.

Tulips.

They were Angela's favorite flower. He stopped at the small flower shop near their home once a week to pick up fresh ones for her. And even though he did it every week, she would still smile brightly and thank him, as if the gesture wasn't expected.

He fondly remembered the fall when she decided she would grow her own. They'd gone to the local home improvement store and spent nearly two hundred dollars on bulbs and tools, spending an entire weekend planting them. In the spring, when they had bloomed, she'd been so happy and excited, not realizing that their presence would be fleeting.

Somehow, she had convinced herself that they would last through the spring, that she would be able to go out and pick them to fill vases all around the house. The flowers had lasted only for a couple of weeks. Edward remembered the evening he came home to find her sitting in the middle of the flower beds sulking. The next day, he'd gone back to the flower shop, resuming his weekly purchase.

Sighing, he scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to erase the memories. It seemed as if everything in the house reminded him of her; he couldn't escape. Sometimes he thought that maybe he should move, sell the place and start over. But the idea of being so far removed from all the things that reminded him of her hurt even more. So he stayed…and he suffered.

/|P|\\

The dim lights and pulsing beat of the music was giving Edward a headache. The bar stool on which he sat was squeaky and uncomfortable, the wood groaning with every move he made. His beer was warm and tasted like piss, but it was dollar draft night and he didn't want to stand out; everyone around him was drinking the same. He took a large gulp, swallowing down the remainder of what was in his glass, wondering why he'd even agreed to go out and meet Bella.

Minutes later, he heard a woman giggling loudly to his left; he'd know that laugh anywhere. Turning, he saw Bella standing next to the pool tables, her hand on the forearm of a rather large man with long, dark hair. Edward's stomach clenched with an unfamiliar feeling and he wondered if maybe Bud Light wasn't such a good idea. He watched as the man held Bella tightly to his chest. She struggled against him, but the smile on her face made it obvious that she was enjoying his attention.

Edward turned back around, not even bothering to alert Bella to his presence. He waved the bartender over and ordered a shot of whiskey, hoping the alcohol would lessen the throbbing ache that was assaulting his temples. His body stiffened automatically as he felt a warm hand on his neck, gently kneading the knotted muscles. Her touch was firm and comforting, but he couldn't allow himself to relax.

"You need to loosen up," he heard her whisper in his ear, her warm breath washing over him. He felt her pressed against his back as she leaned in, her breasts rubbing against him. Edward wanted to pull away, but just for a moment he closed his eyes, trying to imagine this moment under different circumstances.

He imagined that he didn't have a dead wife, the memories of her haunting his every waking moment. He wished that he was an unattached bachelor, not a widower with a heft of baggage weighing him down. Just for one moment, Edward wanted to be a single, successful man without a care, enjoying the company of a beautiful woman.

Her hand continued to linger on his skin, the warmth radiating from her fingertips, but the heat wasn't enough to penetrate his cold, unyielding flesh. Edward felt like he was made of stone, like a statue carved from marble. He should have been able to enjoy the moment, to feel something, but the thoughts rattling around in his head wouldn't allow it.

A memory of Angela flashed into his mind, just for a moment, but it was enough to cause him to flinch away. He thought of Angela leaning over him in a similar way, arms wrapped around his shoulders as she kissed his neck, her hands moving lower, lightly grazing his skin as she left a trail of fire scorching down his back.

They were at the beach, a weekend trip to his family's home along the shore. The house was the last in a long line, nestled between the trees to provide some privacy. He'd been sitting shirtless on the beach, watching the waves roll in. They'd made the drive just for the weekend, wanting a chance to get away, to forget the uncertainty swirling around them.

Angela had spent the morning lounging in a chair on the back deck, soaking up as much sun as possible. Edward had checked on her repeatedly, reminding her to drink lots of water, and going out every two hours to spray her down with sunscreen. The treatments made her skin sensitive and he didn't want her to get a sunburn on top of everything else. He knew that he was annoying her, but she endured his constant fussing with a gentle smile on her face.

Edward remembered how she looked that day, wearing a modest, vintage-style bathing suit with a giant floppy hat on her head. Her olive skin looked ashen and pale, a roadmap of purple veins and bruises marring its once perfect tone. She looked weak and frail, her tiny hands clutched around a glass of sweet tea.

She'd sat out there for hours, blaming the sun for robbing her of her strength. Edward knew different. When the afternoon sun rose high in the sky, he had to carry her to bed, her legs too weak to support her. Angela had laughed and made light of the situation, but he knew. Even with the smiles and the brave front she tried to put on, he could see the fear deep within her eyes.

Once Edward had settled her into bed, he'd retreated to the beach, to quiet and solitude. He watched the birds fly overhead, the waves crash along the shore, and sun dip lower in the sky. He wanted to cry; he could feel the tears prickling his eyes, but they never came.

Angela made her way out later, quietly coming up behind him. He'd felt her presence, but he didn't turn around. She'd leaned over him, letting her actions speak the words that neither of them were ready to say. It was too soon for goodbye.

Eventually Edward had carried her inside and made love to her on the large, plush bed. He whispered words of love and adoration, his hands and mouth exploring every inch of her skin, committing it to memory. He knew the end was near and he didn't want to forget, to waste a moment of the time they had left.

When Angela had fallen asleep that night, he slipped out once again, walking along the shore and letting his toes curl in the sand. Under the cloudy, seemingly moonless sky, the tears had finally fallen.

Rowdy cheers near the pool tables pulled Edward from his memories. He looked over to see a couple of men high-fiving one another, laughing loudly with the group around them. Turning his eyes back to Bella, Edward noticed that she was watching him closely, a sympathetic smile on her face. He tried to force his mouth to cooperate, but he was sure his attempt looked more like a grimace.

/|P|\\

He was drunk.

Slumped over in a booth in the corner, he watched the neon lights blur and dance. The bar was closed; the sounds of the jukebox and the pool balls banging against one another had long since ceased. The only sounds Edward heard were those that took place after hours: glasses being washed and stacked, beer bottles being tossed into the trash, a broom being pushed across the old wood floor.

Edward could vaguely make out Bella's form leaned against the far side of the bar, talking with the long-haired man from before. Jacob. He was nice enough, if more than a little overbearing where Bella was concerned. Edward hated him instantly. There was something there, between him and Bella, but Edward was too drunk to ask about it tactfully. Asking whether they'd fucked certainly wasn't going to earn him points with anyone.

He expected Bella to react when he'd flinched away from her at the bar, to pry and ask questions he wasn't ready to answer. She'd surprised him by doing none of that. In fact, she didn't react at all. Bella simply sat down on the bar stool beside him, waiting patiently for him to get a grip on his emotions. Motioning the bartender over, she had ordered shots of whiskey, pretending like nothing odd had happened. One shot turned into two, then four, and before long he found himself unable to sit upright on the stool.

Bella had called Jacob over to help get him into a booth to sober him up. The big brute had manhandled him easily, practically dragging him across the bar. Bella had chastised Jacob, smacking him on the arm and warning him to be careful. Her words might as well have fallen on deaf ears. Edward was sure he was going to have bruises on his ribcage from where the ogre had squeezed him too tightly.

He wondered what had brought the change on. Jacob had been amiable during the earlier parts of the evening, offering them food and drinks on the house. Edward couldn't recall whether he said he owned the bar or just managed it, but whichever it was, he was in charge.

As the evening progressed, however, he noticed Jacob watching them more closely, the displeasure evident on his face. Jacob lingered near them behind the bar, his scowl deepening any time Bella would brush up against Edward or touch him, even if it was just his forearm. Edward didn't know what to make of it other than jealousy, even if he and Bella were only friends, though even that definition of their relationship was questionable.

Bella was easy to talk to, to be with. Edward enjoyed her company, mostly because she was different than anyone else in his life. She was blunt like Rosalie, but not in the bitchy, condescending manner his sister almost always employed. She didn't pry into his life, simply accepting the information he was willing to share. Part of him wanted to tell her, to explain, but there was something very freeing about befriending someone that didn't know his history.

Edward forced his eyes to focus on Bella as she made her way back across the bar towards him. There was fire in her eyes, annoyance in her step. Edward could see the anger etched in her features. There was no doubt in his mind that that neanderthal Jacob had done something to piss her off. Her hands were clenched at her sides, balled into tiny fists.

Bella huffed as she slid into the booth beside him, her entire body stiff and tense. She rested her head on Edward's shoulder and closed her eyes. He raised his arm and placed it on the back of the bench around her, offering comfort the best way he knew how. He let his fingers curl in her hair, soft and silky as it fell down her back. Slowly, still unsure, he moved his arm down, allowing it to curl around her.

His fingers landed on the bare skin of her shoulder and he gave it a gentle squeeze. Her skin was satiny and smooth, pale with pink undertones, like strawberries and cream. Edward felt her melt closer into his side. She smelled like soap, clean and pure.

Edward looked towards the bar, noticing that Jacob had stopped his work and was staring at them. Bella must have opened her eyes and noticed it as well because she made a grumbling noise and began to slide out of the booth. Once she was standing, she reached for Edward's hand and pulled.

"Let's get the hell out of here."

The walk to his house was short. The sun had long since set, but the heat still lingered, making the air feel warm and thick. Edward felt the sweat beading on his brow and down his back, the alcohol in his system doing nothing to cool him down. If anything, it only seemed to exacerbate the sticky feeling on his skin. He pushed his hair away from his forehead and undid two more buttons on his shirt.

Bella was still holding his hand, walking quietly beside him. Edward looked at their intertwined fingers, wondering what the hell he was doing. He felt like he was at an impasse, his life balancing on the edge of a knife. Everything he did felt like two steps forward and one step back, like he was at a fork in the road and didn't know which path to choose. Or maybe he'd just had too much to drink and wasn't thinking clearly.

When they arrived at his house, Edward wasn't sure what was happening, so he allowed Bella to follow him to his door and then inside. It was late. Bella's apartment wasn't far from the bar, but in the opposite direction in which Edward lived. He decided that he could call a cab to come and pick her up, to make sure she arrived at her destination safely. The neighborhood was relatively crime-free, but it still wasn't safe for a young woman to be walking alone so late at night, especially after having quite a few drinks.

Edward walked straight into the kitchen, pulling two bottles of water from the refrigerator. Bella followed several moments later and he noticed that she'd removed her boots. Her feet were small, her toes painted a garish shade of red. She took the water from him and took a long gulp. They stood there next to one another, leaning up against the island, neither saying a word.

Without thinking, Edward grabbed her hand and pulled her down the hallway. He stopped short, before he reached his bedroom, and dragged her into one of the guest rooms. It was the larger of the two spare rooms, the one with an attached bathroom.

"Stay here," he said.

Edward walked swiftly to his bedroom, hastily grabbing items from one of his drawers, hoping the choices would be acceptable. He quickly shed his own clothing, slipping on a pair of worn pajama pants and an old white t-shirt. When he returned to the guest room, Bella was sitting on the bed, waiting.

He thrust the clothes at her without explanation and she took them willingly. As she retreated into the bathroom, Edward turned off the overhead light and switched on the dim lamp on the nightstand. He pulled back the comforter and situated himself beneath the covers. It wasn't until he was lying there in the quiet that he really took a moment to consider what he'd done, what he was going to do.

The alcohol seemed the likely scapegoat, the easiest place to lay the blame for his obvious lapse in judgment. Bella was spending the night, sharing his bed. The idea made his stomach queasy, but he ignored it, determined to move forward. There was nothing wrong with sleeping next to her, feeling her warmth next to him in the bed.

Edward had chosen the guest room because it was neutral territory. He tried to imagine Bella in his bed, but the idea made his stomach roll. That was Angela's bed, the bed where they had shared their most intimate moments. No other woman would ever take her place in that bed, in his heart, but he yearned for some close contact. It wouldn't be the same, but maybe it would suffice.

When the bathroom door opened, Edward felt his chest tighten. Bella was standing there in his t-shirt, her long, bare legs tempting him. Edward silently cursed her for not putting on the pants he'd given her, even though he knew they were way too big. Her exposed skin might cause him to do something stupid. He held his breath and closed his eyes as she climbed into bed, hoping that she wouldn't touch him while equally wishing that she would. He felt the bed dip, the blankets rustle, and then nothing.

He glanced in her direction from the corner of his eye, just enough to see her lying there on her back, staring at the ceiling. He breathed a sigh of relief, his position mirroring hers. Just before he drifted off to sleep, he felt her fingers touch his hand, their fingers once again weaving together.

/|P|\\

A/N: Thanks for reading. Reviews are always appreciated! :)