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Obsidian
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The hospital waiting room is abuzz with uniformed officers, all of them riled up and pissed off. Anger and tension rolls off of them as they wait for Charlie to return from surgery. They all drink coffee and attend to my needs like a withered old widow. They don't take something like this lightly. Having one of their own shot in the line of duty is the worst offense a criminal could make to the precinct. They're out for blood, each of them making the occasional, hostile comment about what they'll do when they catch the perpetrators.

My head is throbbing and I stretch my body out along three empty chairs, all of the officers too anxious to seat themselves. I allow the memory of the days following my first sexual encounter to lift my spirits, a welcomed smile gracing my lips as I close my eyes and block out all of the black and blue and silver shields surrounding me.

With the way Edward treated me following that evening, my roommate was beginning to think I'd come down with some kind of terminal cancer. He came to my room the next night with soup—"Because soup makes everything feel better," he'd explained—prescription pain medication, muscle rub, bubble bath, and quite shockingly, a flower.

It looked suspiciously like the ones planted in the middle of campus.

He took me to classes the next day, and then the next day, and then the day after that. He kept touching the small of my back, helping me walk, even if it was only a couple steps, and he constantly inquired, "How are you feeling?" It was annoying, but also sweet, so I only put up a minimal protest when he kept barking at people, "She doesn't feel well! Move the fuck out of her way!" He carried my bag from and to my truck whenever we met after classes, always at his insistence.

I had this nagging feeling that he was only granting me the privilege of his attentions because of his guilty conscience. My misgivings were impossible to quell. I still saw him as unattainable, beautiful and talented and glowing and sauntering up to my truck. I wondered when the other shoe was going to drop.

He never kissed me or acted particularly intimate, though he was always a perfect gentleman. He oddly held doors open for me, would steer me away from puddles, and even offered me his jacket if it began raining. It was impossible to understand what we were, or what he even wanted. His guilt was the only thing that made any sense whatsoever.

An afternoon voicemail message that he eventually left asking me to dinner made me decide to come clean. I went back to the scene of the crime, knocked on his door, and didn't even say hello when he answered it, instead swiftly absolving him of all guilt. I admitted that I'd intended to lose my virginity that day and had purposely tricked him into taking it. And then I pointed out that I was completely healed and he could stop coddling me. Too afraid of his eventual rejection to stay any longer, I made to turn and leave, accepting that our time had likely expired.

It was like being punched in the stomach.

But then he yanked my back to his chest and I swayed into his warm body, stiffening and yet melting into him all at once. His breath was hot and quick in my ear as he asked, "You're not hurt anymore?" At my puzzled and dizzy affirmation, he sighed, pressing his crotch into my ass. "Thank fucking Jesus, baby. I've been dying to touch you again..."

And then he made good on that promise to show me just how good sex could be.

Afterward, he chastised me for thinking he'd just cast me away after I felt better. It was the first time I'd ever witnessed one of his red moods, save for that one time in the parking lot beside his dinged Volvo bumper. His fists hit his temples and he swore and growled and he was fierce and glorious and... we did the sex thing again.

And again.

And again.

We could barely keep our hands off each other after that day, finding creative ways of maintaining skin contact at all times: a pinky dipped under a waistband, a toe shoved up a pant leg, a nose pressed into a warm neck.

He'd order takeout or pizza and have it waiting for me at his apartment when classes were over for the day. It seemed routine and whenever he picked me up, he'd greet me with a searing, breathtaking kiss that usually led to pre-dinner sex and post-sex dinner. Edward liked sex. A lot. I certainly wasn't complaining.

He also liked taking care of me, and after observing his obviously extravagant lifestyle, I figured he'd always had people spoil him and wanted to feel the rush and gratitude of doing it for someone else. So even though I didn't necessarily like it when he offered to drive me around campus or buy me food or books or a cell phone (just in case I ever found myself in a bind), I kept mum about my distaste for being catered to. Because something in his eyes when he took care of me and heard my guilty "Thank you," made him glow in the most beautiful way.

Autumn turned to winter, and the icy storms and snow-covered grounds of campus made for perfect snuggling weather. We ultimately went out to lunches and dinners and eventually began studying together when I stayed over at nights. Well, mostly studying. Okay.. not much studying. We grew freakishly close over the next three months. He eventually told me all about his parents, the surgeon and the philanthropist, and his siblings, the designer and the law student.

The 'honeymoon' phase of our relationship was perfect, just like him.

He was passionate when he talked about music, always growing animated and fervent as he spoke of composing. He once explained it to me, his head resting in my lap, eyes wide and enthusiastic as I caressed his hair, "Composing is like… creating this collection of sounds from the depths of your soul and finding out that stringing the right ones together can make something that isn't as ugly as you feel." And I couldn't comprehend how Edward could ever feel ugly, so I weaved my fingers through his hair and told him so. I also couldn't comprehend having a talent like that, creating anything from the depths of my soul. So instead, I just sat beside him on his piano bench and lived vicariously through his craft.

When Edward performed, he wanted me there. At first, he was simply excited to share his creations with me, in that formal and ideal setting. I always went and he never needed to ask, even though he usually did anyway, more often than not, a little sheepish.

But I missed one.

It was during the holidays and I'd gone home to Forks for the weekend, unable to attend.

He was so excited as he spoke to me on the phone the night before, explaining the numerous big names that would be attending for the sole sake of seeing him perform. He was fervent and thrilled and kept talking until I was too tired to keep my eyes open.

The next night, after a dozen or so phone calls and smiles and laughter and joy and anxiety, he played. He played to a full crowd and I hated that I wasn't able to be there to see it, because I figured he was likely magnificent, as always.

But he hadn't been.

I never discovered exactly what happened or how badly he'd played, but when I arrived home, his sister called me, begging, "Don't go over there, okay? Just… leave him be for a couple days." Alice and I had only spoken a couple times over the phone, usually as I was passing it off to Edward, so to get her cryptic warning unnerved and worried me.

I was still trying to familiarize myself with his moods as I mulled over Alice's words, having seen the red and gold frequently. I figured I'd seen the worst that day he'd knocked himself out, so pissed off about his midterm grade that he was beyond calming down.

But red was nothing. It was only a mild tantrum in which he used vulgarity as his weapon, and his fists as a self-punishing outlet for rage. Red was no big deal in the grand scheme of things. Red was petty and trivial.

Black made red look like fucking sunshine.

"Miss Swan?" I'm pulled out of my musings by a soft voice, a nurse smiling gently as she informs, "The chief is in recovery. Would you like to see him now?"

Five heads snap to me, expressions seeping with worry and anguish as the present officers speak to me with their stares, "You do your part and we'll do ours."

So I stop thinking of Edward and red and gold and black and march determinedly to Charlie's bedside. I cradle his calloused hand in mine carefully, avoiding the I.V. as I gaze at him, anxious and lost. It isn't right. I'd always seen Charlie as invincible. He's the man that checked my closet for monsters and scared away the neighborhood boys who picked on me. He's the law in my eyes, not just one tiny portion or tool of it. And now he's lying here, broken and vulnerable, and it isn't fucking right.

He is sleeping, obviously knocked out from the pain medication, so I pull up a chair and collapse into it, trying to come to terms with this newfound discovery that nothing is every truly invincible. Not me, not Edward, not even Charlie.

The fragility of life and love draws sobs from my chest, and later, when the officers have finagled their way into the room, I'm still sobbing over his hand, mourning the loss of security and people that haven't even passed yet. They each grasp my shoulder, one at a time, as they visit in silence. Their unified strength is somehow contagious, and I've never been so conflicted—so enraged at my father's career and simultaneously, overwhelmingly grateful for the bonds he's made and the hope it gives me.

Maybe something in this world is invincible.

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"So then I'm on a foot pursuit with the sum'bitch, northbound into that new subdivision, and I'll be goddamned if the Mallory's little shit-poodle doesn't start chasing him…" Charlie is laughing, all doped up while the other officers listen at his bedside, enraptured by the tale of his pursuit.

I'm smiling. And not only because Charlie thinks every dog under fifteen pounds with long hair is a poodle (the Mallory's have a shitzhu, not a 'shit-poodle'), but because he is perfectly fine. I continue watching his bright eyes as he recants the entire experience, five bodies huddled around him like a pack of wolves, and him their Alpha.

It's the most excitement this town's seen since Tyler Crowley nearly ran me over with his van in the Forks High School parking lot. Charlie is clearly enjoying being the town hero, even though I know for certain that he isn't very comfortable being in the spotlight.

The gunshot wound to his left, upper-thigh will heal, and he'll be left with an exciting scar, but thankfully, retirement won't be necessary. I just don't know what he'd do with all the free time if he were permanently disabled. La Push's fish population would dwindle to nothing.

I wait until he's at the climax of the story, everyone perched on the edge of their proverbial seats, before I clear my throat and stand. "Okay, fellas. I think he could use some rest now." They all groan and shoot me playful glares, but Charlie winks at me. I've interrupted at this exact point so that they'll come back this evening.

When they all depart, I'm left alone, sitting with Charlie and enjoying our time together, even if the circumstances are less than desirable. I ask him about the house and La Push and Billy and Sue and Jacob, who I haven't seen since graduation. He tells me I should fly back, that he's fine and there's nothing to worry about, but I wave him off. It's nice to spend time with him, to feel as though I'm home again. But I can't deny the swelling of shame in my chest for the events last year as I watch him talk. It gnaws at me steadily, this question in my mind, wondering how I'd been so quick to leave him behind...

The day progresses in a routine of vital-recording, injections, bandage changes, and eventually, television. He falls asleep while watching the game, a true credit to the strength of his pain killers, and when the officers return, he's well rested and ready to talk again.

That's when I give him a kiss on the forehead and finally leave the hospital, one of the cruiser owners giving me a ride to my childhood home. It is dark and familiar and I rush upstairs at once to call Rosalie because Edward goes on stage in thirty minutes and I have to speak to him.

"I'm going to kill the motherfucker," Rose answers immediately.

I roll my eyes. "Well, hello to you too."

"Seriously, Bella. I just need to decide how. Something slow and painful and… damn it, Em. If he breaks that fucking mirror…"

I exhale loudly, listening to the faint conversation held in the room she's in. I don't hear Edward, so I ask for him, unable to hide the tense apprehension in my voice.

"Now might not be a good time…" Rose hedges.

"Whatever little tantrum he's throwing right now is nothing," I reply darkly, and her intake of breath is proof that Alice has told her of that morning, nearly a year ago. Proof that she understands, if he messes up tonight, it will be far worse.

"I don't know how you put up with this," she whispers, but it isn't a question, and it isn't annoyance.

It's sad and piteous.

I have no way to respond to her pity, so I remain quiet until I'm certain that she's passing the phone off to him. I don't know how it works. I have no idea if me simply being on the phone to listen is enough for him. I can't predict if it will be as bad as last time.

But I'm ready for it.

"What?" Edward answers. The tightness in his voice betrays his anxiety and I know, above all, he is simply nervous of failing. I know doing so before a crowd of people is his greatest fear of all. One he's already lived before.

So I tackle that first. "You're going to be so perfect, Edward," I say, entirely sincere, though on the inside, I am completely freaking out. "I'm going to be right here, listening. Just imagine me in the front row, okay?"

His scoff resembles a whimper. "That's never going to work and you know it." His voice is high and keening, and not quite a whine, but very nearly. It makes my chest throb. And then he is swearing at someone in the background and his voice cracks, shaky as he speaks to me, "I have to go."

I blink back my tears of frustration, whispering a final, "My dad's alive. Thanks for asking," before the line goes dead.

And then I wonder, much like Rosalie, how I put up with this.

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"God, he looks nervous," Rose whispers gently into the phone and I can hear clapping subside as she narrates softly, "He's taking the bench. I swear he's going to have pit stains." But her tone isn't mocking, it is fascinated.

Few people have ever seen Edward as anything but wholly self-assured.

When the beginning notes of his piece begin floating through to my ear, I grip my comforter, splayed out on my bed as I listen with rapt attention. I've heard him rehearse this for months, have memorized every dulcet note and nuance. I know that it will last for only three minutes and fifteen seconds. I am acquainted with the dip in melody from something sweet, to something dark and ominous, transforming into something livid and fierce, and then finally, fading to conflict and a bitter air of helplessness.

It's his soul, personified in melody.

I imagine his fingers flying over the keys, the sway of his hair as he rocks to his motions, the bounce of his knees as his feet seek the peddles below, and the vision is flawless.

But the sound is not.

My blood runs frigid and I'm frozen solid as I listen to his quick recovery, knowing that he'd missed a key. Dread encases my heart and I slump against my bedding, closing my eyes and willing him to just… ignore it.

Rose says nothing, and I can't be certain if she even realizes that singular error, but it doesn't matter.

The damage is done.

When the music ceases, there is thunderous applause. I can imagine them all standing. I can see him bow in my mind's eye, eyes flitting perhaps to the phone in Rosalie's hand. I can feel the cold clamminess of his palms as he wipes them against his pants, the mat of his hair as it sticks to his sweaty forehead. I can see the limpness of his step as he turns.

I can see how dead his eyes are.

Four.

He made four errors.

"Thank God that's over with," Rose rambles, but I'm not really listening. "The after-party is the only good thing to come out of these. Oh! Esme and Carlisle are waiting, so I'll call you later, okay?" She hangs up before I can warn her, though I'm not certain I should.

The atmosphere of my room is now heavy and suffocating. I consider calling Edward's cell to leave a message, but I know it's futile. I know that he'll be beyond a simple talking-to. I'm suddenly grateful to be so many miles away from him. I can't see Edward when he's in his black mood, have made promises in the past, to both Alice and Edward himself, to stay away.

The only other time I'd ever missed his performance, I defied Alice and went to his apartment, aching to comfort him and help however I could. His car was parked in its usual location outside, so I was certain he'd be home. I'd brought his Christmas gift with me—a simple, antique metronome—and had it shoved under my arm as I climbed the steps and rapped on his door.

He didn't answer.

Concerned, I kept knocking, and when it still went unanswered, I let myself in, only minimally surprised to find the door unlocked.

He was sitting at his small, oval kitchen table, head bowed and a tall bottle of brown liquor before him, half-emptied. The heavy, silver links of his discarded wrist watch made a deep scraping sound as he twirled it around his fingertip over the wood. He was still wearing most of his tuxedo, the bow hanging loosely around his neck and the jacket hung over his chair-back. The sight before me seeped defeat and despondency and I was stunned, frozen in place in the doorway as I watched him and listened to the silver scrape and drag.

His hair was greasy and matted to his head, the sunset a sudden midnight. "Ho ho ho," he whispered an eventual acknowledgment to me, head tilting infinitesimally to the side. Then, without halting the twirling of his watch, he lifted the bottle to his lips, murmuring, "Merry Christmas, baby," before taking a long swig of it.

"What happened?" I asked when I found my voice, still standing limp and motionless in the doorway.

One side of his mouth tilted upward into a bitter smile as he answered dully, "No, no, Bella. You're supposed to say 'Merry Christmas' back to me. It's custom." And then he finally met my gaze, the scraping of the watch coming to an abrupt stop.

I'd never seen anyone look so empty.

"Take a seat," he ordered softly, kicking the chair across from him from beneath the table.

I walked to it numbly, falling into it without really paying attention to where I landed. "Edward, you're scaring me," I said, because truly, he was.

One of his shoulders pulled up into a loose shrug and he replied, "We all fear that which we don't understand, but that's not the point." He hadn't been sleeping and his jaw was dark, gruff. He was dirty and the smell of liquor and cigarettes was so strong that it permeated the space between us.

"What is the point?" I whispered, the sudden silence feeling somehow delicate.

At this, he began to straighten, sliding the watch aside and leaning forward so that his hair obstructed his eyes. "Dependency is the point," he answered. "Do you depend on me?"

Furrowing my brows in confusion, I responded weakly, "In a way, I guess."

He nodded faintly. "Because you 'love' me?" His voice wrapped around the word with a serpentine and venomous inflection that made my face flame in embarrassment.

I swallowed, feeling somehow much smaller as I sat in his chair, darting my eyes around the kitchen uncertainly.

"Yes."

I'd only just said it days prior, right before I'd driven away from his apartment to the airport. I'd been disappointed that we wouldn't be spending our first Christmas together. I'd initially been saving the words to say at a special moment, but I'd been so emotional about leaving him and had figured he might have enjoyed the sentiment.

He would have appeared less stunned had I told him I'd grown a second vagina.

I'd told him I didn't want to hear it back, and so he hadn't replied, and I'd gone to Forks a little downtrodden about the whole ordeal, had cursed myself for not waiting longer. I figured it'd come back to bite me in the ass. This was probably that moment.

He hummed, seemingly contemplative as his hand disappeared to his lap. He shuffled around in his pants pocket, musing flatly, "Love is kind of weird and fucked up, don't you think? People say it all the time, but… nah. I don't think they always mean it. Not really." And then his hand emerged with a little silver box, no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. He flung his limp, midnight hair out of his eyes and looked past me, drawing his brows together. "You see, where I come from, love is thrown around so much and it pisses me off. It's like... 'hello' or 'goodbye' and that's not right, baby. It's bigger than life or death. Complete devotion and all that." His eyes finally met mine, imploring vacantly, "Would you agree?"

I simply stared at him, my pulse increasing as I curiously inspected the box from my periphery.

Was it jewelry? A Christmas present, perhaps? I was momentarily elated with this notion, all this talk of love and silver boxes making me feel as though it should have been a gift. It had to be a gift.

I nodded, struggling to pay close attention.

His gaze dropped to the box and he silently fingered it, lifting the latch and staring at the contents before speaking. "I depend on you. Did you know that?" At my silence, his voice transformed from a limp inflection to something laced heavily with resentment, grainy and deep. "Creative dependence, I guess you could call it. For whatever reason—" He darted his hollow stare to me. "—I can't seem to play without you there."

I inwardly balked at the accusation in his eyes, wondering how that could even be, while a little, guilty part of me was hoping it was true. I longed to be so important, so integral a figure in his life, that he couldn't play without me there. But there was no way of knowing. I'd only missed it, just this once. It wasn't even fair for me to wish such a thing upon him. If it were true, how frustrating would that be? To possess a passionate talent and have such a ridiculous restriction put upon its use? To have something you worked and struggled so hard for put in the hands of someone completely undeserving?

Instead of voicing this fact, I remained quiet, unable to reconcile the conflicting desires.

He only waited a moment before looking away, weary-eyed. "Have you ever heard of a cyanide pill, Bella?" he asked, no louder than a hoarse sigh. And then he turned the box to me, revealing two, tiny white tablets.

I was having one of those surreal moments where I began thinking perhaps I was dreaming. This entire situation was already a total deviation from the usual without even having to add two cyanide pills into the mix. But I wasn't dreaming. If I were, I wouldn't have been able to feel the rising droplets of sweat on my neck. I wouldn't have been seeing Edward like this, so dead and midnight. I wouldn't have just sat there, staring into the box as if it were a haunting, phantom intangibility. I certainly wouldn't have come so quickly to the realization of Edward's intentions. Had I been dreaming, Edward would have laughed and kissed me and apologized for being so silly.

How I wished I were dreaming...

The thrumming in my veins turned thunderous and I pinched my brows, shaking my head as the two white tablets stared back at me, menacingly unassuming. But I wasn't answering him. I was foreseeing what he was about to do and it was with something like disbelief, a continued wish that I was fabricating this moment, that my mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. I just didn't have enough time to recover from my shock to stop him.

He plucked one out of the box and it disappeared behind his pale lips before I could even blink.

"No!" I shrieked, my body finally coming to life as I flung myself over the table. The bottle of liquor and the festively wrapped metronome both clamored to the floor, but neither shattered; their thudding blunt. My hands flew to his stubbled chin, fingers struggling to force his lips apart with a desperation that made my fingertips clumsy. I jabbed my index finger in between and pushed, hitting his unrelenting teeth with.

He had the most disturbing smile on his face, this wicked, crooked and hollow thing. His head bobbed and shifted with my efforts to pry his mouth open, squeezing his cheeks and causing his lips to tightly purse. But then the periphery of my sight caught the lurch of his throat, the fatal swallow that made my vision blur.

I was all at once panicked, my eyes searching the space for a phone or a way to make him vomit or just... something.

Anything.

"It's no use," he stated offhandedly when I hurled myself at the phone lying atop his counter. I pushed the rubber buttons, my hand tremulous and clumsy. How could he do this? What's wrong with him? Do I have time? Why is he so calm? The questions raced through my head faster than I could think to even have them answered. Even after I realized that the phone was dead, my fingertips assaulted the buttons, my mind frantic and pleading.

Please let me wake up...

I was seconds away from bursting through his door to seek a neighbor when he spoke again, "It's instant. There's no going back," he murmured.

He almost sounded bored.

I finally turned to him, only absently feeling the wetness of my hysterical tears upon my cheeks. "Why?" My teeth chattered as I stumbled to him, suddenly afraid to touch his skin. "We could go to the emergency room. They'll p-pump your st-stomach or something. It's not—"

He stopped me by shoving his hand between our faces, one little white tablet pinched between his two fingertips.

"Show me you love me."

A/N: Thanks to FrenchBeanz for the beta. 6 chapters total. Happy birthday, Jes!