Notes: Edward to the rescue! This part is longer than the previous, and is really the "second half" of part 20. It practically wrote itself. I'm not sure if the next chapter will be quite THIS fast. ;

"Go," Alice tells him. "She needs you."

"What happened?" he asks into his cell phone. "She didn't hurt herself -- "

"No. She's reading the letters, Edward. She'll need you."

His dead heart leaps into his throat. "The letters -- " Not those letters, surely. Hadn't Alice said that she and Jasper had decided to come to Dawesonville precisely to keep Bella from trying to open that file? He'd thought it a non-issue.

But no. "Your letters to Mark, of course," Alice says now, confirming his fears. "Now stop talking to me and go help Bella, Edward." She hangs up on him, but he's already halfway down the cabin stairs, headed for the door.

He drives for Dawesonville like a bat out of hell -- an ironic simile, considering. The sun is setting as he pulls into the parking lot of Bella's apartment complex. He hadn't planned to come today, feeling guilty for monopolizing her yesterday evening no matter how much fun he'd had listening to her. She really does have to read, not debate feminist theory with him. But if Bella needs him, there is no question but that he'll be here as fast as four wheels can manage.

Other people are about, so he must walk at a human pace to her door, then bangs on it, shouting, "Bella! It's Edward!" There is no immediate answer, and he's about to call Alice to see if she's at home or at the college when he hears a faint noise on the other side of the door. Human ears wouldn't pick it up, but he hears the sniffle easily. There are heartbeats too, but human hearts beat all around and he's not sure which is hers. The sniffle, however -- "Bella?" He briefly considers breaking down the door.

Her voice stops him; it is so raw it cracks. "Come in. It's not locked." He wastes no time on irritation that her door is unlocked, just bursts in, taking stock of her state quickly.

She's lying on the couch, her back to the door, her abandoned chair facing the seat. Her breath is heavy and her short hair is a mess. He is beside her in an instant, kneeling to lift her up and turn her a little, checking her for injuries -- she is Bella, after all -- but finds none. Her face is splotched, her eyes so swollen they look sunken and her lips are cracked. He thinks she's just a little dehydrated, which, if she's been crying as hard as it looks like she has, she very well could be. "Let me get you some water," he says softly, not even waiting to hear her acknowledge him.

He's back with a water bottle she had in the fridge and a wet washcloth in just the time it took her to turn over. He wipes her face a little and can feel the dried salt against his fingers. Then he lifts her up -- she looks almost too weak too move -- and holds the bottle while she drinks.

"Thanks," she whispers, voice stronger.

"Any time," he tells her.

His heart is breaking for her, but he's also relieved. She's not screaming at him to go away. Then again, she's in such a bad state, she probably couldn't raise her voice. Without asking permission (it's easier to get forgiveness), he moves so that he's sitting on the couch where her head had been and pulls her a little into his lap, gently, letting her head rest on his shoulder. She doesn't fight him, just breathes for a while, hands curled against her chest. She holds a silver CD. He's afraid to ask what's on it. They don't speak for a long time. He just rocks her, humming under his breath sometimes. "I loved him," she says after a while.

"I know," he says. "He loved you too."

She just sobs a little. Her body is shaking in his grip and he strokes her hair. "I don't love you. I'm sorry, Edward. I loved him."

Her words are the stake through his heart. Too bad they can't kill him. "Of course you did," he manages to get out. "He was your husband."

He feels her fist tighten around the fabric of his sweater. "I like you, though," she says softly. "I like you a lot. You've been a good friend."

He kisses the crown of her head. If his heart could beat, it would be thudding. "Thank you," he whispers. He's not too proud to take what he can get, and if that makes him pathetic, he'll be pathetic.

After a while, he realizes she's asleep. She must have cried herself into exhaustion, and he considers carrying her into her bed, but doesn't. This -- just holding her again -- is something he's spent years longing for. He's not ready to let her go, and he adjusts her in his arms to make it a little more comfortable for her. He is stone, not a comfy pillow. But when he tries to pry the CD from her grip, she just clutches it more tightly and mutters in her sleep. Sighing, he lets it go and leans his head back against the couch top, closing his eyes. He breathes the flower sweetness of her, listens to her heart patter. It reminds him of ten years ago, watching her in her bed. But she'd been so young and innocent then, and physically whole. That makes him wonder when she emptied her bladder last? Not a romantic thought, but he's a doctor and knows she has to keep her schedule or she could risk stretching or even rupturing it. He lets her sleep another half hour, then wakes her gently. "Bella?"

It takes a little effort. She's groggy. "What?"

"When's the last time you voided?"

"When's the . . . what? Oh." She sits up a little. "A while." He can smell her breath; it's fetid from sleep and weeping.

"I'll put you in your chair."

"Thank you."

He lifts her easily and settles her in, then hands her the water bottle. "Drink a little more first. I'm sure your throat's raw, and you need to rehydrate."

"Yes, Dr. Masen." She does as he instructs without quarrel, however, handing him back the bottle after a long swallow. He watches as she wheels herself slowly down the hallway to the bathroom. Standing outside the closed door, he listens to her move around inside to be sure she doesn't fall. She is still weak and half-asleep, but she's been doing this for years. He relaxes a little when he hears the urine hiss against toilet water. Bella isn't as clumsy as she used to be, but he suspects a lot of her former clumsiness stemmed from just not quite noticing her surroundings. She'd been off in her own little world and didn't always pay attention to what her body was doing. There is nothing wrong with her cerebellum to ruin her balance, near as he can tell, and after living in the chair for ten years, it's forced her to slow down and be more aware. If she still isn't the world's most coordinated person, she doesn't seem as accident-prone -- a fact Emmett bemoaned over the holidays. Personally, Edward is relieved.

She comes out after about five minutes, and it's clear she's combed her hair and brushed her teeth too. She looks up at him standing there and he retreats to let her roll into the living room. Going to the coffee table with the water bottle, she opens it and drinks a good third of what's left. She still holds that CD. He waits for the explosion.

It doesn't come. "I found the letters. Between you and Mark."

His eyes drop from her face to the silver disk. "I know. Alice warned me."

She nods. "I wasn't sure. You seemed to know something. But then, you just showed up yesterday to cook me dinner." She pauses, then continues, "I'm glad you knew each other. I'm glad he had you for a friend. But I wish you'd both just told me."

"I promised him -- "

"I know what you promised him. But I'm annoyed at you. And at him, too, but he's . . . he's not here . . . " She trails off, her face twisting and he moves towards her but she holds up a hand. After a moment, she gets herself back under control. "He's not here," she finishes finally. "Would the two of you ever have told me?"

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "Maybe. Probably, actually. It might've been hard to hide as I was supposed to assist with his surgery. Well, he wanted me to. I wasn't sure it was a good idea -- considering. Nothing like going crazy and draining all the surgical staff, you know, in the middle of an operation."

Her eyes widen and her face turns stark. "So he was going to have surgery?"

"He hadn't decided yet, but I think it probably would've been the only way to control the seizures."

"Did you go to his appointment with him?"

"Yes."

"I didn't read all the way to the end," she says. "Just to . . . just to that letter. When he asked you to go with him to his appointment. September 20th. When was the appointment?"

"The next week. "

"Why didn't he tell me? Shouldn't I have gone? I'm his wife! Was his wife."

"He was scared, Bella -- more than I think he wanted to admit to himself. Mark didn't like being scared."

"I know that! But still -- "

"Don't be angry with him. I know he was planning to tell you after his tests came back. He had to schedule an MRI."

"Why didn't I hear about it later? Get the results? Something?"

"The imaging appointment was set for the week -- ah, after. I called to cancel."

"When were you going to tell me all this, Edward? Didn't I have a right to know?" And now the anger he feared is seeping through.

He shrugs a bit helplessly. "Yes, I think you did. But Mark wasn't ready to tell you, and after -- what was the point?"

"So I'd know? I thought it was just a freak accident that killed him!"

"It was. It wasn't the actual seizure, Bella. I looked at his autopsy report. It was the fall. He hit his temple; it really was an accident. He was scared about the surgery, but I think he'd have come through with flying colors. He was in good health, epilepsy aside."

"But he might not have had that seizure if things weren't getting worse!"

"He might not. But he might. Mark's seizures were never entirely regulated by the medicine. You know that."

She sobs once, hard, and her hand goes up to her mouth. "I wasn't ready. I wasn't . . . I wasn't prepared. At all. If . . . if I'd known about the seizures getting worse, I might have been. Well, not prepared for him to die, but I might not have been as surprised."

"I told him to tell you," Edward says quietly. "He kept telling me he was going to. He just didn't want to worry you until he had to. He was human, Bella. He made mistakes. Don't be angry."

"Don't be angry? Edward!" He can hear her annoyance escalating. "You and my husband carried on a -- what? -- six-year-or-more friendship, and neither of you ever told me? I feel . . . I feel so many things. You kept so much from me. You never told me you took care of Victoria. You never told me you were still hanging around in the rafters of my life years after you left. You never told me you were friends with Mark. And Mark knew all that -- Jacob knew it too! -- and none of you told me? What the hell do you think I am? Six years old?"

Edward winces because here it comes again -- the anger Alice had warned him wasn't entirely settled. "It got . . . complicated."

"That's not an excuse!"

"No," he agrees. "It's . . . a reason, I guess. Why we didn't tell you. At first, Mark was afraid -- like I told you before. He didn't want to admit it -- least of all to me -- but he was afraid he might lose you if I came back into your life." She opens her mouth to react to that, thunder on her face, but he barrels on, "Later, not so much. Not really at all, actually. He knew you loved him Bella. He did. But by then, well, we'd been in contact a while and it was complicated. How do you go to your wife and say, 'Oh, by the way, I'm friends with your vampire ex-boyfriend who left you because he was a jerk and made you so sad you could barely function for months then jumped off a cliff. Yeah, we're buddies now, who'd have thought?'"

To Edward's surprise, Bella actually laughs a little at that. "All right," she says. "Yes, it was odd. But you still should have told me."

"Yes, probably," he says, looking down at the toes of his shoes.

"Not 'probably' -- you should. When we first spoke after Alice and Jasper came back, you told me there wasn't anything else you hadn't confessed. I trusted you. How can I trust you now?"

"There wasn't," Edward insists, feeling alarmed. Rebuilding her trust is important to him. "Or nothing big."

"This is big, Edward! You were friends with my husband! The two of you wrote back and forth as much as once or twice a week!"

"I did tell you I knew him, Bella. I didn't hide that."

"But you didn't tell me the two of you were good friends!"

He frowns. "We weren't, really. Friends, but not good friends. I don't think he'd have called us good friends, and I told you I asked him about you sometimes. I didn't lie."

"You didn't tell me the whole truth, either! And now, you're prevaricating, Edward. Stop it. You know you still didn't tell me everything."

"You weren't ready to hear everything that night. And did it occur to you" -- his guilt turns to a little anger -- "that you invaded our privacy? You read our email without our permission. Sometimes people need to talk to somebody else, Bella. I don't think Mark would have wanted you to read some of that stuff. Maybe I had it coming since I can read other people's thoughts without their permission, but Mark didn't. One of the things he taught me was to see how intrusive my mind-reading really is. It's not just annoying to me, it's . . . wrong -- and it's because of him that I've begun working on blocking things out more than I had before."

And for the first time, Bella stops looking irritated and appears mortified. "I didn't -- I mean, I needed to know -- "

"No, you didn't. Some of it you didn't need to know." Edward is surprised by just how angry he is feeling now, in turn. At first, he'd just been frightened she'd be furious and cut him out of her life again, but his own sense of betrayal takes him a little by surprise. This isn't just a ploy to turn the argument. He's genuinely hurt. "Some of that is a little embarrassing."

"It didn't make me think less of you!" she tells him. "Either of you! I needed to know!"

He just shrugs, and suddenly understands her own mixed feelings about the whole thing a lot better. "Like I said," he mutters finally. "Complicated."

"Yeah." She pauses, then blurts, "I'm sorry for reading your mail."

"And I'm sorry we didn't tell you. But as you saw, we weren't . . . we weren't keeping anything . . . bad . . . from you. Most of the time, we weren't even talking about you -- or patronizing you. You worry about that too much. Caring about somebody doesn't always equate to patronizing them."

"I know," she says softly. "I saw in the letters." She sighs and runs a hand over her face. Her expression is blank and grief blasted. "I guess it was hard on you too, then -- his death. You lost a friend."

"Yes."

"I didn't realize that before. I'm sorry. I should have asked you to the funeral."

"It's okay. I've visited his grave."

"You did?" She looks surprised.

"Yeah. A few weeks after the burial, I drove down there. It was . . . something I needed to do."

She nods, as if understanding that. "Bella," he says now, "Please understand that yes, we were friends, but Mark had other friends too -- you, not least. I wasn't the first person he called to tell things to. That was you. Then came half a dozen other people. I was rather lower on that list."

"He told you about the seizures," she snaps.

"Because I'm a neurologist, for Christ's sake! I mean, if you were told you had cancer and you happened to know an oncologist, wouldn't you take him or her with you to the appointment? That's all it was; I could interpret the medical-speak for him."

"You said he wanted you in the surgery."

"He did, if he opted for that. He asked his doctor if I could assist. To be honest, the man wasn't keen on the idea -- and neither was I, for obvious reasons. Head wounds bleed, Bella, even in a controlled situation like surgery. Not that it's necessarily the volume of blood. A pin-prick could be enough to set me over the edge."

"You sucked the venom out of my wrist -- my blood -- and didn't kill me."

"Of course not. I loved you."

She studies him a moment, then asks, "Were you afraid that -- if it was him -- you might hate him as much as you liked him, and not be able to stop yourself?"

The question brings him up short; he frowns. "I . . . don't know. I'd like to think not. Anyway" -- he waves a hand -- "it's moot. My point is just that he didn't turn to me because he felt that close to me, but because of what I knew."

"He asked you to look out for me if something did happen to him," she says.

"Yes. He knew I loved you. He knew I'd do anything for you. He was worried, so he took advantage of that." A part of him resents it; a part of him is grateful. He doesn't tell Bella this.

Maybe she knows because she is studying him oddly. In any case, she also seems to have calmed down, looking neither furious nor on the edge of hysteria. The tension between them has drained away for the moment and he feels emotionally wrung. "Are you all right?" he asks.

"All right?"

"I mean -- God, that sounded stupid. I mean, do you need anything? More water? Food? Sleep, maybe? You were exhausted when I got here."

"I am tired," she says, running a hand through her hair. It's flat and greasy. "But I need to read. Today has just been shot to hell -- "

"No, you don't need to read," he interrupts. "Tomorrow, you can read. Tonight -- " He shakes his head. "Do something to relax, all right? I'll take you out to eat. Or we can see a movie. Or . . . I don't know. Something."

"I have all those books to get through!" She points to her desk with stacks of books.

"They aren't going anywhere. For tonight, just forget about it." He isn't certain why he's being so insistent, but he feels strung out himself and can only imagine how much more she must feel it. "Do you really think you can concentrate right now?"

That seems to get through to her. "No," she says, shoulders slumping. "But I can't keep putting this off. I've got to get to work."

"And you will -- in the morning." He approaches her and kneels down in front of her chair, taking her hands in his. They feel cold, and he wonders how chilly his must feel in winter. The CD is on her lap. "Let's go somewhere fun, all right?"

"Somewhere fun in Dawesonville? Are you kidding? Besides, I'm tired. I'm not sure I feel up to going out. I look like something the cat dragged in."

"You look fine to me. And if you're bored with Dawesonville, we can drive to Helen. Or to Atlanta, if you'd rather." He checks his watch. "It's only 7:30. The night is young."

She actually manages to crack a smile. "For a vampire." He smiles back, oddly pleased with the way they can joke about it. Reaching out, she cups his cheek. "I just don't feel like it, Edward. I don't have the energy. How about pizza and a movie here? Well, pizza for me."

"Whatever you want." He tries to resist nuzzling her wrist to smell her blood. It still affects him.

"You're sniffing me, Edward." But she sounds amused as she pulls her hand away. "Anyway, it matters what you want, too. I'm just too tired to make a long drive or dress up for dinner, but we could go to a bookstore if you'd rather. There's a Borders in town with a coffee shop."

He can't help laughing that a bookstore is Bella's idea of a relaxing evening. "We could do that. Or we could watch a movie and you can have pizza. It really doesn't matter to me. I just want you to take the night off."

"A movie then," she says. "Sometimes all the trouble of getting ready to go out just isn't worth it. I have a Netflix movie here I've not got around to watching yet."

"All right."

He fetches takeout for her -- pepperoni, extra cheese -- and they watch some medieval period piece. It's full of inaccuracies and a bit boring; she falls asleep near the end, but not on his shoulder. If she'd let him cradle her when he'd first arrived, she'd been too broken to resist. Now she keeps a proper distance on the sofa. They are friends, and only that. She told him she didn't love him -- but she likes him. That's good enough.

Rising, he turns off the movie and cleans up congealed, greasy pizza, then stretches her out so her back isn't strained, covering her with several throws and letting her sleep while he reads her books. She went to the bathroom before the movie started so he thinks it safe to let her sleep undisturbed. When she jerks and cries out once, he's right there to soothe her back into slumber, and sometime after midnight, when he can tell she's deeply out, he lifts and carries her into her room to tuck her in. Then he goes back out to read until well after the sun is up and he can hear her stirring. Putting down the book, he gets up to make coffee and start breakfast for her.

She emerges a little later, goes to the bathroom, then rolls out into the main living area and peers at him in the kitchen. Her hair is wild. "You stayed here all night? Did you watch me sleep like you used to?"

"No," he says, cracking eggs into the skillet. "Do you like them scrambled or sunny-side up?"

"I don't care. What did you do then?"

"Read. In the living room," he adds, then gestures over his shoulder. "I made you coffee."

She glances at it, glances at him, at the skillet with the eggs, shrugs and gets coffee. He feeds her, then she takes a bath. When she emerges, she looks much better than at any point the night before, and settles in on the couch to begin reading. She lets him stay. He listens to music, or plays on her computer. At noon, he feeds her lunch -- reheated pizza -- then returns to what he was doing as she returns to her books. For dinner, he makes pasta. It's hard to ruin pasta, he figures. It's after nine in the evening before she finally looks up from her book to ask, "Are you planning to stay here again tonight?"

"I will if you'd like."

She laughs. "Edward, go home. I'm starting to think you're like the family cat. You have to be put out in the evening."

He raises an eyebrow, but resists being offended. After all, she let him stay all day, and he's proven he can be here without distracting her. At the door, he says, "I'll bring dinner tomorrow, and my residency applications. You can read while I work on those."

For a moment, she looks as if she would like to protest, but doesn't, just shakes her head. "See you tomorrow, Edward."

"Tomorrow, Bella."

And the next evening, he is there just as he promised with Chinese takeout, his computer and his papers. It sets a pattern. Over the next weeks, she comes not just to allow, but even to assume and expect his presence. He likes that.

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