Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns it. I'm just playing.

Author's Note: I'm sorry. Don't ask.

The Exchange

I watched the sun as it slowly started to creep into the sky, lighting up the flat landscape and glinting off the melting snow. I remained in the bed, still, and considered what I was going to do, what I was going to say.

I had been drifting in and out of consciousness the entire night. It seemed like every time I felt myself starting to fall asleep, my eyes would snap open and fly to the clock. Almost every half hour I would find myself staring at the bright numbers, willing time to move faster, praying for the sun to rise sooner.

The words he'd said kept echoing in my mind; I couldn't shut out the expression on his face or the tear tracking down his cheek. My desire to go to him, wake him and comfort him warred with my instinct to flee and seek solitude or, conversely, drive him away.

The result of these two conflicting urges was that I remained tethered to the bed, unable to make a decision, yet completely incapable of achieving sleep.

Would he regret talking to me last night, a result of exhaustion and too much wine?

Would I take one look at him and wish he had never come?

Everything always looked different in the morning, and with Edward it almost always looked worse. Our relationship was darkness and denial.

Around eight o'clock, I heard the banging of pots from downstairs, causing me to jolt upright in bed. I listened to footsteps, the refrigerator door opening and closing and I felt my heart start to pound rapidly as I contemplated the inevitable – I would have to face him.

The crisp, distinct smell of bacon drifted faintly into the air. I tossed off the covers and leapt to my feet, padding quickly across the room and swinging the door open. I didn't hesitate, didn't pause to second guess myself, before I was skidding down the stairs, my socks unable to get a good grip on the polished wood of the floors. When I reached the first floor, I stopped and took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves and steady my heartbeat.

With a final determined nod, I strode into the kitchen and immediately stopped short at the sight that met me.

Edward was standing at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping eggs in a small frying pan. The old black shirt he'd been wearing under his jacket was wrinkled from sleep, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his forearms exposed. His hair was completely out of control, just as it always was when he made no attempt to tame it. I looked down to see that his feet were completely bare on the cold stone floor.

The whole picture was so remarkably domestic that I had to bite back a smile.

He was looking at the eggs in front of him with intense concentration, not even noticing that I had entered.

I took another step towards him, cocking my head, finally alerting him to my presence. "You made breakfast?" I asked him quietly.

Edward's head whipped around when he heard me, his eyes flashing with surprise. I could feel myself begin to blush as his gaze quickly trailed over my large shirt down to my shorts. I shifted uncomfortably when his eyes lingered for a moment on my bare legs, before finishing their descent to my large wool socks.

Then he was looking back at my face with a little smile.

"You made dinner," he shrugged in reply. "Have a seat."

I didn't argue.

I walked over to the table and slid into the nearest chair, watching curiously as he separated the scrambled eggs onto two plates. He divvied up the bacon next, and popped two English muffins out of the toaster.

I raised my eyebrows, impressed.

He looked over his shoulder at me for a moment, inquiring, "Do you still like ketchup on your eggs?"

I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. "Yeah, I do."

Nodding wordlessly, Edward grabbed the bottle of ketchup from the fridge and placed it on the table in front of me, along with the plate that was brimming with food. I grabbed a piece of bacon, taking a large bite and chewing gingerly when it burned my mouth.

He pulled out his own chair and sat down across from me, tucking into his meal eagerly. I coughed a laugh when I saw him wince, discovering as I had that it was still too hot to eat.

"How did you sleep?" I asked him, smacking at the glass of the ketchup bottle, trying to coax some onto my plate. It slid along the neck of the bottle reluctantly before landing on my eggs in a large pool.

Edward swallowed his food with some effort before replying, "Surprisingly well, actually."

It took all my restraint not to roll my eyes at him.

Of course.

He would sleep soundly on the couch while I stressed and rolled around in bed all night, worried about what he had said, what I was feeling, allowing guilt to overtake me, and panicking at what would happen in the morning.

Edward was looking at his plate again, intent on shoveling his food down, seeming to be determined to eat it as quickly as possibly despite the burn.

I got to my feet and walked over to the refrigerator, pulling out the bottle of orange juice. I raised my eyebrow at Edward in silent question and he nodded enthusiastically, his mouth full. I poured two glasses and brought them over to the table.

I returned to my seat, sipping at the icy liquid gratefully.

We were silent for a while before I got up the courage to speak again. "Sorry I hadn't cleaned out the other bedroom before you got here."

Edward shrugged off my apology. "Don't worry about it. Didn't really want to sleep in Rosalie's old room anyway."

I tried not to act surprised as I took in that information.

I supposed it didn't much matter – the room that was his, the room that was his sister's – only that every insight Edward offered me to what sort of house this once was, every time he unknowingly triggered me to imagine his childhood, I felt an uncontrollable surge of curiosity.

"Well," I responded at last, feeling nervous. "I guess your room will be out of commission for a while if we're painting it. So when you come up again, if you want the master bed…"

Edward cut off my uncertain offer abruptly.

"I wasn't planning on spending the night," he stated simply. "It won't happen again."

I blinked, momentarily speechless.

The finality with which he said the words was cold. His words, his tone was similar to conversation-ending statements he had made in the past. Only, for some reason, when I had heard his response, it hadn't seemed rude or angry.

It was defensive.

It gave me a sudden, sinking feeling that I had been misreading him for a long, long time.

"Oh," I said at last. "Okay. But if you ever want to…"

"The couch is very comfortable," he interrupted again, not allowing me to finish my offer.

I studied him carefully, his body tense and his expression firm. I knew by the set of his jaw and the steel of his eyes that there was no way I could argue with him in that moment. I bit my lip and looked away from him, unsure of what to say.

"Really, Bella," I heard him say quietly. My eyes dragged from my plate up to meet his. "The bed is yours now. I would never put you out because I'm stupid enough to get too drunk and tired to drive safely."

I placed my fork down on my plate with a light clatter and chuckled, shaking my head and smiling at him.

The corners of his mouth twitched in response. "What?" he asked curiously.

I shrugged helplessly, holding out my hands in mock-surrender. "I don't really know what to say when you're nice to me."

Edward smirked. "Well, you could start by saying 'thank you'."

"Thank you," I repeated, still laughing a little. Slowly I let the smile fade from my face and I leaned forward, hoping that I looked genuine when I added, "Really."

"You're welcome." Edward nodded in acknowledgment.

"So," I cleared my throat, leaning back and glancing down at my breakfast in an attempt to break eye contact with him. "How long have you been up?"

"A few hours," Edward answered, resuming his vigorous eating.

"Why?" I wondered aloud.

"I really have to get back to the city."

"Oh," I said, coughing a little as I felt some English muffin get caught in my throat. I took a deep gulp of orange juice to clear it before remembering something suddenly. "Hey, did you call your mom? I left her a message last night that said you would call her in the morning."

Edward shook his head, unconcerned. "I'll call her when I head out. Give her a little more time to sleep."

I nodded and picked my fork back up, twisting it nervously on my plate but not lifting any food to my mouth. "How's she doing?"

I could feel Edward's eyes on me very suddenly as I continued to study my plate.

I hazarded a glance up to meet his gaze to find his expression thoughtful, maybe even soft, as he regarded the question.

"She's been doing quite well, considering the circumstances," he said at last.

"I'm glad," I said honestly. "And how are things over at her house?"

"Good," Edward nodded, his expression growing distant. "It's a lot smaller than this, but it's very nice. Closer to work, closer to Rose, and I feel a lot more comfortable knowing my mom's not alone."

I smiled.

"She's lucky she has you with her," I said without thinking.

Edward focused on me immediately and I dropped my eyes, feeling my entire face flush in embarrassment.

"Yeah," he whispered after a beat.

I looked back up at him slowly, not at all surprised to see his gaze was still fixed unwaveringly on me.

"Listen, Edward…" I started nervously.

"Hey Bella!" I heard suddenly, the front door slamming open and closed again. "Knock, knock!" called a loud voice.

Both Edward and I froze in shock, glancing at each other and then towards the front door. I stood up quickly, my chair scraping on the stone of the floor. Edward followed my example, the expression on his face looked as if he was about to be caught doing something wrong.

I didn't really understand the sudden burn in my cheeks when I realized the only person it could be.

"Alice?" I called the response as a question.

I could hear her small footsteps making their way towards the kitchen and she was already talking loudly and animatedly to me, even though she hadn't reached me yet.

"Hey Bella!" she called as she walked through the hallway. "I just wanted to see if you were up for hanging at the barn today, maybe working with Santana a little…" She rounded the corner into the kitchen and halted abruptly, her eyes falling immediately to the other side of the table.

"Edward," she stated, not bothering to mask her surprise.

"Hello, Alice." He nodded politely. I looked at him for a moment, long enough to see him shift uncomfortably, before I turned back to my friend.

She was still staring at my husband. "Uh…how are you?"

"Fine, thank you." He smiled, looking a little strained. "And yourself?"

She waved her hands. "I'm great. I was just…" Then she paused and looked at me, then back at him, then down at our half-eaten breakfast. "Interrupting," she finished, turning on her heel. "I'll go."

I opened my mouth to stop her, then shut it quickly. I wasn't sure if I should stop her if Edward didn't feel comfortable around her. I couldn't imagine why he wouldn't, but…

"You don't have to leave Alice." I heard Edward speak up suddenly.

Alice stopped and looked back at me for confirmation. I turned to look at Edward curiously, biting my lip.

"So, I think I'm going to get going," Edward explained with a shrug.

"Oh," I said, surprised by his sudden desire to leave. "Um…alright."

I saw him hesitate slightly at my expression even as I tried to look neutral. I wasn't sure exactly what emotion was written across my face because I wasn't sure exactly how I felt.

"Unless…" he hedged uncertainly. "Was there anything else you needed?"

"Nope." I answered quickly, shaking my head and planting a smile on my face. "I'm good."

"Well, I'll…uh…see you next weekend?" His confirmation came out like a question.

I could feel the awkward, stilted tension crackling around us as Alice watched our exchange silently. My cheeks continued to burn and I practically felt the curiosity rolling off of her in waves.

"Sure." I nodded decidedly.

Edward granted me a small smile and excused himself politely. I gave Alice a look as I passed her, following him to the door. He pulled on his jacket and boots silently as I stood beside him, wringing my hands together.

When he walked out to the porch and down the stairs to his car, I didn't follow.

I turned back to the kitchen when I heard the engine of his car roar to life. I walked through the hall slowly, feeling an odd sense of dread settle in my stomach at the idea of facing Alice.

Stepping into the kitchen, I found Alice standing at the stove, picking cold bacon off the pan and popping it into her mouth. She licked her fingers when she heard me enter, turning around to face me.

"So…?" she prompted slowly, lifting her eyebrows expectantly.

I shook my head and picked up the unfinished plates from the table, feeling my hackles rise at her obvious interest. "Not what it looked like."

"What did it look like?" Alice prompted me with a smirk.

"I don't know," I said, dropping the dishes in the sink and turning the water on. "Not what it was."

"And what was it?" she wanted to know.

"Breakfast," I told her dryly.

"Well, that sure was what it looked like."

"Good."

I scraped the cold, rubbery eggs into the trash before holding the plates under the hot water and grabbing a sponge to scrub them with. The water burned my hands, making my skin turn red and sore, but I ignored the pain.

Alice walked over to my right side and took the clean plates out of my hands, grabbing a dishtowel to dry them and stack them neatly on the counter.

"So, what was he doing up here?" Alice asked after a moment of silence.

"There's a leak in the roof," I said, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. She seemed to be intently focused on drying a fork, so I continued. "He came up yesterday to take a look."

"And stayed the night?" Her question was innocent, but I couldn't help hearing the underlying implication.

"It got late," I said, my tone defensive, effectively closing the subject.

"I see." Alice let it drop.

I knew it was completely irrational to be getting annoyed with Alice.

After all, everything she knew about Edward and I was that we detested each other, the he kicked me out of the house, that we fought and yelled and cried and lived in different towns. We were mysterious and volatile in her eyes. I couldn't really blame her for her confused inquiries, especially after walking into a house brimming with awkwardness rivaled any morning-after tension.

I knew she was only asking because she cared about me.

Or Edward.

Suddenly the thought struck me that she volunteered in the same place where Edward spent several of his weekdays. I had no idea what kind of working relationship they had, whether they were friends or not, but it certainly forced me to view her friendship in a different light. Maybe she talked and laughed and joked with Edward the same way she did with me.

"So, the leak?" Alice prompted, breaking me out of my thoughts. "Is it bad?"

"It's only in one room so…I don't think so," I told her as I put the ketchup back in the fridge. "But we're going to have to strip all the wallpaper and repaint."

"That sucks," Alice nodded sympathetically. "Want me to ask Jasper if he'll take a look at the roof? He wouldn't charge you or anything."

I remembered Edward's expression when I had suggested we hire help.

"Thanks for the offer, but I think Edward really wants to fix it himself," I said with a shrug, as if it was no big deal. "This house is pretty sentimental to him."

"I bet it is." Alice was smirking again.

"Did you want something?" I sighed, crossing my arms as I – once again – changed the subject.

"Well, I wanted to see if you were up for mucking stalls," she started, a grin creeping across her face. "But now I'm thinking a little payback is in order…"

I felt my heart skip a beat. "What do you mean?"

"You help me with the horses," she explained. "And I'll help you strip the wallpaper."

I dropped my arms from my chest and felt my brow furrow in confusion at her proposal.

"I'd help you anyway," I told her honestly.

"I know that." It was Alice's turn to roll her eyes. "But this is how the world works. Got to be fair about it."

I looked at her in gratitude, feeling a smile starting to tug at the corners of my mouth.

"Deal."

The next few days were some of the best I could remember in a long time.

All week Alice and I were flighty and impulsive, bouncing from one house to the other, running wild over the hills like children. The weather was finally starting to warm, the snow melting and turning the ground to sloshy mud. Alice introduced me to the simple joys of sinkholes and I rediscovered my affinity for splashing through puddles – something I hadn't done since I was a child in Forks.

I would help Alice with the horses in the morning and the afternoon. In the hours between, we would work on stripping the wallpaper from the cold room. When Alice realized how difficult it was, she immediately took the project to Jasper, who suggested that we pierce the paper and spray it with water and vinegar to loosen it.

Of course, it made everything about ten times easier.

On Wednesday, Alice boosted me up onto Roswell's back and we walked around the field without halters or saddles. I sat with my hands pressed firmly to his withers and moved my hips to his jerking motion, trying not to slide off into the mud. Once I felt comfortable, I was able to enjoy the height he lent me, and the power I could feel under my legs. My eyes drifted to Santana every once in a while, curious what he would feel like to ride. He was so much taller than all the other horses and much more athletic. I smiled, imagining how quickly he would toss me off his back.

It was on Thursday that I found myself alone in the cold room, Alice heading into the city early to go to the clinic. I didn't ask her if Edward was working there today and I didn't offer to accompany her. Instead, I stayed and peeled the remaining wallpaper from the second wall.

It was tedious, difficult work and after several hours I collapsed on the bed with a sigh, lazily spreading my limbs across the paper-covered comforter. I ignored the crinkling of the plastic beneath me and gazed up at the ceiling for several moments. Breathing steadily in and out, I felt a swell of accomplishment begin to flow through me.

I sat up, wanting to examine my work one more time before going downstairs to fix myself some lunch.

The entire wall I had been working on was stripped clean, making half the room bare and ready for priming. I smiled to myself, thinking that maybe I could enlist Alice to help me finish it tomorrow so that I could show Edward what I had accomplished when he returned this weekend.

I stretched my aching limbs, cracking my neck and trying to rub the soreness away as I stood up. I bit my lip, glancing around at the covered floor, littered with wallpaper. It reminded me of abandoned skin of a snake. There was no way Edward would be able to sleep in this room when he came up to work on the roof, and I couldn't let him sleep on the couch again. I would have to spend tomorrow clearing out the spare room.

Rosalie's room.

I glanced at the clock, noting that it was just after two. I sighed again, knowing that Alice wouldn't be back from the city for several more hours. I walked over to the far wall and began to pick up some of the larger strips of paper from the floor to toss out.

I made my way along the wall, gathering scraps as I went, until I hit the closet door. My brow furrowed when I noticed that some of the wood was light and worn down, from the water that had dripped from the ceiling. Setting down the paper I had collected into a pile beside me, I pursed my lips and opened the door.

I groaned loudly at the sight inside.

Practically empty of clothes, the closet's walls were dripping and peeling much worse than the walls of the rest of the room. I was sure the tarp Edward had nailed to the roof was protecting it now, but there was no way to undo the damage.

Without even thinking about it, I snatched the few shirts from the closet that Edward had left and tossed them onto the plastic-covered bed, damp and heavy.

I looked down at the boxes that were littered across the floor. Most of them seemed fairly dry along the back wall, but there was a large one right beside the door that was soaked all the way through. I eased it out from the dark of the closet, the cardboard so soggy that it tore in my hands.

I dragged it gently to the middle of the room where I had already pushed the bed, bookshelf, and dresser into a little island at the center.

I picked up the clothes from the bed and pulled them off their hangers, walking downstairs to toss them in the dryer. As I made my way back up to the room, I shook my head imagining Edward's expression when I showed him the newly discovered damage.

As soon as I walked back into the room, my eyes immediately fell to the large box I had just saved from disintegration. My fingers itched and I felt undeniable curiosity pulse through me.

Telling myself that I just wanted to check to make sure whatever was inside remained undamaged, I strode forward and dropped to my knees beside it. I fingered the edges for a moment before pulling open the top and peering in.

There were dozens of leather journals in several different colors.

I reached in eagerly and pulled one out, biting my lip. I flipped open the front cover to read the inscription on the inside.

It read:

This is the property of Edward Anthony Cullen.

1995-1996

I blinked at the book uncertainly – uncertain if I should look, uncertain what I would find – for several seconds before I flipped it open to the first page.

It wasn't a normal journal. There wasn't much on the old, soggy pages that would be considered a typical entry. Mostly there were just notes and scribbles, feathery sketches of insects and animals. There were several sketches of trees.

As I flipped through the book, I began to recognize that all the trees Edward had drawn had the same large knot on their trunks. They were all drawings of one tree, at different stages in the seasons. Beside the sketches were little stories or anecdotes: creatures who lived in the tree, a strange spider he saw creeping across its bark, how he had read beneath its shady canopy for hours.

I kept turning pages rapidly, glancing at his drawings and writings with unmasked interest. I had almost made it through the entire journal when one drawing caught my eye.

This was a different tree.

Or, the same tree, only it was…not the same tree.

It had been destroyed.

The entire sketch was dark and filled in, making the bark look eerie and black. The trunk was split, almost as if it had been bisected by some large, unseen force.

My eyes widened as I suddenly recognized the dead tree in the backyard, staring out at me from the pages of Edward's fifteen-year-old memories.

I squinted at the writing beneath the picture. There was more of it, and written more furiously than anything else I had seen in the book. I brushed my fingers along each line as I tried to make it out.

Lightening strikes and destroys all. Less than a second of beauty and light and electricity renders life to ash. A father who wants to rid the yard of what no longer belongs with the living. I begged. I begged him not to cut it down. There is still life that can emerge. I have felt nothing of this sadness before, this betrayal. No reason dictates I feel this, but I do.

Always fact and study and reality and a tree splits open and I have never felt so much.

There was more there, but I couldn't really decipher it.

All the writing in the journal was like that: staggered notes and fragmented sentences.

He wrote as he thought.

It was very strange to think of a scientist writing the way he did. I would have imagined him – even as a teenager – writing in neat, perfect sentences. Most of what he had jotted down lacked the eccentricity of an artist, but still felt distinctly like torture of the soul. Instead of passion and love, Edward cried out with numbers and names.

Except for this one passage.

There was pain and fear and confusion screaming from every word about the charred tree. Sentences and words bleeding together, a lack of order and calm. I could see in his writing an echo of the chaos in the master bedroom, the screaming at the top of the stairs. That part of him – the intensity and the fire – that I had never seen in him before, I was seeing it now.

Swallowing audibly, I closed the journal and placed it back in the box.

I hesitated for a moment, struggling with the almost uncontrollable desire to read more.

I wanted to pick up another one of those leather journals and devour page after page. I wanted to know how far his writing would take me. All the way back to his first written words? Forward through time to the bar where we met? What would he write about me? Would I be calm and catalogued like the plants and insects? Would I be a burning tree?

I was practically quivering with my need to know.

But it wasn't just about me. I found myself wondering what he wrote about Esme and Carlisle and Rosalie; what he wrote about his friends and his school and his homework; what he wrote about girls he dated or his favorite songs or insects he observed. I wanted to know every little detail, every little insight, and every little thought.

And through all that need and want and insatiable curiosity, I folded the sides of the box to close it up.

There was nothing I could find in those books.

The man who had brought me to this house was different from the boy he had once been. He wasn't innocent anymore, he wasn't inquisitive and adventurous, and he wasn't a scientist. He had told me that himself.

As I was about to push the box under the bed, something caught my eye.

It was wedged against the side of the box, in between the journals and the cardboard. I pulled back the top flap again, biting my lip as I realized why it looked familiar.

It was the little leather book of poetry.

It seemed like years ago that I had dug it out of the box at the kitchen table, right before I had broken Edward's lamp. I had left it on the kitchen table when I went back upstairs, leaving Edward to clean up the shards of glass and blood.

For the second time, I reached inside to pull the little book out of a box to look at it. I held it out in front of me and passed the palm of my left hand over its surface, smiling at the smooth feel of the leather.

I read the inscription on the inside again.

I held the small book in my hands, looking down at it curiously, and feeling no desire to pack it away with the rest of the journals. Those were Edward's memories, his private thoughts and fears and desires. I had no business going through them.

But this book? This book had, without a doubt, been for me.

If some part of me acknowledged that Edward had never given it to me, and that he might have had a reason for not doing so, I ignored it. I wouldn't read his journals because they were for him. But this had been created for me to read.

I turned the first page, pressing it down lightly as my eyes darted from line to line over the first poem Edward had transcribed into the books pages.

I found myself breathing it aloud as I read to myself.

in spite of everything

which breathes and moves, since Doom

(with white longest hands

neatening each crease)

will smooth entirely our minds

before leaving my room

i turn, and (stooping

through the morning) kiss

this pillow, dear

where our heads lived and were.

"Cummings," I murmured to myself, a feeling of nostalgia washing through me like a stream of icy water. I could feel the words pounding in my skull, perfectly cadenced to the beating of my heart.

There was a date beneath it, one that made my breath catch in my chest. One that reminded me of running and tears and tender words of comfort whispered against my shoulder as I slept. It was a day where my entire world crumbled down around me and the only thing left had been Edward and I, entwined in the rubble.

Edward had written this poem, had found words the words of another to speak through, the morning after Jacob had left me.

Our relationship was darkness and denial.

I sat in the cold room, the flesh of the walls around me, clutching the book and staring down at the beautiful words until I heard the rumbling of a car coming up the driveway.