SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.

Thank you, lovely ladies, BilliCullen and Scooterstale.

To See If I Still Feel

The banging just wouldn't stop, no matter how much I willed it away. It was a non-stop, violent metronome that rattled my skull and made me see colorspots. Even from the relative distance of my bedroom, it sounded like someone was taking the door off of its hinges.

Angrily, now wide-awake, I pounded down the stairs in nothing but a pair of faded pajama pants, not bothering with a shirt or shoes. With but a handful of clipped strides, I crossed the kitchen tile, yelling, "What?" just before wrenching the side door open without looking to see who was there.

"Morning."

Bleary-eyed and squinting into the bright morning sun, I glared at the towering outline I knew far too well. My head was already splintering, worse now that I was upright and moving. My eyes ached, my temples throbbed, and the back of my neck felt as though my spine had been detached. I certainly didn't need anything else to make my morning more miserable. And headache or not, I had no desire whatsoever to see him, to talk, or to do whatever the fuck he had in mind. I could actually feel the sharp, prickling barbs of irritation pulsing with my heart rate, and the hand currently wrapped around the doorknob twitched with the urge to slam the door in his face. Because, of course, my brother would be grinning at eight in the morning.

"What the hell are you doing here, Emmett?" I snapped.

The corner of his mouth twitched as if he'd expected nothing less of me. "Nice, man. Is that your standard greeting? Or is that just for me?"

Fuck you.

As usual, hiding my annoyance was impossible, and one brow cocked automatically in challenge. Biting sarcasm answered, "Pretty standard actually."

Emmett just ignored me, his too-pleasant smile glued firmly in place. Too loudly, he chuckled, "So, are you going to let me in, or what? It's actually hot out here."

Pain lanced behind my eyes at his volume, and for a moment, I simply stood there and roughly massaged my temples, wishing him away. He was pleased with himself, that he'd managed to wake me, apparently unaware that my irritation went beyond having my sleep disturbed. His presence, his entire demeanor – amused dimpled grin included – just pissed me off.

When I saw that my hesitation was only met with seemingly unyielding patience, I pushed my fingers through my tangled mess of hair and huffed, "Goddamnit, it's eight in the morning. It's not hot. Now why the fuck are you here? What do you want? Why aren't you at work? And don't talk so fucking loudly. I have a headache, okay."

At my blunt words, a familiar crease lined his forehead, a tell he didn't know he had but one I'd read since childhood, and his features crumpled. Searching for what I didn't know, narrowed eyes roamed mine, only to briefly shift to my bare torso and then back up again. Something that looked like worry flashed across his face, but was quickly replaced with put-on aggravation, and disdain marred his tone. "I can't just stop by and say hello to my brother?"

Emmett had always been a terrible actor, so it didn't surprise me when the mask of exasperation slipped as quickly as it went up. "That's not why you're here," I accused, knowing my claim was truth. Buried beneath my ire, something rippled in my stomach – guilt, unease, anxiety, perhaps – when I saw him look down at my chest again and frown. I wanted to ask him what the hell he was staring at, but the words caught on my tongue.

Without another word, he muscled through the door, his bulk pushing past me with relative ease. Leaving me there at the entry, standing annoyed and stunned, he called out, waving a hand, "Fine, we're taking the day off because we've got an appointment with the baby doctor later on, but right now, Rose is over at your girlfriend's. She and Bella and that sister of hers are plotting world domination or some shit. Whatever it is women do. They kicked me out, so I'm here."

"Liar," I muttered, leaning against the counter. It took me a moment to register all of his comments, but one phrase in particular hung in the air, twisting my insides in entirely different and not necessarily uncomfortable ways. It seemed to echo off the walls and repeat without my permission. Without thinking, I mumbled an irresolute, "And she's not my damned girlfriend."

Emmett turned, his shoes squeaking on the floor from the morning dew. His dark eyes danced, worry now replaced by amusement. Laughing, he argued, "Yes, she is. Don't even try to say she's anything else. Only a girlfriend could ever have the patience to deal with your shit and you know it. By the way, we've had this conversation before.

"Plus, I like Bella. She's good for you, you know. Since she showed up you've been almost tolerable. I bet you can't wait until Alice leaves."

For some reason, I couldn't find it in me to refute his statements. Bella was good for me – too good. The selfish, too-hopeful part of me wanted her to wear that title – girlfriend – as juvenile as it sounded and as ill-deserving and incapable as I was of having it. I liked how it sounded, how it made her somehow mine. It gave me some claim to her. And part of me wanted movies and flowers and other ridiculous nonsense. I wanted permission to touch her when I wanted, to put my mouth on her, to be as close to her physically as I was emotionally. I wanted to forget the last four years of my life and to just be normal. With her. I wanted to forget both of our pasts and just try to fucking be for once. I couldn't deny that it was more than just a part of me; I wanted that more than anything.

Padding over to the refrigerator, Emmett went on as if he didn't notice my silent contemplation or the quickening of my breathing. "Okay, fine. I'm lying. Maybe I just wanted to see how you were doing and how you were handling not having Bella around as much.

"So shoot me, Eddie. I mean, after that little performance of yours a few weeks ago, I think I have the right to be concerned."

And like that, my veins flooded with ice water, the spell of wishful thoughts broken by the reminder of reality and my failures. My face immediately fell into a sharp grimace, half angry that he'd raised that particular topic and half embarrassed, knowing what he'd likely witnessed during my drunken rage. Lost in everything else over these last weeks, I'd thankfully managed to push that night away, to pretend that it had never happened. Of course, Emmett would remember, just like the rest of the family. Where Bella allowed me to forget, they were always there to remind.

Heat climbed my neck and colored my cheeks, and I fought the urge to leave the room, to run away, wishing that there was some abyss that could swallow me whole. Stiffly, my fists balling around the edge of countertop behind me, I replied, "Right. Let me guess, Mom sent you."

Emmett glanced up from behind the door of the refrigerator, his eyes wide and confused by my response and seemingly oblivious to the reason for my bitterness. "Actually, no. She and Dad asked me to check on you last week when you weren't picking up the phone. I told them both to back off."

What the… my mind stuttered, suddenly off kilter. Unsure if I'd heard him correctly, I asked him to repeat himself.

"I told them to leave you alone." Emmett shrugged his wide shoulders and he casually pulled out two sodas. "Coke?"

I reached up just in time to catch the cold can flying at my face. "And what's different now?" I hedged.

"Where's your aspirin?"

Distracted by his non-answer, I mumbled and pointed to the cabinet beside the refrigerator. "What's different, Em?"

After a quick rummage through my cabinets, Emmett turned to me and shrugged again. His head tilted to the side and his jaw flexed and rolled as if he were deciding on the spot whether or not to answer truthfully. "I got impatient."

"For what?"

He glanced at the floor in a sign of what I could only call nerves. Hesitantly, he walked over and leaned against the counter beside me, mimicking my stilted pose. Gone was the cheer or the aggravation or any other emotion I'd seen. He looked up and met my incredulous stare with one of sadness. "Maybe for an apology and a thank you."

I blanched, uncertain of where he was going. "For?"

The loud crack of aluminum punctuated the silence in the room, followed by a shake of pills inside of plastic. "Fuck, I don't know. Maybe for hauling your passed-out ass up to that hotel room and convincing Mike to keep his prick mouth shut about the whole thing."

His big paw extended, waiting for me to do the same. Confused, I held out my palm and started when two white pills fell in my hand.

"Ed, you gotta learn to help yourself. You don't have to be miserable when there are ways not to be."

"Yeah, I know," I muttered hoarsely, shaking my head as I stared at the pills in my hand, knowing that he wasn't talking about my headache. He might as well have punched me in the gut. I felt like I was falling, like my base had been torn out from beneath me. The embarrassment was excruciating, muffling my voice with its weight, but at the same time, deep down, there was some semblance of something else, a carrot dangling in front me if I would just reach out and try… relief. I swallowed, pushing down a lump of salt and acid, and ducked my head. "Thanks, Em."

~.~.~

Warily, I pushed the door open, wincing at the whining creak of metal against metal. It'd been months – years – since the hinges had seen any form of use, so the old oak moved slowly, brushing across the dusty carpet and revealing a world I'd refused to acknowledge. It was dark now, both outside and inside the room, and all I could make out were the outlines of the windows around closed blinds and black shapes pushed against the walls. But I knew exactly what was there and what I'd see once light was shed.

I'd see pale, feminine pinks. By the antique white dresser, there would be a bulletin board with dozens of pictures and comics and post-its tacked with neon pins. Wrapped around the upper left bed post, I'd see my great grandmother's feather boa. In the corner, there would be a small desk and a worn journal. I'd see her, the evidence that she'd left behind from childhood and what I couldn't bring myself to ever touch.

Her name scrawled in broad painted calligraphy on the wall… A jewelry box littered with girlish pearls and bangles... A smattering of clothes hanging untouched in the closet… A picture of her at eight, flying through the air on an old chain swing… And me standing behind her, pushing her higher still just to hear her laughter….

Before I flicked the switch, I closed my already stinging eyes, fighting the lapping waves of nausea that rocked my weak stomach. When my chest began to burn and stretch, I realized that I'd been holding my breath – in anticipation, perhaps, but more likely in sheer dread of what I knew would come but stupidly hoped would not. Out of air, my lungs angrily stuttered against my brain's will and I inhaled a shaky breath through my nose, as my hands mechanically reached out to grip the doorframe to hold myself up.

It smelled like her.

Gardenias and youth.

After all this time, it still smelled like Maria.

Everything from this afternoon faded, my brother's voice lost as my memory assaulted me with a violence I hadn't experienced in only God knew how long. And I suddenly couldn't fathom what had possessed me to try this. Now. How I could think that anything would be different was beyond me.

The waves of nausea morphed into torrential crashes, shaking my knees with their force. Bile rose up my esophagus and my heart hammered a pained, disjointed rhythm against my ribcage. I didn't smell gardenias anymore; no, my nostrils flooded with gasoline and salt and blood. And I could hear ear-piercing screams over the rushing in my ears. My vision blurred and everything in me constricted and contracted, as if my body were seizing and tearing in two.

I hate you, Edward. I hate you…

My insides rolled and a sob tore through my chest. "I know! God, I fucking know, okay. What do you want me to do?"

Somehow, my hand found the doorknob, yanking it shut as I stumbled backward into the hall. My spine slammed against the far wall, hard enough to shake the hanging frames, and my body crumpled to the floor. My palms pressed against the hollows of my eyes to stem the hurt, to stop the visions that now danced in front of me. But it was too late and I coughed and gagged, choking on the tears I couldn't control.

Minutes turned into what felt like hours as I cried out of guilt, out of the aching that never seemed to stop, and out of frustration that my mind wouldn't allow me to have anything else even when I tried.

~.~.~

At some point, a light tapping, reminiscent of my morning wake-up, pulled me from my misery, wrenching my head up from my knees. Unlike this morning, however, this was no relentless barrage of crashing fists. Instead, it was a tentative, soft knock that paused in hesitation. Anything else I'd have ignored, but that soft tap seemed to resonate, to mimic the ache in my chest.

Too tired and numb to feel anything other than vague curiosity, my feet sluggishly found the floor again, and for the second time today, I found myself descending the stairs in search of sound. Dimly, I recognized that I probably looked like utter shit, that my face was likely still puffy and swollen and that my eyes were no doubt rimmed red, but for some reason, my feet didn't care. I didn't care.

When I opened the door, that all changed and my weary apathy vanished.

In front of me stood the one person I actually would have wanted to see, but when I looked at her, it was as though I were staring at a mirror. Her shoulders were drawn and tight, defensively curved inward, and her arms were crossed over her chest as if she were trying to hold herself together. She seemed so small, so thin and delicate, so breakable, and my whole being woke and flooded with alarm.

Normally vibrant and alive, her eyes were flat and defeated, the hollows stained by mascara. Saying nothing, Bella looked down, behind me, beside me, anywhere but directly at me, reminding me of myself when I was embarrassed by my own weakness. I could see her small frame shaking, fighting to hold in her emotion, but the quiver of her bottom lip told me she was on the brink.

She was in pain. That kind of pain – the kind that ripped and clawed, the kind that had knocked me on my back only an hour ago. It made me want to throw things on her behalf. Anger welled in my chest, not at her but for her. I fucking hated seeing her like this and I wanted to destroy whoever or whatever caused it.

I didn't know what to do, how to help her. I couldn't even handle my own shit, and indecision and insecurity froze me in place. For what felt like an eternity, I just stared, frantically wanting to pull my own hair out, but unable to move, struck dumb and mute.

Alice's voice came to me unbidden.

Bella's not quite as strong as she comes across...

I hope you know that. When he died, it was like she died, too. She almost did…

Bella was in a hospital, you know… I think you can figure out why without me saying it out loud.

Suicide, screamed in my ears, clanging and threatening to pull me under with its drowning weight. It was the first time I'd allowed myself to actually voice the word, internally or aloud, since my conversation with Alice. It sounded so wrong, so wretchedly wrong. It grated and pierced through me, and I nearly gasped from the sensation that the thought of her taking her own life elicited.

Without thinking, suppressing all my own earlier angst and despair, understanding that it was my turn – my turn to be more for her, instead of our usual – I immediately gathered her in my arms. The moment I made contact, she folded into my chest, her whole body erupting in sobs that matched anything I'd experienced on my hallway floor.

"Shh," I soothed, holding her as tightly against me as I could. I cradled the back of her head, gently running my fingers through her hair just as she'd done for me when I was sick, drunk, and sobbing on that bathroom floor at the hotel. Over and over, I repeated the only words that came to mind, too fraught with worry over the fragile woman clinging to me to balk at the irony. "It's okay. It's okay, Bella."

She shook that much harder, and I could feel hot tears wetting my shirt and neck. The bite of her nails barely registered. I was too lost to care about any of that. I felt helpless, powerless to do anything but hold her and hope that I could at least do this right.

When her knees buckled, I carefully lifted her, startled by how light she felt and how her body willingly left the ground to curl up in my arms. Slowly, trying my damnedest not to jostle her, I carried her into the living room, settling down on the couch but not allowing her to leave my lap.

Eventually, the feeling left my legs, but I didn't dare to pull away. Instead, I shifted and lay back length-wise on the sofa, pulling her on top of me. Bella sighed and huddled against me, tightening her arms around my waist, and gradually, her shudders slowed until finally they were no more. Closing my eyes, I could feel her ribcage and chest rhythmically rising and falling against mine as she drifted to sleep.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice garbled and hoarse.

"It's okay," I answered quietly, relieved and grateful that whatever demon of hers had gripped her was spent.

"Alice and I…"

"Shh, Bella. Go to sleep. You can tell me tomorrow." I gently traced the tips of my fingers up and down her back, rubbing in small, calming circles.

"I'm sorry," she murmured again.

"Nonsense," I breathed, peppering slow, closed-mouth kisses along her temple and cheek. So softly I knew that she couldn't hear, I mouthed, "I can be there for you, too. I can try, at least."

.

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Chapter title: Lyrics from Hurt, by Johnny Cash [As much as I love the NiN version, Cash's version hits exactly the mood/tone I wanted]