Part Summary: The ring is off her hand and Edward must face things he's been avoiding. There is an opossum involved. Yes, really.
"You and your ladyfriend break up?"
Annoyed and surprised both, Edward looks up into the light blue eyes of Chip Clayton. "What?"
"Your cell isn't glued to your ear lately, nor are you texting all through your break."
Glaring, Edward says, "I do not text all through my breaks."
"I call bull!" Braxton sits down at the cafeteria table with them. Both the other residents have lunch trays but Edward nurses coffee for show. "Speedy Thumbs is you."
"Fuck off," Edward says almost cheerfully. If he avoids profanity much of the time, he knows his fellows find it odd so he tries to update his speech patterns now and then. Braxton laughs, mostly a good natured sort, but Clayton's smile is a little too bright. He might pretend to tease but he'd like it if Edward has suffered a setback in his private life. He's petty that way. "Her former mother-in-law is in town and they're visiting," Edward explains. He could have just said she had company and let it go, but he has a point to make.
"Former mother-in-law?" Clayton leaps on that as Edward had known he would.
"She's a widow, asshat; her husband died last year. And we're just friends. I've told you that."
Braxton snorts around a bite of pasta salad but doesn't otherwise comment, veering off instead on a different topic to which Edward only half listens, his mind wandering. It's finally Friday and he'll see Bella tonight. After a minute, he realizes he's jiggling his leg, just like a human.
On the way back to the neurology floor, Clayton manages to catch up to him. "So how long has it been?" he asks. "Since her husband died?"
"I told you a year. A year last Wednesday."
"Ah, so the anniversary is over and the mourning dress is off. You can make your move, buddy." Edward glares but Clayton doesn't back down. His eyes are shrewd. They take the stairwell because Clayton likes to cast himself as health-conscious. "She is pretty," he says, voice thoughtful. He'd seen her when she and Alice had come the day Edward had lost his first patient. "Although I'm not sure I'd be into a para. Sort of like nailing a dead fish."
No doubt the other man had counted on public space to protect him, but he forgot they're in the semi-privacy of a stairwell and Edward has him slammed into the concrete-block wall, white handrail digging into his back, before he quite realizes what happened. Edward's face is in his and Clayton appears -- finally -- to get it . . . that Edward is not just his intellectual rival, but a predator. His whole body has begun to tremble and sweat breaks out on his forehead and upper lip. Edward grips him lightly, careful not to bruise. Intimidation is enough. "If you ever say anything like that again, I will break your neck, you cretin." Edward shoves him once more so that he loses his balance and must grab onto the rail to avoid falling as Edward pushes past, up the last flight and through the heavy fire door.
He ignores Clayton for the rest of the day, although he can hear the other resident's angry, fearful thoughts. Right now, Clayton can't decide which he feels more -- humiliated rage or nameless dread whenever Edward gets near. In retrospect, Edward is a little shamed. He shouldn't have lost his temper like that -- but nobody is allowed to insult Bella so within his hearing. Done with his shift at three, he flees the hospital, an entirely free weekend spread out before him. He's already out of the city headed north before the Friday afternoon rush hour hits its peak. Back on standard time, the sun is down before he reaches Helen. He goes by the shelter first because Esme called to ask for him. She wants him to check on Hannah's stitches and arm.
The shelter van is still parked out front when he pulls up so Bella must be around. It makes his stomach turn over, which is patently ridiculous for a vampire, but he still suffers anxiety and can catch Bella's unique scent as soon as Madison lets him in. He blocks the girl's usual mental stammering around him and heads for Bella's office. Madison isn't evil, just . . . tedious. He hates listening to her thoughts.
Bella's door is open and he can smell the lingering bite of Moroccan mint tea in the air as he slips inside. As always in her presence, there is the ease of mental quiet. Hearing his step, she looks up. The lamp on her desk catches in her brown hair and glitters in her eyes, and when she smiles, his unbeating heart lifts. "Esme said you'd drop by before going home."
"She wants me to look at Hannah."
Bella backs away from her desk, coming around the edge to roll out into the hallway. At the main stairwell, she shouts up. "Esme! Hannah! Dr. Masen is here!" There is an elevator that Esme installed, but most residents use the stairs. "How was your day?" Bella asks as they wait.
"Long," he admits, although it hadn't been any longer than usual. But even vampires can suffer from a redshift perspective when minutes stretch out like the expanding universe. He can hear feet on the stairs and the voice of Esme somewhere above, her words clear to his ears as she encourages Hannah. The girl is reluctant to see him, apparently.
Edward spends the next ten minutes checking the young woman in the shelter's small medical exam room. She's in good shape, considering, but a softness to her skin and hair and the surface thoughts he picks out of her head tell him why she might have been reluctant for shelter medical staff to examine her. Turning, he asks Esme and Bella to leave for a moment. They exchange glances with each other, then with Hannah. It's not that they don't trust him, but they're worried whether it will make Hannah nervous to be left alone with a male. Hannah, however, just drops her eyes and nods. She knows he's figured it out. When Esme and Bella are gone, he doesn't waste words. "How far along are you?"
"Not quite three months." She glances up, her face stiff with anticipation of a scolding at the foolishness of getting pregnant again when she and her husband can't afford the first three and are having marital problems. He wonders if she thought being pregnant would protect her from him? "The doctor in the ER said the fall didn't hurt him," she adds, hand ghosting over her abdomen in that protective gesture universal to all pregnant women.
"Babies are better insulated by the womb than common wisdom paints. Do you already have a obstetrician?"
"I guess the same one who delivered the first three, but right now, we got no insurance since Brady's got no job."
He eyes her. "Does your husband know?"
"No."
"Do you want him to?"
She doesn't answer immediately and he can sense the wash of indecision in her mind. Finally, she says only, "He'd insist I come back."
"Domestic battery is a felony criminal offense. There are hospital records of your injuries and your daughter witnessed him hitting you repeatedly. The law will be on your side." Yet Edward knows too many of these cases aren't that cut-and-dried, even if one would think they should be. The victim is blamed for her own victimization, and if Edward has seen inside too many minds to ever believe relationships such as Hannah and Brady's are black and white, there's still no excuse for someone stronger to hit someone weaker for anything less than self-defense. He would like to blame domestic violence on this mannerless society in which he is currently trapped, but knows better every time he looks at Esme. Nonetheless, he will not accept a loss of control as an excuse for violence against a woman. Control is Edward's god.
Hannah says nothing, but he can read her reluctance to press any charges she doesn't have to. She pities her husband, but also fears him, at least when he's been drinking. The same mental doubts roll off her now as had rolled off Chip Clayton earlier when he'd been within three feet of Edward after the incident in the stairwell. If Hannah isn't as emotionally fragile as some of the other women living here, she's learned terror of Brady. Her mind still replays the moment he half-shoved, half-tossed their daughter into a wall. That will haunt her a long time. Edward hopes it's long enough. "I'll see to a prescription for prenatal vitamins," he says after a span of silence, "and will contact your old obstetrician if you'll give me the name. Also, I'm going to start you on a program to help you quit smoking."
She is sullen. "I smoked with the other three, and my mama smoked with us. We're all just fine."
"You were not my patient for the first three," he says sharply to cut her off. He's writing scripts. "You will quit smoking. It's unhealthy." He bites his tongue before he can add, ". . . and unladylike."
She is still glaring, but doesn't contradict him. He thinks that if she can just be convinced not to go back to her husband again, she'll be all right. There is a fire in her, a strength that reminds him of Esme even while in personality she isn't much like Esme at all.
They talk a little more, and he convinces her to tell Esme the whole truth about her condition -- and Bella too -- then goes out into the foyer to wait. Squinting up at the iron-banded glass lamp overhead, he struggles to block out the musings of the shelter residents around him. They simmer with doubt, anxiety, fear . . . so many are so lost. It depresses him. Finally, Bella emerges. "Esme's going to stay with Hannah for a while," she says. She looks tired. It's now almost seven in the evening.
"Have you eaten?"
"Lunch."
"Let's go and get some dinner." Here at the shelter, he doesn't add 'for you.' Stepping forward, he opens the door for her. "Chinese take-out?"
She laughs at him. "Something with vegetables, Dr. Masen? Martha actually left a ton of left-overs at the house. She doesn't approve of my frozen-food diet either."
He follows her van back to Rose and Emmett's, then fetches food for her from the fridge, warming it while she settles in at the table. He pours her a glass of wine although she didn't ask for it, bringing it to her, then sits down to watch her eat when her dinner is ready. After a few bites, she stops to glare. "What?" he asks.
"You make me nervous, watching like that. Please don't tell me you still find watching me eat interesting."
"I do."
"Even though -- by your own admission -- the smell and taste of human food is like 'eating dirt'?"
"Watching isn't eating." He doesn't tell her that he finds her eating to be very sensual as her lips wrap around her fork or her tongue licks her lips or her throat swallows. It makes him hungry for things that have nothing to do with food . . .
And that brings him up short, recalling Clayton's earlier comment. Immediately, he wipes it from his mind, but asks himself if he does so because it's insulting, or because he doesn't want to think about what Bella can and can't do now, sexually? It's a topic he's both investigated and avoided, keeping it firmly at an intellectual level. He could have pulled the answer he most wants to know directly out of Mark's head on more than one occasion, but steadfastly refused to go there. When he fantasizes about having sex with her (and he does), it's young Bella in his arms. But when he thinks about kissing her, it's his Bella now. He tries to tell himself he fantasizes about young Bella because she's the one with whom he engaged in heated make-out sessions and for whom he has ready fantasy material -- except that doesn't explain why he imagines kissing older Bella.
She's still watching him watch her. "You know," she says after a moment, "if you're going to watch me eat, you should let me watch you eat."
He sits up abruptly and shakes his head. "You don't want to see that."
"How do you know?"
"Bella, it's . . . just no. It's dangerous for me to turn on the predator part of me in your presence."
Her eyebrow arches. "It's hard to have a friendship with somebody who insists on concealing parts of himself."
"I'm not concealing anything. I'll tell you anything you want to know, but that's not something you want to see. It's not safe."
"Edward, Emmett is more honest with me about vampire eating habits than you are." She puts down her fork and folds her hands in front of her, leaning into the table. "You still treat me like you think I can't handle it, or don't get it. I can, and I do."
He stares at her, suddenly unable to speak. But it's not her admonition that's stolen his voice.
Her left arm is folded over her right, her left hand curled around her right elbow. There is no gold band on her left finger.
All his focus has narrowed to that ringless digit and he knows she must surely realize what he's staring at, but he can't tear his eyes away. How long has she not been wearing her wedding ring? He's been with her for a couple of hours now but just noticed? Yet he's been so used to seeing it, he's stopped noticing it -- partly on purpose. His eyes slide away, focusing deliberately elsewhere.
But she's not wearing it today, and somewhere inside him, a wall crumbles into dust.
He's suddenly terrified. And confused because he's terrified. And irritated at himself because he's confused. All these conflicting feelings swirl together in his chest like sloppy tie-dye.
She's not wearing her ring. Now what's he supposed to do? He opens his mouth, shuts it, opens his mouth, shuts it. He knows he looks like a beached fish. She cocks her head. "Yes?" He doesn't answer.
The wall inside that crumbled wasn't protecting her from him. It was protecting him from her. He suddenly understands that. Love is scary. It's easier engaged in at a distance -- all the more so after being alone for more than a century. He tried once before, but ran when it got hard. He retired from the battlefield and watched her for a decade without her being aware of it, just as he'd once watched her sleep. And however much he told himself he was eating his heart out over her, he knows that he wanted it that way.
It was safer -- and not for her.
He let Mark have her not because he feared it would be racist to fight for her, or because Mark was better for her with his human love and mortal life. Oh, Edward was -- and still is -- racist; he works on it (and knowing Mark helped a lot), but his biases persist. Even so, his racism isn't the real reason he let Mark have her. Here, now -- with the ring off and the barrier gone -- he can no longer pretend to himself. Nor did he leave her ten years ago for her own good, whatever he told his family and even himself.
He left her because he was scared. Love is risk, and risk is hard. Love means cutting himself open from throat to groin to let her see inside him, figuratively speaking anyway. He can tell himself he's a noble man, a gentleman, but he's a coward is what he is. Bella is right -- he's concealing. He always has been. He just found excuses to rationalize away his own cowardice.
Abruptly, his eyes snap back up to hers. She seems torn between annoyance and amusement and perhaps a bit of worry herself. "Do you really want to see me eat?" he blurts out.
Her other eyebrow joins the first. "I said I did."
He stands. It's jerky, not graceful. "Come outside then."
He walks to the front door and hears her moving behind him. He holds the door for her and they exit onto the porch. Emmett and Rose's house is set apart on a private drive, and if not on the Chattahoochee like the cabin, there are wooded areas all around. He's still not sure about this, but knows it's something he must do. He can't be real for her -- his whole self -- until he shows her this part of him. He's shown her other things, to be sure, but they're aspects of being a vampire that could be considered desirable -- his strength, his speed, his indestructibility. But to drink blood . . . that is the quintessential essence of vampirism -- the ugly part -- and he's concealed it. Even more, eating is a communal act for humans, and for vampires too. To refuse to eat with another is a refusal of community. A refusal of hospitality. A refusal of openness.
"Wait here," he says, and dashes away at vampire speed into the woods. At night in the dark, creatures that hide by day have come out. His prey needn't be big -- not a real meal. He and Emmett will hunt later. He is aware of the scent and sound of small, warm forest creatures. He won't choose one that's "cute and cuddly"; that might be pushing it. He settles on an opossum instead. Most humans don't find them appealing. Normally such a small animal wouldn't be worth his time, but now, he's up the tree in a moment to grab it by its naked tail. It hisses and thrashes and fights to free itself from his grip. Almost, he pities it, but the predator in him is alive now and it wants to feed.
He returns to Bella in seconds, still holding the opossum. Her eyes dart to it and her face is sad, but then she wipes away her sorrow and just nods. "I wasn't kidding about the 'safe' part of this," he tells her, then calls, "Emmett?" His voice isn't raised but he knows Emmett will hear. The hissing opossum is louder. Emmett comes to the front door, opening it. Golden light from inside halos him. "Bella wants -- needs -- to see." He holds up the opossum. "But, ah -- in case?"
Understanding, Emmett just nods and comes down the steps to stand beside Edward, not in Bella's line of sight but where he can grab Edward if need be. Through all of this, Edward's eyes haven't left Bella's. She waits calmly. "Go ahead," she says now. Her lips curl. "I'm not sure that will fill you up, though."
"It's a before-dinner snack," Emmett says, half laughing.
"Not sure I'd equate opossum to crackers and cheese," Bella replies.
And suddenly, Edward is laughing. The tension is broken, but pity for the frightened opossum takes over and he ends its misery quickly, snapping the neck and pulling it up to his mouth, teeth sinking in.
It taste bad. It tastes really bad. And if the animal has much more than a pint or two of blood, he'd be very surprised, but he's hungry and drains it quickly to minimize the taste -- like he'd used to swallow his mother's brussels sprouts almost without chewing. Bella watches without flinching, her eyes soft and grateful. She understands what she's being given. When he finishes, he almost spits in disgust, and is glad they're outside. Bella smells a hundred times sweeter than opossum and it's fortunate that the night breeze blows her scent away. His predator nature isn't entirely engaged -- he normally eats within moments of bringing down his prey and there's more of a chase to fire his instincts -- but her blood sings to him and for a moment, he wants. His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare. Emmett grips his upper arm; it's subtle but Edward nods in thanks. The touch grounded him and his control is back. Reaching down, Emmett snares the opossum's body out of Edward's grip, saying, "I'll get rid of this."
"Thanks."
Emmett is gone in a burst of speed. Hands in pockets, Edward approaches Bella. She smiles up at him. "Thank you." She holds up her hand, the ringless left. He catches it in his right and squeezes gently. He is still scared by the future, but his heart feels strangely full. They go back inside and talk late into the night until Bella is yawning. He bids her goodnight and meets Emmett out front for the real hunting. They race back towards the cabin where he changes clothes, then they prowl for deer. Emmett isn't hungry but Edward finds a fat doe, sweet from rich summer feeding.
Edward goes home after that and tries to read. It does him no good. He tries to play piano, but actually misses notes. He never misses notes. He feels anxious, keyed up. If he were human, he'd call it an adrenaline high. Going outside, he runs. And runs. Unfortunately, he can't get tired so he quits.
He's reached Emmett and Rose's house anyway. It is very early morning, the sky just beginning to shade lighter in the east with a hint of a hint of dawn. This is the hour when everything sleeps except vampires. He slinks toward the house rear where Bella's room is located. The blinds are drawn over her sliding glass door but the window that faces the back lawn still has the curtains raised. He peers in, his vision just making out her form under the blankets. She lies on her back, one hand thrown above her head, the other limp at her side. It's the left hand, the one with no band holding her away from him. He watches, wondering if she's dreaming, but can't see if her eyes are moving beneath the lids and considers unlatching the doors to sneak in.
He refrains. He shouldn't be here at all. This is what he did before, watching her without her knowledge. It's creepy. He knows it's creepy. But it's safe. He can watch without revealing himself. She is beautiful, cheeks flushed from the warmth of her blankets. Despite being on her back, she doesn't snore. Leaning his head against the window frame, he lets his mind drift. He tries to imagine how life will be without the ring. Without barriers.
The window in the room just above is shoved abruptly opened and he jumps, starts to dart away but hears a hissed warning, "Don't you dare sneak off, Edward Anthony Masen!" Stopping, he looks up. Rose is glaring down. She doesn't speak aloud further, but he can hear her thoughts very clearly: Go home or come inside. I thought you'd outgrown the Peeping Tom stage? The window is pulled down. It's not quite a slam.
He returns to the house and looks back through Bella's window, afraid the noise woke her, but she hasn't even moved. She must be inured to Emmett and Rose by now.
Go home or come inside. Go home or come inside.
A life without walls between them. Or windows. To watch and BE watched in turn. To be open. Can he do that after a hundred years? Carlisle did. Jasper did.
But they are better men than he. Turning, he flees back into the forest, pushing himself to his utmost limits. He feels something inside tearing and there is pain. But it's not physical.
He doesn't get even halfway back to the cabin before he stops dead, hands braced on his knees as he just breathes, staring down at forest loam. He feels tired in ways that have nothing to do with his exertion. What is he running from? He screws up his face and would weep if he could. The tearing inside is leaving a gaping hole.
Turning yet again, he races back. This time, he stops on the house's front porch, his hand on the door knob. He turns it.
The door is open.
Notes: So -- three parts in one week. Do you love me yet, ladies? Don't expect this next week! I'll be spending my spring break GRADING. But I have at least begun the next chapter (which is more Bella), and we'll get a little Alice soon.
*cough* Yes, Edward sometimes misses parallels between his own behavior and that of others even when you'd think it would be staring him in the face. He's not the most self-aware person, whatever he believes. But he does have a bit of a breakthrough here at the end.
Thank you for all the lovely comments, which I always answer, although I don't always answer replying PMs unless there's a specific question, as I was working on getting these 3 parts ready. Also feel free to drop by this story's thread in the Fanfic AU topic at Twilighted-net's forums if you have questions or want to see what other readers have said.