Posted 2021-05-20; Beta'd by Eeyorefan12

Edward rubbed his forehead between his thumb and his first two fingers. His mother always told him he'd be prematurely wrinkled if he kept worrying his skin the way he did. The movement universally signaled his frustration or self-soothing, usually one or the other. Sometimes, like today, it was both. When he began drumming the fingers of his other hand on the table, he knew he needed a break. And yet, his "supervisory" duties and unfulfilled tasks prevented any chance of reprieve.

Bella was mumbling and pacing by the newly covered windows, a heavy textbook in her hand. Still studying. Every once in a while, Edward watched her raise her pencil-clenching hand up to her head and riffle it through her hair, leaving it slightly mussed. She didn't seem to notice and her focus remained unbroken.

She was determined. He supposed that Harvard students would have to be.

Watching her study made him smile in rueful remembrance, recalling his misspent year at community college. School was not for him, at least not then. He'd been only too happy to enlist when—nope, back to work, he told himself. Some histories were best not dwelled upon.

Edward's purloined shipment from the other night had been safely delivered, but the buyer hadn't paid the remainder of what was owed. That left his family's organization short on their expected cash flow. The substantial profit margin on the legally dubious end of things shored up their work on their more important but far less profitable endeavors. At the moment, they had an urgent request on the table for Cholera vaccine from one of their Haitian contacts, but the significant funds needed to get the shipment into the right hands simply weren't available. The cost of bribes had grown exponentially following January's devastating earthquake.

Edward pressed his fingers even deeper into his forehead as if he could dig out the solution to the difficulties this buyer was creating. He tapped out ideas into his notes file, rearranging options and trying to find a way through the accounting shortfalls and tangled relationships. Damn Aro Morandi and his sleazy business partners. Partnering with the Morandi organization had been a risk his father believed was worth taking, but so far it had created as many hardships as it had benefits.

Bella kept mumbling. The low hum of her words wasn't entertaining now; it was decidedly aggravating.

He took a deep breath and continued working. She had exams to study for and by the look of the texts she was wrangling with, they would be difficult ones. He didn't envy her the chemical equations he'd heard her muttering through. In fact, it was one area of her study to which he could relate. While he'd trained as an EMT, his medical knowledge had fallen short of what he'd needed when his father had offered him a role in the organization. Carlisle had provided him with a veritable crash course in disease processes and chemical compounds, augmented with hands-on work in their lab. Now, watching Bella, Edward remembered how he'd welcomed those grueling hours of study and practice, grateful for meaningful activity that could displace his haunting memories.

Bella continued to pace, her pencil now tapping out a rhythm on the book. Her muttering ran in time to its beat. When she tripped, she tried to catch herself and the book but landed on her ass instead.

Her "Crap!" and his "Fuck!" were simultaneous.

"Watch where you're going," he snapped, getting up from his chair to pull her to her feet.

"I wouldn't have to if I was at home."

Edward shot her a glare but he knew there wasn't much fire to it. She was right.

Again, their words were synchronized. "Sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" Edward asked, returning to his seat.

Bella waved her hand at his laptop. "You're having trouble with your work. I can't imagine having to babysit me is helping you deal with it."

What was she playing at here? "It's hardly your fault."

"You can say that again." She picked up her book. "Still, if helping you gets me home faster, that's a powerful incentive. Consider this me offering my help."

Edward laughed at the insincere suggestion. "Somehow, I think your being involved in my job duties might be counterproductive for you. The less you know—"

"I know," she said, frowning. She stopped pacing, standing in place, lifting one leg and bending it at the knee. He watched her repeat the movement with her other leg while she mouthed words. It reminded him of a flamingo. Sort of. A really nice-looking, leggy—

He shook his head to clear it.

"Why are you doing that?" he asked finally.

"Doing what?"

"Fidgeting." He waved at her bird-like pose.

"I'm activating different parts of my brain with motion as I study."

He didn't bother to hide his dubious expression. "Uh-huh."

"When people move, it helps them process and retain information. You said it bothers you when you can't run, right?"

That is definitely part of my problem. His gaze traveled longingly towards the windows. He hadn't been outside in days. Taking that quick swim and knocking out a hundred pushups in the room weren't cutting it. No wonder he wasn't thinking straight. He rubbed his face with his hands, finally pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Okay," she said, snapping her book shut.

"What?" he asked. She looked agitated.

"You're all stressed out and I can't study."

He raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure you can compartmentalize enough to ignore me." It irked him that she was bothered by his frustration. He didn't like that it was so obvious. It certainly wasn't his usual M.O.

"Yeah, you might be all over the compartmentalization, but I'm not, psychology major aside. Talk to me about something for a bit."

God, she was bossy. Like . . . Alice. Was she really suggesting they have a casual conversation?

"What's your favorite TV show?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I don't really watch TV."

"Me either." She sighed. "Movies? Let me guess: you like war movies."

He shook his head. Not unless you count the ones that play in my head some nights.

She screwed up her face and lifted an eyebrow like the next question would be just as unlikely to garner an answer. "Favorite book?"

He rolled his eyes and laughed. "Thanks for the high opinion."

"Do you read?"

He glanced toward his computer screen.

"I mean, clearly you can read. What do you like to read?"

"I mostly read for work."

"Help me out here." She was growing impatient.

"The Outsiders," he mumbled, saying the first thing that popped into his head.

She blinked at him. "Like . . . the book kids read in middle school?"

Fuck. He shouldn't have said anything. Now her suspicions about his literary ignorance were confirmed. It especially bothered him that he cared what she thought of his literary—or non-literary preferences. He pretended to look at the framed print on the wall behind her.

"I liked that book, too."

When he glanced at her, her face had softened. She stood on both feet, one arm holding the other, looking a little chagrined. Was she worried that she had offended him?

"What did you like about it?" she asked.

His initial concern melted away. "I didn't like it as a kid, but . . ." He couldn't tell her anything specific about his history. "Later on in life, I had a far greater appreciation for what it takes to be . . . redeemed."

"I can appreciate that," she said quietly.

A silent pause hung between them, and for Edward's part, it was full of memories of things that had nothing to do with novels or their themes.

"Well, that was about as distracting as a funeral."

Edward smirked. Pretty much.

"So, what does your brand of mob do?"

He stared at her, wondering if he'd heard her correctly. "You—?"

"Lie to me if you want. Sorry, I just—I need to talk about something."

He continued to stare. Talking just for the sake of it? Not really his thing.

"I mean, talk in metaphors or whatever." Then she frowned. "Comparisons, you know—"

"I know what a metaphor is," he said flatly. Jesus. He shook his head. As he thought about how ridiculous her proposition was, he also realized that it would be quite simple—and helpful, even—to speak in metaphors that would lead her to entirely the wrong conclusions. "Just what kind of comparison do you propose I use?"

"Vegetables. You're the small potatoes," she said and grinned. "That's me being ironic, by the way."

"Don't worry, I know what that means too," he said, giving her a half-hearted eye roll. This could work. "Fine. I'm the small potatoes." He paused, considering how to expand the metaphor.

"I honestly thought you'd be the big potato, given the size of this place, but—"

Edward narrowed his eyes. She was blabbering, and it wasn't helping.

"Okay, I'll shut up."

Edward thought for a moment. "All potatoes have their territory, I suppose. Their own fields. We're an unusual type in rather unusual territory."

"Okay," Bella said.

"But we want access to other fields, and while the big potatoes—"

Bella giggled. "Sorry," she said. "But the potato talk is helping with the compartmentalization." She put air quotes around the last word.

Edward chuckled and it felt good to do so. He had to admit that Bella's playful side was a nice change from her usual distant politeness. He continued. "The big potatoes have been somewhat accommodating, and working with them has expanded our network of fields, but one of their cousins—let's call them the yam family—has engaged in business with us, but not paid up. We can let the big potatoes know, but that jeopardizes the contract with the yam family, which we want. But we can't afford to let the payment go, because it will mean cutting back our farming opportunities elsewhere, upon which many other . . . vegetables are relying."

Bella sighed, her expression contemplative. "No favorable members of the big potato family that you could discreetly approach?"

Edward shook his head. "Not yet, no. They're a pretty tight group."

Bella's lips twitched. "So tight they're got eyes on each other?"

Edward groaned and laughed. "God, that's terrible."

"Or you could make mashed potatoes," she offered, her smile abruptly faltering. "I mean, not like—I meant—"

"I get it, Bella. It's okay." He didn't have to think too hard to know where her mind had gone.

He watched her nod and swallow, turning away. "We're both really stressed, Edward." Her quiet voice held no trace of its recent levity.

"Yes." He nodded, wishing she would crack another joke or even smile again.

Instead, she returned to her book, and after a moment he returned to his computer. Edward was surprised to realize their conversation had briefly eased the tension in the room.

- 0 -

After nearly five days together, they hadn't exactly gotten used to each other, but Edward had made note of Bella's patterns. He didn't like that she went to bed so much earlier than was his habit, often when he was feeling most alert and ready to work, but out of deference to her needs he settled into the couch when she went to bed. He'd shared enough sleeping places with enough people to know how miserable it was to have one's rest disrupted. He'd also intentionally disrupted enough peoples' sleep to know how it pulled them apart . . .

Not going there tonight.

So he lay on the couch, staring at the dark ceiling, trying to unravel his problems and find solutions where none seemed findable.

"Broccoli," Bella mumbled from the bed.

Edward grinned. He'd let himself hope she'd talk again tonight. She hadn't until the night before, and boy had that been entertaining. Now there was something about a fish and how she needed to fly over the wine glasses.

"On the tree," Bella added.

Maybe she was processing their metaphor-laden conversation from earlier. He found himself vainly hoping for solutions revealed in her somnolence.

"God, I'm fucked if I'm hoping for that," he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands.

Bella kept talking, but it wasn't the same happy and amusing gibberish. Her words were growing more distressed.

"There has to be a tree," she said. "A tree!" And then she gasped, her body jerking in the bed.

Definitely awake, he thought, turning his head and trying to make out her form among the dull shadows on the other side of the room.

He heard her take rapid, deep breaths like she was choking. Then she burst into tears, the sound of her sobs immediately muffled as if she was trying to stifle them in the bedclothes.

"Bella?" he whispered.

Her distress continued.

He threw off his blanket and padded towards the bed. "Bad dream?"

She shook her head, wiping at her eyes. He watched her try and fail to bring her breathing under control. "I can't—I can't—I need to get outside." She flapped her hands at her sides.

The part of him trained to be coldly calculating assessed what was happening. She was likely feeling claustrophobic. He'd seen it before with prisoners. It would pass, but she'd be a mess for a while if she had to ride it out. He could sedate her. That would deal with the immediate symptoms, but it too could have aftereffects, especially since they hadn't looked too deeply at her medical history. Or, he could just take her outside.

It was nighttime. He could blindfold her and take her into the woods. She wouldn't see anything even if he did take off the blindfold, but she could run. There was an easy fix to that, though.

He went back to his briefcase, unlocking it and bringing out the handcuffs and a blindfold. "Okay," he said softly. "But I'll need to blindfold you, and you'll need to be cuffed to me."

"O-kay," she hiccoughed.

She dressed quickly, not even bothering to move into the bathroom for privacy. Her hands shook so much that he momentarily wondered if he'd have to assist her. Clearly her desperation was real. Watching Bella swiping away tears, Edward texted the men on patrol to alert them he'd be walking the grounds. By the time they were in the elevator, he felt even more ill-at-ease with this decision. Was this a ploy? She was smart—it still could be.

Or it could be that she just needed to be outside after almost a week of being entirely indoors. His own skin was practically itching with anticipation.

He made his decision at the exit door, quickly cuffing her left wrist to his. This left his right hand free to guide her from behind, as he would be the eyes for both of them. Their walk took some time as he guided her down the stairs and over the gravel path to the mulched walkways that trailed off into the woods.

They didn't go far, but they went far enough into the beginning of the forest to hide the building. She wouldn't see anything identifiable from here.

Very gently, he lifted the blindfold. After a moment's hesitation, he removed the cuffs as well, keeping one hand on her upper arm.

Bella sobbed out a breath and then closed her eyes, opening them again and tilting her head back. The sky was clear, and her breath made a misty cloud. The moon had already disappeared over the horizon, but there was enough of its light to see the outlines of trees by.

"Do you mind?" she asked, pointing to the ones a few feet away.

"No," Edward said. It did feel good to be out here.

They walked towards the stand of timber. Edward had a grip on her arm the entire time but he let her lead the way. Bella laid her hand against the bark of first one tree and then another, leaning in and sniffing them.

When she performed the action a third time, Edward was mystified. "Why are you doing that?"

"I'm trying to find a pine."

"Okay." Edward remained bewildered.

"They smell like home." Her voice broke over the last word.

They kept moving from tree to tree until finally, Bella found what she was looking for. She leaned her forehead against the trunk, inhaling deeply, hand splayed out over the bark. She stayed there for some time while Edward waited behind her, keenly aware of her bodily warmth so close to his. She seemed so peaceful, breathing in the pine scent, that some of the feeling seemed to leach into him, too. With some surprise, he realized that he had released her arm, resting his hand on her lower back instead.

"Thank you," Bella said finally. "I'm ready to go back."

He nodded, not wanting to sully her sense of peace with the sound of his voice. He hated having to put the blindfold back on her, and he chose to leave the handcuff off, discomfited by his own brutality as he led her back to the prison in which he'd caged her.

DISCLAIMER: S. Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement intended.