I'm back with another tidbit written for The Fic Lab group on Facebook! If you haven't yet, you should join us over there!

This week's prompt was "What do we do now?" In the group, to see all the pieces written for this prompt, click on #now in the topics section of the page.

TRIGGER WARNING: Sensitive subject. PM me if you have concerns.

I'll warn you, this one is … depressing. I had emergency surgery just over a week ago, so maybe my head just went straight for the morose with this prompt. All I know is you should read at your own risk!

Unbeta'd as usual with these prompts.

What Do We Do Now?

#now

The front door closed with a muted click. There was no one there to greet them, no calls of, "Honey, I'm home." No, that muted click echoed in the tomb-like halls, reminding them both of the emptiness they were returning to.

It was an unwelcome silence as they walked into the house they'd called home, one they hadn't spent more than a few hours at a time in over the past few weeks. There was no hum of music coming from upstairs, no laughter floating through the halls. It was so quiet Bella could hear the clank of Edward's keys as he laid them on the kitchen table.

"You're staying?"

Ignoring her question, Edward loosened his tie and went to the fridge. He had to dig past foil pans and ugly casserole dishes to find what he was looking for. He couldn't imagine how many more they could squeeze into the fridge, but he remembered his mother mentioning bringing the rest of the food tomorrow.

"It'll be one less thing to worry about," she'd said.

As if eating was a priority.

Finding the lone bottle of beer in the back, he twisted off the top and tilted it back. It wasn't nearly strong enough, but it was better than nothing. He wasn't quite ready to deal with what tomorrow would bring.

"Edward, I asked if you were staying," Bella repeated.

He sat in one of the kitchen chairs, the one that used to be his, and stared at the brown glass bottle in his hand. "Where else did he have to go?" he thought to himself. The last place he wanted to be was at his parents' house, where he knew he'd be hit with a million questions, questions he didn't have answers to, questions he didn't want to face.

But instead of giving Bella a snarky reply, he merely nodded. "Yeah. If you don't mind."

"Of course, I don't mind," she said as she slid into the chair across from him.

That unwelcome silence returned, only interrupted by the ticking of the kitchen clock. Tick tick tick … the seconds passed, and as Bella and Edward sat across from each other, their minds began to drift to memories of the past year.

It was only last summer when Edward had moved out, tired of their constant fighting, of Bella's mistrust of him. Accusations were made, some were denied, some were ignored, but in the end, they'd decided a break would be best. It took them three months to have their first meeting with an attorney.

And then Ren collapsed in her fifth period gym class.

A maelstrom of tests were ran, a team of doctors were suddenly on what Seattle Children's Hospital called her "squad," but in the end, the diagnosis was irrefutable.

Leukemia.

At their daughter's pleading, Edward and Bella put aside their personal feelings and he moved back home. After all, they could manage to be civil for the months it would take for Ren to go through treatment and start to feel better.

But she didn't start to feel better. Remission remained elusive.

They hung onto the statistics as long as they could, but in the end, Ren wasn't one of the lucky ninety-eight percent.

Tears filled Bella's eyes as she remembered her beautiful daughter's last wish. For a girl of only seventeen, Ren was an old soul. She'd known her parents had put aside their differences for her sake, but she also knew they still loved each other … almost as much as they'd loved her.

"Love Daddy," she'd whispered to her mother. "He loves you so much, and you're going to need each other when I'm gone."

As Ren's whispered words—words she'd struggled to get out—echoed in Bella's head, the tears that had welled in her eyes finally spilled over.

She looked up at Edward, the man who had just that morning stood at her side as their daughter was laid to rest and held her in his arms as she cried. "What do we do now? Where do we go from here?"

Edward put the empty bottle down and reached across the table, taking her hands in his. "I don't know," he rasped, his own emotions threatening to steal his voice, "but whatever it is, wherever it is, I don't want to do it alone."