Disclaimer: I'm not Stephenie Meyer...Twilight, etc, belong to her. And I don't wanna get sued! The poetry is Victor Hugo's, called "As I have set my lip"

A/N: This chapter gets fluffier than Marshmallow Peeps that have been stuck in the microwave for a few minutes. And if you don't know how fluffy that looks, you should definitely go do it. Otherwise, you're missing out. And the end of this chapter was written towards midnight and later, so it's not really good right now. I'm not that happy with it. Guess I'll be getting the 'editing cleaver' out soon and rip it up and sew it back together again... Maybe tomorrow. We'll see. Anyways, constructive crit is always appreciated, and specifically asked, begged, and pleaded for in this chapter. Maybe I should just get a beta reader.

For a time, I was content, even complacent, enough to lay there on the bed, staring into the face of my beloved. My gaze swept her face hungrily, again and again, trying to make up for every moment I had gone without seeing her. Her smile produced the smallest shadow of a dimple at the corner of her mouth; one that appeared only when she was completely and totally happy. Something about that realization made me smile as well. She noticed, through her half-lidded eyes, and crinkled her nose in a curious expression: that only made my smile wider. A line appeared between her eyebrows, and I could guess at her question before it even left her lips. After all, it was one that I had asked her enough myself: "What are you thinking?"

"That I knew you would ask that."

"No, before that. What made you smile?"

"Watching you smile."

"Edward… you're starting to talk like someone out of the movies."

I laughed softly. "Alright, I'll stop then, since I'm being so clichéd."

"I didn't say that. I happen to like it."

"Bella, maybe you should stop watching Romeo and Juliet," I muttered, trying to hide my amusement.

Her gaze grew a little more lucid, and she shot a mock glare at me. "Well, then you'd better give me a better alternative. I'm not that much for most of Shakespeare's other plays."

"Poetry, then?" I whispered in her ear, "Victor Hugo, specifically. After all, the French are purported to be the experts when it comes to courtship." Her gaze was curious now. "You've never read any of it, have you?" I said, and she shook her head. I sighed. What were they teaching in public schools now, that they were neglecting the masters of verse? "English doesn't do it justice, but, well," I began, and stopped. Did she actually want to hear this? Her gaze was fixed: I obviously had her attention. So I began reciting, dropping my voice to a throbbing whisper, my eyes fixed on hers, begging her to see what I saw—

"As I have set my lip to your still brimming cup,
as I have laid my forehead in your hands,
as I have drawn the warm breath
of your soul, wrapped in its redolence,

as I have heard you speak to me the words
the heart pours forth to show its mystery,
as I have seen, though weeping, yet seen smile,
your mouth on my mouth, your eye into mine,

as I have felt on my astonished head
the lightbeam of your star, still veiled,
while into the waters of my life one rose leaf
dropped out of the flurry of your days,

now I can say to the harrier of years:
Go! I have nothing left to age! I'm done
with you and all your withered flowers.
I have here the flower none can cut!

Your wingstroke cannot shake from this cup
one drop of what fills it to the brim.
My soul has more fire than you have ashes!
My heart has more love than you have dark!"

"Oh!" she exclaimed, her breath catching in her throat, and I smiled at the thought of how tremendously clichéd and hackneyed this scene was: a man—or whatever title it was that was appropriate for me-- reciting poetry to his beloved. But even that realization couldn't change the depth of the feeling that coursed through me when I saw that look on her face, the one that was so soft and caring.

"I knew you would understand," I whispered, touching my forehead to hers. Her warmth flooded through me, the fire of purification and life. I wondered if she knew what she granted me with her every touch.

"Edward…" she began, and I heard a hesitancy in her voice that made something in my chest contract. I wanted her to trust me implicitly, and yet couldn't allow her to. Too much was riding on her survival. A survival that the beast in my gut did everything in its power to prevent. I suspended that thought—it had no place in this moment—and laid a soft kiss on Bella's lips, accompanied by the words, "I'm listening" in the softest tones that I could manage. A gusty sigh burst from her lips, and I noticed that her eyes suddenly fixed themselves somewhere down around my chin. This had to be about the dream—and that Jacob Black—then. I bit my tongue, wary of saying something stupid and aware that coaxing would not help. I half hoped she would change her mind—my temper was not… stable where the boy was concerned. Alice had told me about him, the way he barely held himself together, even for Bella's sake. Even I could do more, and I was the one whose instincts screamed for me to take her life. He only ever had to spend part of his time as a beast: I was condemned to fight against the monster inside of me for eternity. At least he had the relief of being mostly human, with human behaviors. And never thirsted for Bella's blood.

I waited in patient silence, trying desperately to quell my prejudices so that I could lend my strength to Bella. Though I could not keep my thoughts from dwelling on the dangers of young werewolves, I could keep the words from forming on my tongue. I was so preoccupied with my own thoughts that I nearly missed the beginning of her statement—

"I know that you really… don't like Jacob and the… the others," she began softly, "but I owe them a lot. My life, again and again." Here, her eyes darted to mine, pleading with me to at least try to understand. Ever-present guilt deadened my hearing: if it weren't for me and my foolish pride, she never would have needed their… guardianship. "And that's what frightened me so, about the dream. I was back in Arizona, in a canyon." Her tone was curiously dead, and I realized that she was trying to detach herself from it. I pulled her close to me: she offered no resistance and wrapped her arms around my neck. Her voice continued to flow: "It was dusk, and I could still see the sunset. It looked like a fire had consumed the sky, the clouds… everything. And the light it cast on the rock walls… it was like blood, Edward. The wind through the canyon was like hearing the voice of every dead Indian rising from the grave, and there was…something in the adobe houses, something watching and waiting." A shudder ran through her body; I began rubbing her back in small circles, hoping to soothe her. "And then Jacob was there, and someone growled, and it didn't sound like you." Her words took me aback. She knew my growl? "I panicked. It was too much like listening to James growl, before…" she stopped, a stronger tremor bending her body to its will. Before I could say anything, she was clearing her throat again, preparing to begin. Brave, wonderful Bella. Somehow, I will make it up to you, I promised silently. "And Jacob was different, feral somehow. Not the Jacob I thought I knew, and it scared me. And then I saw Emily." A single tear coursed down her cheek: I could feel the damp spot it left on my shoulder. "All of her scars were opened, like Sam must have just attacked her and blood was everywhere and I could see my reflection in her eyes, and it was like she was begging me to run, and I just couldn't...And then I woke up."

I tucked one hand under her chin, tilting her face gently towards mine as I whispered fiercely, "And you're here with me. And always will be. Bella, I swear to you that I will never leave you to fend for yourself like that. It was just a dream, and it will never come true Bella, never. So long as you will have me, I will be with you. Always." A weak smile spread across her face as she murmured, "And there are no canyons in Forks." I laughed, and the smile became something a little more real. I pressed my lips to hers tenderly momentarily, trying to impart what comfort and love that I could. When I drew my face back, she laid her head on my chest again, clearly tired. After a few moments, her soft whisper found my ears: "Edward?"

"Yes, Bella?"

"I love you. And… I want you to promise me something."

I paused. An open-ended promise? Could that be wise? "I love you too, Bella. And I will promise what I can."

"Don't leave before I wake up. And tell me what you would dream of, if you could."

Before saying anything, I pulled the covers around her, maneuvering her securely into the middle of her bed before settling next to her again. "If you promise to sleep, I'll stay until you wake. And as for the second, you had only to ask," I whispered, taking her into my arms again. She mumbled something that I took as an assent, and I begun my recitation. It was something I had thought about, many times, and I let my words fall gently on her ears. I spoke of the time that I desired to spend with her, the things I wanted to show her: sunsets on Mount Rainier, the glow of streetlights through the vibrant colors of fall trees, Chicago in the winter, tropical seas by night, when the sands gave up the heat they collected during the day and the lights at the end of a solitary pier painted highlights on the rolling waves. Nights like these, full of conversation that meant nothing to anyone else. Time, spent with her. That was the fabric of my waking dreams.