Thanks to addicttwilight2 and to everybody kind enough to leave me reviews.
Standard disclaimers apply.
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On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
"Raglan Road", Patrick Kavanagh.
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Chapter One: Ghost
He could pinpoint the exact moment when his marriage keeled over and died.
Like so many other things, it wasn't immediately obvious at the time. They'd had so many moments of tension, and there was no reason for that particular one to stand out from the whole. It was only in retrospect, with many sleepless nights spent soul-searching, that he could see it.
They'd been home, alone for once – his family doing their best to give them some breathing space. Though he'd tried to interest her in everything from watching television to reading to playing poker, she'd refused all joint activities, choosing instead to hammer furiously at the keys of her laptop as if they'd each individually offended her in some way.
A letter to her mother, he'd supposed. Things between them had been somewhat strained lately – her irritability had escalated to the point where she'd snap at him for breathing too loudly, then snap at him again when he ceased breathing completely to please her – yet he'd still thought, somewhat naively, that his wife would not balk at the feeling of his flesh against hers.
He'd been wrong.
He had touched her lightly, intending to get her attention and ask if there was anything she needed. A simple, innocent brush of his hand against her forearm. At his touch, she had flinched and shuddered so violently that he'd been, for a moment, disconcerted.
Her dark eyes had met his, and he'd seen shame and horror and most of all, revulsion in their depths.
"Sorry," she'd muttered, and returned her gaze to the glaring screen of her laptop.
He'd stood still and tried desperately to dam the flood of worry and sickening fear he felt rising up within him. Grimly he had held it back, with all of his strength, and it had worked.
Cautiously and carefully he had retreated to sit in an armchair to watch her, finally moving to a different room entirely when his very presence became somehow offensive.
That night, she's slept and he'd paced, running his hands through his hair, turning time and time again to peruse her sleeping face. And at exactly 4:39 in the morning, his head had cleared and he'd seen right through to the diseased heart of their relationship.
That was it. That was when he'd seen where all of this was going. He'd had that thought; "We're in big trouble here."
Though the weeks and months of tension preceding had certainly taken their toll on him, he'd never before entertained the idea that they were in actual trouble. They were stronger than that, surely. It would take a bit more than a few arguments and nights spent in strained silence to break them apart.
Then he'd had that moment of clarity, and though he'd tried to deny it, to shove it back and pretend it didn't exist, the awful knowledge wore a gaping hole in his soul.
Not that the sudden, aching understanding had done him much good. He'd allowed her to erode his self-confidence and dignity till he was little more than a helpless puppy at her feet, and still he had not given up.
He loved her so much, even then, that he'd tried his hardest to hold them together. Tried to talk, and when that hadn't worked, he'd tried to keep his mouth shut. To patiently bear her rebuttals and her undeserved scorn, to put up with her insults and her barely-veiled jibes, poking at his manhood, his family, his former and present life – poking holes into the fabric of his very existence until he was brought to his knees under its weight.
He'd tried. But in the end, it hadn't mattered.
She'd left anyway.
He'd gone on a short trip and when he'd returned, to be greeted with the stale, days-old fragrance of her, he'd found her clothes missing from their usual place in their wardrobe, a circle of dust on the nightstand announcing the absence of her hairbrush, an empty space in the bathroom that had once overflowed with soaps and scented shampoos.
She had vanished, literally disappeared off the face of the earth, and if not for the one-word note she had left behind – a curt "Sorry" – he would have doubted that she'd ever existed at all.
Of course he'd looked for her, tried to follow her. But every lead turned cold, every cunning trick at his disposal failed him, and somehow months had passed.
He'd been able to keep the waves of fatigued anguish and clawing rejection at bay until now. Until the stiff white envelope had flopped, so efficiently, through his mailbox.
Now he could no longer deny the reality of the situation. Now he was left staring at the piece of paper in his hand that assured him, once and for all, that Bella wished to return to her former state of being Isabella Swan. Neat legal phrases cited irreconcilable difficulties, tidied their six-month marriage into a neat box labelled failure.
Her signature, the looping I and graceful S, the definitive line she'd traced from the stem of Swan's n to underline the whole, also served to underline the fact that this was all he had left of her.
He held the paper with a shaking hand, pressing the nib of a pen gingerly against where his name was needed to close their marriage once and for all. And while he waited for his hand to stop shaking, for the world to suddenly fall into recognisable shapes and make everything okay again, he closed his eyes, sank deep into his memories, and dreamed.
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The heat of the Parisian night wrapped around them both and added a sheen of phosphorescence to her skin that enhanced her beauty, giving it an almost unearthly quality. They stood waiting at a pedestrian intersection. Bella watched the countless waves of cars, motorcycles and bicycles go streaming past, her eyes marvelling. He was content with watching her.
The streetlights bounced off her hair and reflected in her eyes. The lights of the city added a faint red tint to the brown of her hair as they danced around her, giving her already angelic appearance an even more celestial glow. He was slightly unsure of his own judgement, knowing that his ridiculous love for her made her appear bathed in pools of light and warmth regardless of the atmosphere, but in probing the thoughts around him, he found that he was not the only being in Paris who had noticed her radiance.
He lifted their entwined hands and brought his lips softly to her knuckles, smiling as her fingers squeezed his in response. She breathed his name in a soft sigh, and he closed his eyes as she laid her head on his shoulder. Ma belle femme, he thought. Ma belle femme.
They watched until the little green man at the other end of the walkway glowed, then walked across to stand on a little island in the middle of the Champs-Elysees. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she leant back against him with a quiet sigh of "wow".
They regarded the scene quietly, taking silent pleasure from the lights and the trees and the general magic of the evening. There were no words – none were needed. They had become skilled in the art of silent communication. He could divine her thoughts from the slightest twitch in her eyebrow, her feelings in the beat of her heart. For her part, she anticipated his actions and responses in a way that in equal parts thrilled and terrified him, accepting all he had to offer her with a smile and a soft kiss.
She shifted against him slightly, placed her head nearer his ear.
"You know, I'm kind of jealous of how much you've travelled," he heard her murmur from her place on his shoulder. "You've been alive so much longer than me. You must have seen a thousand things like this. Out of everywhere, which place in the world is your favourite?"
"Why, Mrs. Cullen, I'm surprised at you," he murmured back, unable to keep the lilt out of his voice. "Out of all the questions you could have asked me, you picked the one with the most obvious answer."
That piqued her interest. He could almost feel her ears pricking up. Her whole body leaned forward and her head lifted abruptly off his shoulder. Her eyebrows, startlingly dark in the pale of her face, were two sharp points of inquiry. He chuckled quietly to himself.
"Well, what is it?" she asked impatiently.
His throat swelled with love for her - standing there with the Arc de Triomphe in full glory at her back, just brimming over with curiosity and annoyance at his slowness. How passionate she was. How full of life.
"Wherever you are," he said softly, watching her through tender eyes. "That's my favourite place."
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Something annoying was buzzing around his left ear. He blinked, resurfacing unwillingly.
"Edward? Edward?"
"I think he's catatonic." A worried voice. A ridiculous concept. Catatonia would be a welcome release from this fully-conscious hell.
"He's not catatonic, he's just wallowing." A voice full of scorn, trying to erase an undercurrent of worry but not quite succeeding.
A pair of hands gripped his shoulders and shook him lightly.
"Edward, son, look at me. Talk to us, please. You're worrying your mother."
He looked up and met dark eyes, comprehending but not fully understanding. How could Carlisle crouch in front of him looking so worried? Didn't he know? There was no longer anything to worry about. The worst had already happened.
"Carlisle, I cannot see a damn thing." Alice's frustrated voice came from the furthest corner of the room.
He blinked, and suddenly a sensory overload crashed down on his head.
He could hear it all. The restless stirring of six other immortals, worried and impatient within their eternally perfect bodies. The brush of a butterfly's wings that stirred the air in the otherwise still room. The grumbling of a truck as it down-shifted on the highway. And thoughts, always thoughts.
The internal voices of his family swirled murkily in his head.
Esme and Carlisle were literally incoherent with worry. Jasper was frantically trying to place a blanket of peace over him, cursing internally when his every attempt failed. Emmett, his burly brother, who could fit worlds together in his hands, was helpless, impotent, angry. Alice was calculating, scanning the future for any glimpse that would bring him succour. And Rosalie... Rosalie...
In an instant, he had flown from his prone position. In the next moment he had her pinned to the wall by the throat.
"Don't you dare talk about my wife like that," he hissed through clenched teeth.
She regarded him coolly. "Who was talking, brother?" she answered. "You can't keep out of my head, that's your problem."
She never deserved you... A weak human, bound by the fickleness of her kind... She never really loved you, so why the hell can't you see that this is a GOOD thing? At least you didn't change her, didn't give her ammunition to betray us all... Get over it, Edward, she was just a stupid girl...
"Shut up!" he roared, releasing her to cram his hands over his ears as though that pitiful action would somehow bring him peace.
He felt his knees give underneath him, and sat on the floor with a thud. This was too much, he thought dizzily. This was why solitude was best, always best. He'd lost the knack of blocking unfriendly thoughts, lost... lost...
...everything.
Swallowing hard, he plunged desperately back into the sea of his perfect memories, trying his hardest to find one that would blot out the concerned voices and worried thoughts of his family.
Bella dancing with her father to Frank Sinatra on their wedding day, her eyes soft with love as she glanced at him over Charlie's shoulder... Bella, clothed in a silky white negligee, swaying her hips gently as the tropical breeze made her hair dance around them... Bella smiling, Bella laughing, Bella kissing him, crying his name at the height of her passion, relaxing in a boneless pool onto his chest to sleep...
Bella's cold, dead eyes regarding him with scorn and distaste. Bella's slow and lethargic movements. Bella pushing him away from her, night after night. Bella locking the door to their bedroom, closing the window so she could sleep alone...
He buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He could feel his mother's arms around him but could not reciprocate her simple gesture of love. He was broken, shattered. He was nothing.
A glimpse of mahogany hair in front of a large notice board flashing holiday destinations.
That... that wasn't one of his memories.
His head shot up and he stared at his favourite sister.
"Was that her?" he demanded angrily. For the first time in months, a spark of hope ignited in his head as he looked at her.
"I think so," she murmured, her eyes unfocused and foggy. A few tense moments passed.
"Yes," she announced finally. "Yes, it's definitely her. Can you see?"
He could. Through Alice's gift, he saw Bella's brown eyes darting from place to place, her arms wrapped around herself nervously while hordes of chattering people wheeling suitcases passed behind her.
She looked tense, worried, desperate. But it was her... the first sight of her he'd obtained in months, and he felt his head lighten in joy and relief.
The airport. She was at the airport and now he knew where she was, he could go to her, beg her, plead with her one more time... He could feel her warmth wrap itself around his body again, could smell the scent of her hair... He was already on his feet, planning.
"Edward," Alice whispered. It seemed, impossibly, as though she had gotten even paler.
He whirled to her in wild excitement. "What is it? Do you see more?" he demanded.
A babble of ancient Italian poetry was his only reply.
He paused, his breath catching in his throat. "Why are you blocking me?" he asked, cold with dread. "What aren't you telling me?"
At the plaintive note in his voice, she slipped. Only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
As one in a daze, he watched as Bella's slim, womanly waist was wrapped up in a strong arm. It was only a second, but it was enough. Because he was cursed eternally with a perfect memory, he knew the exact shade of Jacob Black's skin, knew the mole that spotted his loathsome arm just above the elbow, the chipped nails, the calloused hands.
He watched as the arms of the dog wrapped around his wife's soft form, embracing her in a manner which had been denied to him for months.
Alice's sight returned to its former shade of blankness straight afterwards. Which was probably a blessing, because Edward's tenuous grip on sanity was already compromised. Any more would surely have killed him.
As it was, all he could do was sit and wait for the world to make sense again. For Bella to shake him awake and tell him it had all been a horrible nightmare.
He had never lived in 1918. Dracula was just a story made up by a mad Irishman. And in no universe would his wife leave him for a man whom she protested she loved exponentially less than he, Edward.
Sooner or later he would wake up. He just had to stick it out.
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