Thanks to addicttwilight2 and to all those kind enough to tell me their thoughts. Standard disclaimers apply.
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and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you...
"i carry your heart", e.e. cummings.
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Chapter Twelve: Wonder
Her body was humming next to his. She was trying so hard not to look at him, not to do what she so wanted to do and reach to touch his skin, but she felt stretched unbearably tight, as if at any moment the strings holding her together would break and she would drift from the surface of the earth.
She was so extremely aware of his every movement, every twitch, every shift of his body. She didn't know whether it was because he intimidated her so much or because she was so uncomfortable around people in general now, or whether it was an echo of that strange, terrifying feeling that clutched at her and refused to let go. She felt angry, at him and at herself, and she didn't know why. She was terrified, paranoid, every moment seeing shadows where there were none, and sure he'd run away – or be taken.
She didn't understand it, any of it, and she was so tired. It terrified her, how much she wanted to just curl so her back would meet his chest and feel his body spoon hers.
The silence was weighing more heavily on her every second. She chanced a glance at him.
"Where are we going?" she asked. She hated how small and lost her voice sounded.
He looked sidelong at her. "Back to the house," he said flatly.
She digested this for a moment.
"Didn't... weren't you leaving?" she asked timidly, watching as he huffed in frustration.
"Not anymore," he replied tightly, and she sensed to not push that any further.
Despite herself, she felt her body clench in discomfort upon sight of the white building. Her breathing accelerated and out of the corner of her eye she spied something in the trees, lurking...
"Bella?" she heard Edward ask in alarm, and belatedly realised that she was shivering violently.
Against her volition, her hand landed on his upper body and she hauled him behind her in a single, swift movement.
"It's not safe," she blurted, her breaths coming hard and fast. "It's not –"
Her stance and her grip on his arm restricted his movement. He felt as insubstantial as dandelion fluff in her arms.
She felt him hesitate, and then – one of his hands brushed hers timidly. His fingers grasped hers and he squeezed. She gasped at the warmth that suffused from that single point of contact.
"It's okay, Bella," he crooned, his voice low, placating her. "It's family. You're safe here."
"No," she whispered desperately, "it's not safe, you don't understand –"
His hand froze in hers. "What don't I understand?" he asked, his voice sharp.
She swallowed. "I... I don't know."
A tiny expressed breath fluttered at her neck and then he was leading her towards the house, his expression strained, his gait weary.
She wanted to tell him again – to tell him the dangers that lurked in her terrified mind, of the insecurity she felt and of her crushing need to protect him... but there, words failed her, and she was reduced to following as he led, cursing the mysteries of her silent brain.
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When they arrived back, his family had assembled in the front room. One by one, they left the house. First Emmett and Rosalie, both of them uneasy and angry with the situation, but unwilling to go against his wishes now that he could actually form words again. Jasper lingered guardedly in the doorframe as his tiny sister hugged him tightly. Drawing back, she squeezed his hands in hers.
"It will be all right, Edward," she vowed fiercely. "I don't know how, or when, but this is the right thing to do, and eventually life will make sense again."
Tired of the ridiculous potency of his every emotion, he could only nod wearily at her.
Lastly Carlisle and Esme each embraced him, their thoughts worried, fearful, and at the same time, strangely optimistic. Words had not passed between them except a quiet "take as much time as you need, son," from Carlisle, but he gleaned so much comfort from their unexpressed love that he found it exceedingly difficult to let them leave.
Bella – whether mindful of his wish to speak to the family alone, or just uneasy to be in the same room as Jasper – had retreated upstairs. He took a moment and sat his body on a step, resting his head in his hands.
Now more than ever he could feel the duality of the situation tugging at him insistently. His every instinct was telling him to get up and run straight out of the house and not stop until he was very, very far away. Warning him that he was about to smash himself to pieces all over again and that it would be doubly hard to pick himself up afterwards. Screaming at him to not be a fool. To run, or else to go upstairs to the bedroom and systematically close himself off from the woman he knew needed him, to break her as thoroughly as she'd broken him and indulge in a kind of frenzied and depraved glory at the very act of destruction.
And still the quieter, saner voice spoke, reminding him of what life was like without her. Now that he had her back, he could see, with startling clarity, just how much her absence had shattered him. Not even the big things. It was easy to miss making love to his wife, easy to miss her kisses and the way she looked up at him just before she dropped into sleep in his arms. Anyone would miss those things about the person they loved, if they'd had them once and then had them taken away.
No – the things he missed were much more varied and insignificant. The way her eyebrows danced in her face, her entire body moving with her words, emphasising her meaning, conveying her emotion. The way her mouth would smile when she was teasing him – a quick flash of teeth she couldn't quite stifle. The way her hips moved as she walked. The freckles on her nose. The smell of her hair. That particular lilt in her voice, revealing to him that her small body was so full with love that she was trembling with the force of it...
The voice reminded him that without seeing and feeling those things every day, he was dead already. He was already crushed, was already a pathetic mess. She could do nothing further to him, so why not suck every drop of sweetness out of her presence, while she still deigned to bestow it on him?
Freesia and strawberries danced in the hallway, taunting him. He closed his eyes and inhaled, and then started up the stairs.
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He found her in their – in his bedroom, standing with her arms wrapped around herself, in front of their wedding portrait. Then-Edward's arms rested on then-Bella's waist, lifting her to eye-level, the two of them grinning insanely, about to kiss. He could remember that moment with such clarity – her soft hands around his neck, her eyes promising devotion – that he inhaled sharply at the potency of it.
She sensed him then, but did not turn around. "I wanted to pick it up," she offered impersonally, "but I'm afraid I'll break it."
He moved to stand at her side. His voice was tender – trapped as he still was in that memory. "Do you remember the toast Charlie gave? He was so proud of you that day, Bella..."
She shook her head slightly. "I don't remember."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I'm sorry," he said eventually, shaking himself. "I... that was stupid." And he genuinely was sorry, and angry with himself for having slipped yet again. But another part of him was just angry with her. For giving him that moment, and then taking it away.
He felt her body sway towards his – felt her head bend as if to rest on his shoulder – and drew on all of his self-control to step away.
If she noticed, she ignored it. "What happened to them, Edward?" she asked sadly. "What happened to us?"
He sighed. "Does it matter?"
"You can't even look at me," she whispered. "Of course it matters."
He ran his hand through his hair. "I can't tell you what happened," he said bluntly, still watching the immortalised face of his innocent human wife. "I can't understand it myself. And I can't blame you for her mistakes," he added bitterly, pointing at the woman in the picture.
Her voice was very quiet. "I don't know her," she admitted.
His was hard. "I don't either."
"I don't know how I could ever have..."
"Bella. Please. Don't. Just don't." He closed his eyes and swallowed.
"Please tell me, Edward." He knew, without looking at her, that her lips were compressed, trying to hold back the swell of emotion gathering in her throat."Please. I need to know."
"I loved you. I thought you loved me. And you left." He said the words flatly, feeling another piece of him break away, as it did whenever he gave the events of their failed marriage voice.
"That's it?" Her voice was trembling now, and he could imagine his wife's eyes filling with tears, their brown depths magnified a hundred fold. He closed his own – wanting to preserve that image. Wanting to not be confronted by the dry-and-crimson-eyed Bella standing beside him.
"That's all you need to know," he whispered. Wanting to protect her. From herself, but most of all from him.
He felt her small fingers tug at his sleeve. He wanted to weep at the innocence of the gesture.
"I need to understand this, Edward," she said desperately, her voice hitching. "I... everybody hates me, and I don't know why. I hate me. I... disgust myself."
This admission sat in the pit of his stomach like a rock, and it was that which finally broke the no-touching barrier he'd imposed between them. Without thinking, he spun towards her and took her face in his hands.
"Don't say that," he said fiercely, watching as her eyes closed. "Don't you ever say that."
"You hate me," she whispered sadly, "and I don't blame you. I must have been... I must have done so many horrible things to mess them –" here she nodded towards the picture "—up so much."
He tucked her face under his chin, wrapping his arms tightly around her and rocking them back and forth. Ignoring the voices that screamed warnings. Ignoring them.
"Please forget about it," he implored her. "Please, Bella, this is not going to do us any favours."
She drew back, wrapping her arms around her torso. She looked as though she were trying to hold herself together.
Her lower lip stuck out by the tiniest increment as she turned her gaze back to the picture. He noticed, aching as he remembered how that same tiny gesture had always made him want to kiss her. It was utterly stupid, preposterous even for him, but he missed her. Even standing less than a foot away from her, he missed her. Having embraced his wife once, it was physically painful to him to let her go. Which, if he was honest with himself, was the main reason why he didn't want her touching him in the first place.
One of her long, slender fingers reached out to trace the shape of their heads behind the picture frame.
"We look so happy," she said quietly, to herself. "My hair was so long, it took Alice ages to pull it up like that..."
Something was wrong with that tense.
"Was?" he inquired softly. "Your hair was that long? Surely it still is, Bella?"
She shook her head absently, still fixed on their image in profile. "I cut it," she informed him.
His chest was tight. He didn't know why. "You did?" he asked, doing his best to conceal his confusion under a layer of gruffness.
She glanced sidelong at him. "Does that upset you?" she asked in surprise.
He shook his head. He couldn't find words.
Impulsively, she reached for the bun at the back of her head and pulled her hair free. She bent at the waist, flipping the shiny mass over her face and fluffing it. For the seven millionth time, he froze in shock at the sight of his wife doing this – such a familiar gesture.
She straightened back up. He could almost imagine her cheeks flushing with colour as he looked her over.
Her hair fell softly to her shoulders. No longer weighed down by its own heaviness, it curled in loose loops and spirals. A few wayward strands clung to her face, and she screwed up her mouth and blew them away.
The style framed her face, softening the angle of her chin. The slight red that had always peeked out through the brown was intensified.
She looked... different. There was no other way to describe it.
His fingers reached out and ran through a shiny lock, watching it bounce into curl as he left it go.
"Do you like it?" she asked uncertainly.
"It's... different." He paused. "I don't like that it's different... but I like it."
She smiled, but her eyes were sad.
"How'd you do it?" he asked, curious now.
Her answer was quick. "With a knife." Her forehead furrowed in contemplation. "I think Jacob helped," she added quietly.
"Bella... why?" he asked, wanting and not wanting to know.
She swallowed. "I'm not entirely sure."
He looked at her – really looked at his wife for the first time in months, and he noted the slight worry lines still creasing her forehead, the tiredness in her eyes, overlaid with a quiet sense of determination. She'd been through hell, too, he realised with a shock. Whether it had been of her own making, or of his, remained to be seen.
It made sense that she had wanted a change on the outside. It was obvious to him now that she had changed so much on the inside. His idealistic, naive girlfriend had entirely disintegrated, replaced by someone stronger, but still a beautiful mystery.
"It suits you," he said, and with a shock he realised it was true.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
She looked utterly wretched. He felt suddenly ashamed. He looked at the portrait of his young wife and compared it to the woman standing in front of him. Hardly anything matched up. She was an entirely different person now. Had he done that to her? Had he pressured her into something she hadn't been ready for, disregarded her need for a normal human life?
"Bella, I want to tell you..."
Her entire countenance brightened – her body leaned towards him.
"Yes?" she asked, her eyes alight with desperation.
"It... us. Our marriage, how it ended... it wasn't entirely your fault," he said gruffly.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she laughed. It sounded choked.
"No, Bella, I'm serious," he insisted. "I should have tried harder, I should have realised that you were unhappy earlier, I should have never forced you into marriage so young –"
She took two steps forward and shoved him. He stumbled backwards, shocked.
"Stop blaming yourself, for the love of all that's good and pure!" she cried, her words bubbling in sobs. "I know I was horrible and I know I wrecked our marriage, wrecked me, wrecked you, wrecked us... Edward, I can feel it all, the guilt, and I just don't know why... I can't reconcile loving you the way I do and treating you that way..."
He was frozen. He could barely move his lips. "Don't say that, Bella," he managed, his lungs squeezing painfully.
She approached him. He backed away, terrified.
"I love you," she said defiantly, then repeated it, over and over again. "I know I love you."
His chest suddenly felt like it was much too small to contain his heart. "Stop saying that," he all but snarled at her. "You don't even know what that means. You have no idea what you're saying."
Her hands reached for his and he evaded them. Again. Again.
"Edward, please," she whispered, her voice fraught. "Please let me make this right. Please –"
His nails dug into his palms. "Stop this," he ordered her, terrified. "Stop it. I told you, I can't do this. Why do you keep pushing?"
They halted, staring at each other. The room felt huge around them, the space crackling between them.
"I don't expect or deserve your trust," she whispered, "but I will do anything I can to earn it back."
He shook his head, over and over. His skull felt as though it were full of cotton wool.
"You don't know what you're saying," he repeated fuzzily, his mouth thick with longing.
She stepped closer to him. And then she mumbled something, and he felt his entire body prickle.
"What did you say?" he asked frantically, wanting to make sure he'd heard correctly.
She stared at him. "I carry your heart with me," she said softly.
He was frozen, transported. "La Basilique du Sacre Coeur," he whispered to himself.
She advanced slowly. "Paris," she affirmed, "on our honeymoon."
"You remember?" Disbelief, cold and crackling, momentarily robbed him of his cynicism.
She nodded. "That poem. I remember you reciting that poem for me on the steps," she said softly. Her hand grasped his sleeve, and then she was speaking and he was listening and he had no choice anymore.
"i fear no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet) i want no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)..." Her arms snaked around his waist, her body steadily moving closer.
He was whispering the words with her, he realised as her head came to rest on his chest, their bodies finally connecting, mouthing words he'd cherished as his own personal rosary, words he'd whispered in her ear so many times during that honeymoon, moments of peace in a city filled with light...
"...this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart – i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)." They finished together.
He had no words.
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