Thanks to addicttwilight2 as usual and to everyone who reads and reviews. Standard disclaimers continue to apply.

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Let this sad int'rim like the ocean be

Which parts the shore where two contracted new

Come daily to the banks, that, when they see

Return of love, more blest may be the view.

"Sonnet no. 56", William Shakespeare

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Chapter Thirteen: Return

He felt the humming of her lips against the side of his throat before she actually spoke. The sensation threw him so violently into the past that he had to close his eyes for a moment to ground himself, and almost missed her words.

"Edward?" she asked quietly.

"Yes?"

"I'm scared."

His grip around her tightened infinitesimally and relaxed in the same second – the old adage to never hold her as tightly as he wanted running through his head.

"Me too," he admitted, closing his eyes.

"No," she insisted. He looked down at her as she drew back from him, her arms still around his waist but her worried eyes now piercing his. "I'm scared all the time, Edward. I feel... I keep thinking someone's watching us."

Gazing at her concernedly, he could tell how much this admission pained her.

"Nobody is," he assured her quietly, and in a habit long-neglected he raised his hand and tapped at his forehead. "Mindreader, remember? I would know if –"

"Not if they stayed out of range," she insisted, her eyes radiating fear. "They could watch and still stay out of range, couldn't they?"

He kept his arms around her, though her frame was locked now, stiff in his embrace and reminding him horribly of other days and nights when she had removed herself from him in precisely this manner.

"It would be next to impossible, Bella," he told her gently, willing her to relax. "Considering my gift, along with Alice and Jasper's, plus the increased sensitivity to noise and movement that comes with this life –"

She physically stepped back from him now, her body tight with tension. His arms dropped to his sides, horribly empty. He felt a familiar, panicky need surface, along with a quiet sense of self-loathing at how utterly pathetic he was.

"You're shaking," he declared, watching her carefully. He swallowed as something became dawned on him. "Bella – you need to hunt."

Immediately she shook her head. "No. No, Edward, please, not now. I can't – I'm not ready –"

"It's not a question of being ready, Bella," he intoned dully, feeling his body fall back to earth at the sick realisation that he needed to take his wife hunting. His stomach twisted, entirely uneasy. "It's what your body needs now. Isn't your... doesn't your throat...?"

He was unable to voice the monstrous reality. He watched, stricken, as her hand came up to cup her neck, squeezing her flesh almost brutally.

"I'm okay," she whispered, completely at odds with her physical reaction. Every line of her trembling body was telling him that she needed to hunt, and quickly. What was she waiting for? Any other newborn would have fled the house long ago...

"Did they feed you in Volterra?" he asked quietly.

She hesitated, then nodded quickly. "I didn't – I mean – they brought something in a glass," she admitted. Her eyes were downcast now – ashamed.

He could find nothing within him to comfort her with. How could he tell his wife not to feel disgust at something her body needed when he had suffered under the weight of that shame for as long as he'd been made? How could he tell her that there was nothing monstrous about the act, when he could feel the demonic side of his nature curling maliciously, spitting black fire into his throat and demanding blood?

Maybe, maybe if things had gone as he'd planned – if he'd changed Bella himself, as an act of love, as an acknowledgement that one lifetime would never be enough for them – maybe then he would have been able to soothe his wife's fears, to reconcile himself to what they were, to embrace his immortality because it had created hers... But the fact was that his wife had burned in a stone castle for days on end to be crafted into a creature at least as bloodthirsty as he was. He could not find any rhyme or reason in that.

He felt frozen, and he knew... he couldn't guide her, couldn't help her. He was just as helpless as she was, terrified out of his wits and not sure he could handle this – any of it. He was so far from the arrogant ass she'd married, barely standing upright, barely able to string two words together. How could he tell his wife how to deal with this life, when he himself had absolutely no idea?

"Edward," she pleaded, her hand reaching for his, "please, I don't want to hunt. I can't handle that on top of everything else. I can't, I just..."

He drew his hand back and away from hers, ignoring her appeal. He could feel himself clam up – could visualise the mask his wife so hated descending over his features – but could do nothing to stop it. She needed to hunt.

Her face was drawn, imploring, and so he focused on a point somewhere over her left shoulder. He could not comfort her, could not be so hypocritical as to act like he had any answers for her, but he could offer her this. It would not be fair to show her the full extent of his disgust. She would not understand that the feeling was not meant for her – that it was aimed entirely at himself.

"Do you know..." he began, choosing his words carefully. Again he reminded himself of what he had done, of the last time he had given himself over to instinct, of the innocent blood he had spilt. And he realised that he had no right to impose morals upon her that he himself had broken so extravagantly so many times. This, and all things, would have to be her choice. "Do you know if... the blood they gave you. Was it human?"

Her breath hissed into her lungs. Both hands were now cupping her throat.

"I don't know," she blurted, horrified. "I don't know, Edward, I... I... they gave it to me and I drank, I never thought about..."

He shook his head. She needed to understand that she would face no judgement from him, whatever her choice was.

"It's all right, Bella," he said gently. "I – what I'm trying to say is, you have a choice here. Just – Carlisle, the rest of the family... they have a special arrangement concerning their diet. Do you remember what that is?"

She nodded, watching him carefully. Her brow was furrowed.

"It is up to you whether..." he began, and was shocked when she interrupted him.

"Are you kidding?" she said incredulously. Her small body had straightened in indignation. "Are you seriously trying to tell me that it's okay if I want to go kill a few humans?"

He closed his mouth, and nodded. Once. Simply. And was shocked to hear her chest rumble with a low growl.

"Don't you ever say that again," she snapped, and he jumped at the very serious threat in her voice. "Don't you ever... My god, Edward, what the hell is the matter with you?"

So much, he wanted to tell her, so so much, but could not bring himself to say another word, reminded as he was how much better than he his wife had always been, how much more aware she was of what was decent and good.

And yet as that realisation dawned on him he was once more confronted with the utterly frustrating duality – because if Bella had not changed, if she had truly loved him, if she had always loved him, as she said, then how could she have left? Why? If she'd loved him as she swore she did, why hadn't she trusted him enough to tell him what had driven her to all she'd done?

He would surely break apart if he kept down this train of thought, so he simply swallowed and held out his hand to her. Her eyes were full of wariness, but she entwined her small fingers with his anyway.

"We... we don't have to go right this minute if you don't want to," he muttered, hating himself, but unable to bring himself to do what he knew was right and beg her to seek nourishment.

"Thank you." Her voice was very small.

He squeezed her hand. Trying to convey with his touch how sorry he was for everything. Wanting to tell her again how much he loved her, how little he deserved her. And, against all odds, hoping that once she regained her memories and truly knew him again, knew all he'd done and the myriad of ways he'd failed her, she would somehow still see enough in him to want to stay.

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They stood motionless for a little while. Eventually her hand went limp in his and she drew away, sinking down to sit cross-legged on the thick carpet of his bedroom. He lowered himself to sit opposite her, their knees almost touching. He watched her very carefully as her face twisted in increasingly unfathomable ways.

"What are you thinking?" he asked eventually, unable to stand it anymore.

She drew breath, her hands rubbing circles at her temples. "I'm thinking... that I'm a complete failure," she ground out.

"Please don't say that, Bella," he breathed, pained.

She ignored him. "I feel like there's something in front of my nose and I just can't see it," she said, her voice one protracted groan. "This is so frustrating, I..."

"What?" His body leaned towards hers, seeking to reassure. He drew breath, and very carefully reached to brush his hand lightly against her shoulder. At his touch, she stilled. "What is it, Bella?"

"I don't know!" Her voice escaped from her throat in a sob, her hands clenched in fists, eyes wide and staring, unfocused, at his face. "I feel like I'm going to jump right out of my skin, and I don't know why... I feel so trapped here, I just want to..."

He felt his stomach coil in terror and fought to deny his immediate impulse to pounce on her and hold her so she'd never leave.

"You're free to leave here at any time," he said instead, feeling his body twist in rebellion against the traitorous words.

She looked at him. "That's not what I meant," she said, her tone surprised. "You... I don't want to leave you. Not ever."

He felt his fear returning, his entire being curling under the weight of it.

"You don't know that," he whispered, hearing the words as if from a great distance. "You... I know you remember loving me, Bella, and I don't doubt that you did, once, but something changed... you don't know how you feel now."

She was staring at him in disbelief. "You are still so patronising," she said, as if it was a revelation. "You still don't believe me, do you?"

His stomach spasmed. "I can't," he told her simply.

In an instant, she was on her feet and whirling to face the bureau. He watched in confusion as she reached out to grab the heavy frame of their wedding picture, and thrust it at him.

"Look at her, Edward," she implored. "Just – just look. That doesn't change. That feeling – it doesn't go away. I'm – I'm still her, somewhere."

He shook his head sadly. "People fall out of love. It happens all the time."

"When will you stop believing that my feelings were somehow less than yours?" she hissed.

And then it happened. His wife, in her anger, tightened her grasp on the glass frame unconsciously, and with that simple motion, the parts her fingers had been holding powdered into nothingness. She yelped in surprise as the remainder of the picture dropped into floor. There was a resounding crash as the brittle glass covering their smiling faces splintered and then they were looking at the whole mess of glass and metal and paper on the floor.

"Oh god, I'm sorry," she babbled, crouching to pick the fragments up, then drawing breath and whipping her hands behind her back. She looked like a guilty child. He could imagine, so clearly, the fiery blush that would have swamped her face, once.

He smiled wistfully. "It's okay, love," he said gently, the endearment slipping out against his better judgement. He knelt beside her, and again his hand reached to touch her shoulder, reassuring. "You can't be expected to handle everything at once, not yet."

She wasn't listening, he noticed, her eyes trained to the floor. He watched her patiently, convinced that this refusal to meet his gaze was born of embarrassment... but no, there was fascination in her eyes, and distractedly he glanced downwards to see what had so attracted her attention.

He saw nothing. He bent slightly and picked the photograph out of the debris, flipping it glossy-side up and showing it to her. "See? No harm done."

She still wasn't watching her. He glanced again to the floor, confused. And his breath caught.

A scrap of paper, obviously once confined behind the portrait, rested innocuously among the shards of broken glass. His gaze darted back to his wife, who was still staring at it, her lips parted in fascination.

Realising that she was afraid to touch it lest it, too, crumbled to dust, he picked it up uncertainty. "Bella... what...?"

"Open it," she pleaded. Her voice was raw.

His hands were trembling. He couldn't understand why. A beat, and then he was staring at his wife's messy cursive, scrawled unsteadily across the slip of paper.

"I am so sorry," he read aloud in disbelief, his voice shaking. She closed her eyes and spoke as he spoke, echoing the words he was saying. "I can never tell you how sorry I am. I love you. That has never changed, will never change. Please believe that if I could have told you the reason for all of this, I would have, and that I could not have borne hurting you like I have for anything but to keep you safe. All of this will be a distant memory someday, and I will spend forever making it up to you. Ever your loving wife, Bella."

He was trembling, clutching the paper so hard it was crinkling at the edges, staring at the words in her beloved handwriting. Feeling the ghost of his human wife reaching out to embrace him.

"Oh god," he choked, and looked at her. She was watching him carefully. "You love me," he said, and it was as if he was hearing it for the first time.

Her face crumpled, her shoulders shaking. "So much, Edward, so so much. I always have."

And finally he couldn't hold onto it anymore, could not sink into his cynicism, which was really just another form of cowardice. Finally he could not deny it, deny her, deny them.

He reached for her, pulling her light frame easily so she straddled his lap, their legs interlocking. He framed her face with his hands, turning it towards his, and he kissed her full on the mouth.

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He kissed her, and it was their first time, all over again. She was melting, burning, trembling with the force of the feelings running through her. His mouth on hers, his hands on her skin were like nothing she'd ever felt, everything she'd ever wanted.

She knew how much he wanted this, could sense his desperate need to reconnect with her and make up for all they'd lost, but still he held back. One of his hands was clasped around her waist, holding her away from him by the tiniest inch. The other was rubbing slow circles into her back, soothing, calming, and she wanted to cry in frustration. She could feel echoes of memories whispering to her about other kisses that had turned her insides molten, other times he'd been ridiculously calm in the face of her desire, and she decided, there and then – no more.

Disregarding his careful grasp of her, she flung both of her arms around his neck and pulled him so there was not one inch of space between them. He gasped aloud as she squeezed fiercely him with both arms and legs, and joyfully she realised that he could not hurt her anymore, nor prise her away if she didn't want to go.

She felt his hand press into her back very slightly – a ghost of a touch, really – and broke the kiss long enough to whisper in his ear.

"I'm not breakable anymore, Edward," she breathed, watching him shiver. "You can't hurt me. Hold me tighter."

His arms wrapped around her and held her closely, one hand snaking upwards to bunch in her hair and guide her mouth back to his. She huffed in frustration, still feeling that hesitancy in his touch, that fear in his kiss.

She bit his bottom lip, and he yelped as the venom stung him slightly. He drew his head back and stared at her. Despite herself, she giggled at how scared he looked. His expression changed suddenly, and she drew breath at the playfulness – yes, playfulness – that lit his features.

Then he was kissing her again, crushing her body against his, and she gasped as she realised that she'd finally gotten through to him.

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