It's early morning when it happens.
I'm rattled awake by a muted smash and a deep groan, a keening whining sound that I realize is Bosley crying. My eyes pop open and I blink furiously, trying to clear my head from the fog of sleep. It's still dark out, but the sky is a lighter shade of dark blue.
I turn my head to see Edward missing from bed.
The absence of his warmth is almost as jarring as the noise that woke me. I had been so contentedly asleep, so exhausted, and so satisfied after last night, it took all my will power to let my mind begin to focus.
My head is spinning a little as I lean up on my elbows, listening intently. I look to see the bathroom door cracked open, a sliver of light splayed across the floor. It's eerily quiet for a moment.
Maybe the sounds had been remnants of a dream.
At least thats what I think until I hear a cabinet shut and something falls in the sink. Bosley lets out a small bark.
"Fuck...shit..." I can vaguely make out his muttering from behind the bathroom door.
My chest feels heavy.
Something isn't right.
The sheets slide off my legs as I pull myself out of bed, the chill in the room hitting my skin and making me hiss. It's freezing.
The bathroom is situated on Edward's side of the bed, while his windows are on mine. I make my way around the end of the bed, stopping to find Edward's night table lamp in pieces on the floor. Bosley is whining and pacing around the glass. I pull his collar until he is up on the ottoman he had been sleeping on. I don't want him to cut himself.
"Stay here, Bos." I instruct. The obedient dog he is, he stays on the ottoman, though he continues to cry and fidget.
Now I'm starting to panic.
"Edward?"
There is no answer. I lean close to the door to listen.
I can hear his labored breathing and small sounds coming from behind the door. Not wanting to startle him I speak softly as I very slowly open the door.
"It's just me, I'm coming in..."
Shit.
I try my hardest to keep the breath I've just sucked in from making too much noise. But the scene before me is frighteningly unfamiliar. Edward is on the bathroom floor, his back pressed into the corner beside the toilet with his elbows resting on his knees, looking exhausted and confused. His eyes are open but its clear from his gaze that he is far from me. He's lost in some kind of dream or memory I can't save him from. His breathing is labored as if he's trying to keep from throwing up, and I notice he's holding his right hand tightly in his left.
I take another deep breath and look around me, unsure of what to do or where Edward even is right now. I see what has fallen in the sink is a pill bottle. I recognize the prescription almost immediately - its the same script I take for my anxiety. I grab it from the sink, noticing the cap is wet.
It has blood on it.
My heart is pounding.
"Edward..." I say very softly, wanting so badly to approach him, to hold him, to pull him out of this.
He doesn't respond, only closes his eyes and rakes his hand through his hair so roughly I'm afraid he's literally ripping his hair out.
"No, dont...that's not...I-I can't..." I hear him say. His voice is broken and child like. I freeze, thinking he's asking me to leave him alone. But as I come closer, I realize he's not addressing me. I'm not sure who he's speaking to, but it isn't me.
His posture isn't frightened...it's more defeated. It's as if the weight of his true grief has been manifested in his physical body. He's hurting. And it's more raw than I realized.
"Edward, please...are you hurt...?"
I'm desperate for him to answer me, to give me some sign that he's alright. That he's with me.
He tenses at the sound of my voice and looks up at me, as if he's seeing me in the room for the first time.
It terrifies me how deeply retreated into his own mind he'd gone. Was this some kind of night terror? Was this a melt down or a panic attack? Had something triggered him in his dreams? How long was he suffering while I slept so soundly beside him?
He continues to look up at me and around me, his gaze confused and blinking, as if he's trying to come back to the present. I take slow steps, unable to to stay away from him but still cautious as to not alarm him. I come to my knees in front of where he sits. I see a smudge of blood on his cheek and I assess the damage. He doesn't look to be injured other than the way he's holding his hand. He must of cut it when the lamp broke.
His eyes are so tired, glassy, and blood shot. His brow is covered in a sheen of sweat.
"Bella...?"
His eyes come into focus as he finally sees me. The disorientation he's feeling is apparent as he looks around him and down at his hands. His face flushes when he visibly realizes what's happened. I watch his jaw clench as he refused to look at me, or cry in front of me.
"Fuck...I...I'm so sorry, Bella...I'm sorry..." he breathes, his head down.
"Enough." I say gently. "You never have to be sorry for this. Especially not with me."
My voice is quiet, as it's all the sound I can muster before I feel my throat close with the threat of tears. I want to weep. I want to touch him. I want to comfort him. But I don't know if I should yet. I don't want to overwhelm him if his mind is still refocusing. But maybe he needs to be touched?
Maybe he needs me.
Tentatively, I reach forward to brush the hair back from his forehead, unsure if he might pull away.
The thought of him pulling away from me...it would crush me. But it's worth the risk.
Edward has always been worth the risk.
He sighs and his eyes close, brows furrowed as his jaw continues to clench, fighting emotions. But he leans into my touch.
I move closer to him, letting my hand continue down his cheek and neck, softly brushing back and forth, a pattern that used to soothe me when I was upset.
"This...it hasn't happened in a while..." he started to say, clearing his throat gently, trying to keep me from hearing his voice break. "Not since before you."
I have so many questions but I remain quiet. The silence is booming in my ears with how much has gone unsaid between us.
Unable to wrap my head around that right away, I switch into care taker mode. I need to make sure Edward is alright before anything else. Assess his injuries, see what he needs, get him cleaned up.
"Do you feel like you can stand? Or do you need a minute..." I ask, still keeping my voice as calm and even as possible. I don't want him to hear in my voice how scared I am. Not of him - but of the kind of pain that could do this to him. The pain he's still harboring and keeping from me. The pain I can't fix or heal or banish.
He pinches the bridge of his nose before nodding his head and lifting himself slowly to his feet. His eyes close and he stops to take a few more deep breaths.
"Sorry...I, uh...just feel a little dizzy and nauseous." he explains. He looks pale to me.
"Sit." I tell him gently, bringing him to sit down on top of the closed toilet seat. I find his glass on the sink, rinsing it out once before filling it with crisp, cold, water. "Small sips." I instruct.
I take a minute to search through his cabinets for some hydrogen peroxide and band aids. I find a small tube of neosporin and grab that too... clean wash cloth from the closet...the pills I'd found in the sink.
"Did you get this open? Did you take anything yet?" I ask softly.
"No."
I nod once before cleaning the blood off the bottle, drying it and then popping it open to rattle out a dose, placing it in his palm. He takes the pills wordlessly, and I can hear his breathing begin to settle down to normal.
He still won't look at me.
I try not to focus on that.
I pour a little listerine into its cap and offer it to him. He hesitates.
"The mint," I explain. "It helps with the nausea."
Whenever I'd felt nausea at the hospital or at home, my dad would always have peppermints on hand and sneak me one. It always seemed to take the edge off.
He complies, swishing it in his mouth before leaning over to spit the sink. There are a million thoughts running through my head but I shove them back, focusing only on the task at hand.
I run cool water over the wash cloth, wringing it out once before pressing it gently to his forehead. His shoulders slump and I feel his head lean into my hand. I can't stop myself from running my other hand through his hair. I feel him let out a long breath and I too, am some how remembering to breathe.
I use the wash cloth on his face gently, washing away the sweat and the smudge of blood on his cheek. I pull his injured hand towards me and rest it over the sink, rinsing away the blood to get a better look at the cut. It's a smaller wound, but deep enough to cause more bleeding than I'd like. It doesn't look like it needs a stitch, but I make a mental note to check it later to make sure it begins to close.
"This is going to sting a little..." I warn as I uncap the hydrogen peroxide. He doesn't even flinch as I pour a small stream of it over the cut, which fizzes a little under the solution. He only continues to stare at the wall behind me, looking pained and lost in thought.
As much as I want to, I don't push. One thing at a time, Bella.
I bandage him up quickly and clean up the sink a little. Just behind the toilet where he sits is a towel rack. I lean over him to hang the wet wash cloth to dry behind him and I'm stopped suddenly by the feel of his hands on my hips.
"Bella..." he whispers. He leans forward slowly and rests his head against my stomach.
The lump in my throat is painful now as I will myself not to cry. My arms encircle him and pull him into me, and likewise, his arms wrap around my waist and hold me tight.
There are no words to describe this. No adjectives to truly express this. This is Edward at his most vulnerable, his most broken, in front of me for the first time.
I hold him tight, stroking his hair, telling him it's okay. I feel his shoulders shake once or twice and I can feel wetness through the fabric of my tank, but he's silent.
We stay this way for a few minutes.
When he finally looks up at me, his eyes are wet and exhausted, but his expression is calmer than before. He looks up at me and beyond the pain, there is an overwhelming love there. I can't stop myself from wiping his tears and kissing each heavy eye lid. I press my cheek to his while I hug him once more.
There would be time for talking, but right now, I wanted him to lie down. To rest. And to be warm. He may have been sweating moments before, but now that he'd come around, I could see the goosebumps on his skin. He was in a pair of boxers and nothing else, and the chill in the room had us both shivering.
I take his hand and wait until he rises to his feet to lead him out to the bedroom again. I press my hand against his chest, making him stop at the door, and start to pick up pieces of glass from the lamp. Luckily, because it has landed on carpet rather than tile, the pieces are rather large and easy to pick up. But Edward realizes what I'm doing.
"Bella, leave it. You're barefoot, love." he says, concern filling his voice.
Love.
I ignore him and sweep my hand along the rug carefully, feeling around for any pieces I've missed. When I'm satisfied that I've gotten everything, I dump it in the bathroom waste basket before he can try and take it from me. He starts to protest again but I shush him.
He finds my hands again as soon as they are empty and I move us back to the bedroom. He stops to pet Bosley, reassuring the poor dog that he's okay. With some coaxing, he gets the dog to lie down once more. When he finally lays down beside me, he sounds as if he's in physical pain, letting out a small groan.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" I ask immediately.
"No, just...tense muscles. Panic will do that." he shrugs.
When he's flat on his back, I pull the thick down comforter up over him, tucking it into his side before tucking myself into his other side and pulling the covers up. I'm freezing and my body needs his to feel right again.
He watches me do this with an almost bewildered look on his face. And I feel myself grow even more determined to show him what it's like to have someone take care of him this way.
"You're shaking." he says quietly, pulling me tighter to him and rubbing my arms under the blanket. I can't help the shivering, and I'm not sure if it's just the cold, or if its my adrenaline coming down that's causing it.
I can't really find words. I have so many questions, there's so much I don't know...
And I have no idea where to start.
So I choose the quiet, burrowing into him and feeling both our bodies return to warmth. He will tell me when he's ready.
I listen to his heart beat steadily underneath where I've laid my head. It comforts me. Assures me. The room is beginning to brighten only just so, with pale early morning light. I can see snow falling outside.
"It will be ten years on the 21st." he says after almost fifteen minutes of silence. I'd started to close my eyes again, but they shoot open as I register his voice.
And the date he'd just mentioned.
My transplant was the early morning of the 22nd.
"These...break downs? I don't even know what exactly the fuck they are...I think my doctor once called it 'triggered dissociation.' Basically, I have a night terror, or a severe flash back that triggers these episodes where I just...tune out. I'm not here. I don't remember getting out of bed, the lamp...none of that. It's...it's part of PTSD."
He lets out a long breath before speaking again. "It's just...it's alarming every time. I'm just not here when it happens. Luckily, unlike my dad, I don't have any personalities that take the reigns while I'm out of it. Sometimes I just relive shit, or just shut down. I was always afraid that I would turn into my dad, but my doctors and psychologist assured me my trauma is very different from my father's disorder. It still freaks me out though...thinking about it."
"You are not your father." I say firmly.
"But what if I just didn't come back? Like him? He just...stopped being my father. And these horrible, cruel personalities took over and replaced him."
"I wouldn't let you leave." I promised. "I'd never let that happen. And you don't have horrible, cruel, personalities waiting to take control. Your mind shuts down to protect you from things you are still dealing with. You don't have an identity disorder, Edward. I'm sure of it... I'll always bring you back to me. I promise."
I meant it with all my heart. I brought him out of it tonight, I'd do it again.
"Do you remember your dream?" I ask, shifting so that I can see his face better as he speaks. His eyes are glued to the ceiling.
"I always do." he replies.
"Does this happen often?" I'm afraid to ask him directly about his dream just yet. Not sure if he's ready, or if he'll shut down.
"It used to happen quite frequently when I first came to live with Carlisle and Esme. They had me in therapy for grief counseling already but I started to see more doctors and therapists when they realized the ripple effects of my trauma. Bosley was actually part of that therapy...Esme's idea. If my night terror takes over, he follows me if I get up and walk. He basically watches over me until I wake up. Over the years it has lessened significantly. Now I usually only get one every couple months depending on my stress level. This time of year is usually the worst because I'm usually reliving things pretty heavily."
I don't know how to respond. The questions I want to ask, I'm afraid to. Whatever had happened to them - it wasn't good, I was gathering that much. And now, the idea that Edward's parents were both in the hospital the night before my surgery...the idea that one of them could even remotely be my possible donor...
No. There was no way.
Was there?
I'm lost in thought when Edward speaks again.
"I'm sorry," he says. His voice is somber.
"Why would you be sorry?" I ask him.
"You're quiet. I've scared you." he sighed. "I never meant to..."
I move to lean up on my elbows so I can see his face clearly. He is still looking at the ceiling.
"Edward, please. Look at me."
When he does, his eyes look unsure, afraid almost.
"You did scare me." I tell him. He looks instantly defeated. "But only because I didn't know how to help you." I continue. "There's a lot I still don't know about what happened to you. I wish...I just wish I could protect you from it..."
Edward lifts a hand under my chin, gently pulling me forward to kiss me.
When he pulls back he looks like he's trying to find the right words. His mouth opens and closes a few times.
"I...It was...It's hard to know where to start..."
I can feel him struggling to find the right place to begin before he even tells me. And though I'm elated he wants to finally tell me about it, I can see how exhausted he is. His eyes are a little swollen and bloodshot. I don't want to make this hard for him. I want him to be comfortable and rested when we have this conversation.
"Edward," I say softly, bringing my hand up to stroke him face. His eyes close at my touch. When they open again, the pain in them is enough to knock me over. I lean up to kiss his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead. Slowly, gently.
"You don't have to tell me right now. You're exhausted and you need to sleep."
"I've kept you waiting long enough, Bella...I need to explain...this shit." he gestures to himself.
"I'll keep waiting. For right now, I want you to rest first." I say.
"I don't know if I'll be able to do that, even though I want to. Sometimes I close my eyes and I just..." he trails off, unable to finish the sentence. I can see his eyes brimming again, glassy in the dim light.
"Let me help you try."
I sat up, Edward's eyes watching me curiously, and moved myself back a little in the bed towards the head board. I had a few pillows stacked behind me at an angle that almost reminded me of my old hospital bed. I took his arm and gestured for him to move for me until I had him laying down between my legs with his arms around my waist and his head on my chest. He was completely surrounded, protected, safe. I didn't know if this would help in his subconscious mind, but I had to hope that it would. I pulled the covers tight around us and let my hand stroke his hair.
He was out in minutes.
I, however, was wide awake.
What were the odds...was there really a chance...?
Was it just a coincidence that our traumas were only hours apart?
I can feel my anxiety kick in full gear as my mind reels but manage to keep it together, not wanting to wake Edward. He needs rest. He shifts as I try to take a few deep breaths and get my heart rate back down to normal. I was certain I felt his lips once against my scar as he turned his head before settling back down.
In the morning, he might finally tell me the truth about his past. What happened to him. That was making me nervous enough.
But now, the idea that our past might have been intertwined was freaking me out. I decide that I'll keep it to myself until I can find out more. No use in adding to Edward's stress level until I know for sure. It would be hard enough for him to explain his PTSD and what caused it.
I think about the letter I sent all those years ago.
Where was it now? Who opened it? After I'd sent that letter, I did my best not to think of it again, at least not too much. I was constantly dealing with survivors guilt after my transplant. I'd tried not to wonder too hard about whose heart I had. I'd done my best to bury that guilt with my gratitude for life, but it didn't mean it was gone. And now that Edward's parents could be my potential donors, the guilt came raging forward once more. And with it, came a burning need to know.
I realize suddenly that I need to speak with Esme and Carlisle.
I have so many questions I can't sleep a wink, no matter how exhausted I am. I watch the sun come up through Edward's windows and listen to him breathe. Determined to be what he needs, to listen, to be strong for him.
And ...to find out whose heart I now owned.