Bella stared at the man. "Your solution is for me to just go ahead and have sex? With my husband? After—?"

"That's a bit of an oversimplification," John said gently, "but partly, yes."

She'd refused to see any kind of counsellor. Flatly.

But Edward had finally asked, his own pain so evident in his soft 'please', she couldn't say no.

So, here she was, looking at the man named John, a psychologist who, Edward assured her, was beyond competent. The best in his field, certainly in the peninsula.

John's suggestion, some forty minutes into their session, was not bolstering her confidence.

"You've said it's one of your goals, Bella. Doesn't it make sense to work towards it?"

"I suppose so," she sighed begrudgingly, thinking of the day before.

Edward had let her slink away after her father had called, purportedly to go read in bed. It was as transparent a lie as any. She'd barely been able to string two sentences of reading together since...well, for a while. She hadn't even bothered pretending when he came in, but was curled up in the bed, staring at the wall.

He'd had that pinched look between his eyebrows, sitting down carefully beside her.

He always made his footsteps audible for her now. So he wouldn't startle her.

Then he'd gently brushed his finger tips over her forearm, and she'd yanked herself away, the violent swarm of memory buzzing over her. Jacob over her. In her, his hands smearing her in fresh revulsion.

Edward's voice could normally call her back, but not this time, and he'd waited the interminable minutes for her to return.

His "please," deep and urgent, had made her sternum vibrate.

It was as close to tears as he could come.

"Being intimate with your partner isn't just about sex, Bella. To be intimate is to trust, with our minds, our emotions, and yes, our bodies, too."

She nodded, seeing the sense here.

But sense and logic weren't much in the way of friends these days.

As they'd walked towards the office building, a distant figure walking their way had too much resembled a familiar shape, and despite all of Edward's reassurances, her body had begun its descent into panic, railing against the logical urgings of her mind.

Not him, she'd told herself. Can't be. Edward would be ripping him to pieces.

When the man had passed by, Edward had put himself between them, she trying to hide the shaking of her body behind his solidity.

"It's not him," he'd assured her. "You're safe." He kept murmuring these soft reassurances, her face buried in his chest.

"I suggest beginning with something small," he said, "a touch or pattern of physical togetherness that you purposefully practise."

"Practise?"

"Yes," he said.

She chewed on the idea for a moment, and then her lip.

The sound of his pen, scratching across the page, made her look up, wondering what he was writing.

"Remember what I told you about the reactions you've had, bodily?"

"Yes," she mumbled.

"Perfectly normal," he said, "for someone who's been traumatized. Think of this as rehabituating your body to the same stimulus."

Watching the blood drain from her face, he added, quickly, "stimulus that you're comfortable with, Bella. Something small that you can use to build your trust."

He waited for this idea to permeate the resistance written in her tense posture.

"Can you think of anything that might be a safe place to start?"

All the blood returned, painting bold strokes of pink up her cheeks.

Other things climbed up with the blood, too.

She closed her eyes, hands tight over the arms of the chair, willing herself to endure the memory.

When she'd walked into the room, fingers aching for the grip she'd kept on Edward's hand, it had taken a solid five minutes for him to ease her into letting go, he filling in the paperwork she couldn't even look at.

"I'll be right outside," he said softly. "Ear pressed to the door listening to everything, making sure you're as uncomfortable as possible."

When she snorted out a laugh at this ridiculousness, he'd grinned back. "Maybe," she'd said uncertainly, "you could put your ear up against another door, while I'm here?"

He'd understood perfectly.

"Of course." Then he'd carefully kissed her forehead, murmuring "thank you for doing this," and left.

Then she'd sat down, a flutter of nervous flapping around her stomach, staring at John. He looked harmless, but so did a lot of people.

Like her Dad.

Or Jacob.

John's silvered hair was topped with a pair of reading glasses, which he'd tipped onto his nose, reading through the forms Edward had filled in.

"Your husband," he'd began tentatively, "filled in the paperwork for you?"

She'd nodded.

"Can you tell me, in your own words, why you're here?"

The anger, a familiar friend, had snapped out a "can you not just read what he wrote?"

"Certainly," John'd said calmly, and did, aloud, "My wife was violently raped by her best friend, Jacob, a few weeks ago. When she told her father that her friend had hurt her, he didn't believe her, and forced Bella to see Jacob, where he assaulted her again. After this she left her father's home for ours, where she became quite ill. Her father used his legal connections to obtain a custody order, and removed her from our care, leaving her where Jacob had access to, and assaulted her again. She recently discovered she's pregnant from this assault, and is seeking a termination." He'd pulled the glasses off, sliding them back onto his head, "Is that an accurate description?"

She'd nodded, swallowing, the anger gone.

"I'm sorry to hear that," John had said softly, watching her eyes flick up at him, and down again. "Were you married after this happened?"

"Yes." It was a soft whisper.

He'd nodded, as if this made sense.

"How can I help you, then?"

"What?" she'd asked.

"How can I help you?" John had repeated.

"Aren't you supposed to know how to do that part?" Bella had asked. Wasn't he?

"Well, yes," he'd said, smiling, "I do, but I need to know what you want to work towards."

"Not being a nervous freak for starters," Bella said, still shaky from the encounter outside.

"You think you're a freak?" he asked, voice still that careful, non judgemental tone.

"I'm practically afraid of my own shadow. Can barely let the man I love touch me." Damn, if the tears weren't angling to join the conversation. She stopped, the lump in her throat almost painful.

John had gestured to the tissues beside her, and she'd taken one angrily, twisting it between her fingers.

"Those sound like perfectly normal, healthy reactions to me," John'd said.

She'd stared at him. Healthy?

"Two people you trusted violated that trust quite profoundly, Bella. I'd be surprised to see any other kind of reaction."

Now she was locked into the remembered grip of one of those violations, but it was loosening—slowly.

"What just happened there?" John asked, trying to bring her back to the present.

She didn't want to say.

"Were you remembering something?" he asked.

Her head moved in a mechanical nod. That was safe.

"Quite realistic, I'm guessing, from your reaction?"

More nodding.

He didn't press further, but made another quick scratch over the page. A conversation for another time.

"Any thoughts about moving forward?" he asked. "A small intimacy, something you can assure yourself is manageable—safe?"

Her cheeks flamed, and she mumbled out, "kissing, I guess," feeling idiotic. Even that had disappeared for them after their wedding night.

She'd continued to retract, pulling inwards all the trust she'd so easily given Edward before. Holding his hand—never him holding hers—was the most constant contact they'd had.

"Alright," he said, writing this down. His own gaze travelled discretely to the clock. Still time, and he looked back at the last line Edward had written.

"You've had a positive pregnancy test result?"

She hadn't, but said "Yes," anyway. She didn't doubt Carlisle's knowledge. Or sense of smell. Or Alice's absent vision.

"And you're seeking an abortion."

"Yes." Clear. Firm. No mixed emotions there.

"Do you want to talk about that?"

"The abortion?" Bella asked, suddenly feeling nervous. A frisson of worry, of fear, that he might be opposed to such a thing shivered up her back.

He caught the pale tightening of her lips.

"If you want to talk about any of your feelings about it," he clarified.

"I just can't wait for it to be gone," Bella said, the words falling out of her mouth in a jumble. Carlisle had given her the shot that morning. She'd been so relieved, she'd burst into a fit of tears, knowing at least this part had a finite end in sight. "It's like my own body's betrayed me, keeping this...thing."

She stopped suddenly, before she could say more.

"Do you think your body betrayed you, Bella?" His face had folded up in genuine curiosity. He knew they'd touched on something deeper.

The mad flutter at her clavicle was as visible to him, as it was audible to Edward.

"During the assault?"

Was it so obvious? She wondered. The shame she felt for how her body had reacted to him?

He didn't press, but commented instead, "many women feel conflicted about what they physically experience during an assault, or take it as some sort of complicity."

She managed a minute nod of acknowledgement, suddenly wordless.

She hadn't talked about the specifics of the assaults. They'd danced around those. When it became clear he wouldn't demand them, she'd been able to relax a little.

"Bella," he said gently, "did you report the assault?" When she nodded, he went on. "If you consent, I can get a copy of the report. It would mean you not having to recount those details again, and it would help me understand how I can help you."

Bella wanted to cry with relief for the second time that day.

"Please," she said instead, keeping her voice small, not letting it burst the tentative bubble of control in her throat.

Their time was almost done. His hand was moving faster across his notepad.

"Can I ask when your termination is scheduled for?"

"Already started," she said, "last part is tomorrow."

He nodded, eyebrows pulling together. "Before we finish today, I want ask that you give yourself permission for something."

Her expression mirrored his, and she waited.

"I want you to let yourself grieve," he said gently. "Because you have a lot to grieve for, and," he paused, "some of it might surprise you. Just be...open to that."

The sources of her grief seemed so obvious to her, she couldn't imagine anything disrupting these expectations. She gave a quiet "sure," and then stood, following his lead.

"I'd like to see you weekly," he said, "but if you need to talk, or it's an emergency, call." He handed her a card, which she took, slipping it into her pocket.

Edward had buried his attention in as many other minds as he could, looking for the grip of the most mundane details in which to lose himself. Her voice, and John's sharp thoughts sliced through all of it. He dared have hope after this first session. They'd touched on things of substance. It was more than he'd expected.

In the empty lobby, he pulled her into as soft a hug as he could, his own feelings sliding from the extremes of his love, to the depths of his worry.

"Where to, my love?" he whispered into her hair.

"To find ice cream."

"Really?" he asked, grinning suddenly, leaning back, looking at her. He was happy to find a small and shy smile on her face.

"Really. I'm hungry. I'm tired, and Carlisle told me I'll be fairly miserable tomorrow, so ice cream today."

"Done," he said, sweeping a gallant hand ahead of him, the other in hers.

She'd surveyed the flavours displayed, picking not one, but two.

Watching him eyeing her, she smiled, "want some?" holding out her cone.

He shook his head, making a face, and sticking out his tongue.

She giggled.

"I think," he said, "that's the most enthusiastic I've seen you about food in a while."

"Hard not to be," she said, "it's ice cream."

He tucked away reminder to get some for home.

"Did it help?" he finally asked, after she'd eaten some more.

Her nod was less certain, and he felt a twinge of regret for asking. For interrupting this small happiness.

Then she blushed, adding, "I have homework."

"Oh?"

The rush of blood was so intense, it perfumed the air around her.

"Kissing," she mumbled.

He couldn't help it. He laughed.

"Nice," she said, still a deep mauve, but chuckled with him. It did sound ridiculous.

He had snuck his hand into hers over the table. "Sounds like the kind of homework I can help with, if you want," he said much more gently.

"Good," she said, a playful eyebrow up, "saves me looking for volunteers."

Smiling, he thought about how much he'd missed her sense of humour.

"Touché, Mrs. Cullen." Then he took, and kissed her fingers.

She returned his smile, and then wiggled her eyebrows, leaving them both in a fit of giggles.