"She's still afraid of me," Jasper said aloud.
They were perched on a dusty outcropping, sated from their hunt, enjoying the sensation of the sun.
Edward didn't disagree. It was apparent enough in her body language.
"Not that she hasn't had cause," he said, "but I don't want her to be." He looked at his brother. "Any advice on that front?"
Edward actually smirked, in spite of the seriousness of the conversation. "Well," he began, "you could try talking to her."
The notion of an emotional conversation with a...girl...was more upsetting to Jasper than he cared to admit. Not that he had any such leeway in keeping it from Edward.
"She isn't a girl, Jasper," he said, serious again. "You know that."
He did, on some levels. On others…
"She's my wife, Jasper," Edward said in all seriousness, "I haven't married a child."
Jasper tried to reconcile all this in his mind. She was so young to him, still. Conversations with women...about feelings, aren't exactly my strong suit.
"Rather ironic, all things considered," Edward murmured.
Jasper elbowed him playfully.
"I'm not suggesting you try to jump directly into a conversation like that," Edward said, "but maybe you could augment some of Rosalie's training, with a little strategic theory? Build some ease that way?"
He turned his head towards Edward, considering this, nodding. He was already following threads of thought on what strategic attack and defense theories she might find useful.
"There you are," Edward said, grinning. "You're welcome." He ducked Jasper's punch. "And thank you," he added. "For trying to make her feel welcome. Comfortable." He didn't add how hard he knew it'd been, having her in the house. How much of a struggle it been for Jasper to control his own urges. How grateful he was that he had done so much to be careful.
Emmett and Carlisle had joined them, their thoughts indicating their readiness to return home.
"Come on," Emmett said, stretching his arms up, "let's reunite the lovebirds."
Carlisle smiled at this. It still made him happy to see Edward and Bella simply together, despite the many difficulties they'd had to wrestle with. Murmuring in the background of his own mind was the reminder to check Bella's blood again.
Edward's face did not betray the inward squirm he felt, knowing Carlisle's reasoning.
"If you can leave me a few minutes, I need to take a blood sample at home," he said to Emmett and Jasper.
When he met Bella, and the female members of his family at the house, he shooed most of them away. Edward ignored the directive, his hand in Bella's.
"I'd like to run that test we talked about, if that's alright," he said softly to Bella.
She hadn't forgotten the reasoning, and her face paled slightly hearing him speak it aloud. She hadn't expected this, not today.
"I think everything will be fine," Carlisle tried to reassure her, "I'm just being cautious."
She nodded silently, swallowing. Nervous.
Jacob had done so much. The insidiousness of it lingered in corners she wanted dusted and forgotten.
The unusual genetic markers were ones he couldn't risk sending to a lab, so Carlisle was doctor, lab technician, and geneticist all in one, sending machines whirring and ticking as he ran the sample.
By the time the results were available, the rest of the family had arrived, and Edward had finally convinced Bella to relax with him on the couch. She could feel the minute softening of his posture. A tiny exhale.
"What?" she asked.
"All clear," he murmured into her hair, squeezing her with his arm.
The salt of her tears reached him with the sound of her quickened breathing.
She saw his look. "I'm just...relieved," she said, "that's all."
He said nothing, but renewed his embrace, and kissed the top of her head. He'd heard, in the substance of his mother and siblings' thoughts, about what had happened with Charlie, that she'd needed to go see John. She hadn't told him, though, and this small occlusion troubled him.
She didn't talk much more as the evening wore on, apologetic when she needed to go to bed earlier than usual.
When he asked if she wanted him to lay down with her, she nodded eagerly, but nervously.
Her bodily anxiousness, which she tried desperately to conceal, was so apparent, it pained him to witness it. Knowing it would only distress her more to discuss it, he kept silent, slipping into the bed with her, tucking the blanket around her carefully.
It was normal for her to move. Her ambulatory sleep patterns left a trail of wrinkled blankets and wedged sheets on the most innocuous of nights. Tonight her thrashing made angry origami shapes of them.
It was when the familiar contortion of her body appeared, stretched and taut in distress, that Edward tried to wake her.
He couldn't know that her dreams had morphed, that it was Charlie's betrayal she felt again, this now squeezed into the one wrought by Jacob.
"Bella," he whispered, fingers in her hair, trying to stimulate wakefulness gently—safely. He lived in fear of giving her nightmares a touchable weight. "It's a dream, Bella. Not real. Come back to me."
It wasn't long, and she did, a choked sob thrown from her throat.
"It's you," she hushed, reaching for his hand.
"Yes."
Another sigh, her eyes closing again.
He was beside her, a careful few inches away, giving her the space she often needed. He let his fingers play over hers
She wasn't relaxed though, despite the relief of knowing it had been a dream.
She was angry. Shaking with it. She'd had enough of these betrayals' constant reach—tangling even her sleep with their complicity.
It was her life to have. Dreams or nightmares of her own making.
Not anyone else's.
The urge to control it was loud.
And misplaced.
When she sat up, Edward's forehead widened with surprise. These episodes normally left her exhausted, and falling back into sleep.
Then she slid herself over top of him, straddling his midsection.
There was nothing between them, her long t-shirt hitched up by his form, and he reached a tentative hand to her cheek, wondering at her choice.
Her thumbs hooked the waistband of his pajamas down, revealing the aroused flesh she sought.
Then, rising up, she impaled herself on it, taking short, managed, and small gasping breaths, feeling him inside her.
He was cold, as the rest of him was cold.
And very hard.
He wasn't shaking, but he would have been if he were human. His hands had flown over his head, too terrified to be near her. The closest description his mind could approximate for the sensations rippling over him was that of electrocution. He was rigid—everywhere—with shock. WIth desire. With unprecedented sensation.
"Bella," he finally breathed out—this sound horrified, enervated, lusting, worshipful.
She didn't answer, too busy coping with her own shock.
It was painful. Her body fought the invasion of this foreign substance, the memory of the trauma vital and real. Her flesh twitched and spasmed, protesting the flagrant distension.
Edward was swallowing his own venom, trying not to breathe. Trying not to move.
It had only been a few seconds, but Bella's face was beyond holding the transformations of pain from it. Or making herself endure anymore, either.
With a stifled cry that was only a sounded breath, she pulled herself off of him, the burst of wetness inside her disturbing her dismount.
The simultaneous and disquieting crunch of Edward's hands, cracking through the metal headboard made her awkward landing on the bed even moreso.
His face, which she could see only dimly in the darkness, had registered a wide swath of expressions in sudden succession.
Both of them breathed heavily with the shock of what had happened.
She broke the silence with a whispered, "I'm sorry."
Edward's "no," was instant, reaching for her, sprinkling metallic dust across the bed. "I'm sorry—"
"For what?" Bella asked. "Being attacked by your wife?" The enormity of what she'd done hit her, and her hand flew to her mouth, "Oh God," she said, and stood, mumbling a horrified "I'm sorry," running to the bathroom.
He was up and at the door slamming in his face, perplexed by the click of the lock.
"Bella, it's OK," he said, hearing her crying.
The spray of the shower was next, the momentary disruption telling him she was under it.
"Bella?" he tried again.
No answer.
She was crouched, rocking back and forth, hands in her hair, feeling the ooze of something cold and viscous leaving her.
Between bouts of berating herself for her horrific stupidity, she was trying to throw off the weight of memory, but it was a cloying, sticky thing, gnarled into her hair, her hands, and the sensitive flesh at her thighs.
She let out an angry howl, fingers shaking and useless to dislodge the betrayals she carried.
"Bella!"
This time his anxiety reached her vocally.
"I just need a few minutes," she croaked out.
What were you thinking? The voice of doubt hissed. How stupid can you be? He won't ever want to after that move.
It was right, she knew. He wouldn't so much as breathe on her while she was human. Not after her reaction.
There was a soft rattling at the door, and she heard the quiet ping of the lock springing, and then the door opening.
"Bella?" he said softly, hands gently reaching around her in the bath, as he squatted beside her.
She squeezed her eyes together, barely able to tolerate even looking at him for the shame of what she'd done.
"Are you hurt?" he asked softly.
"No." This was choked out, a sob crawling after it.
"Will you tell me why you're so upset?"
Everything seemed to be running with something: eyes, nose, chest—this bleeding with a rush feeling. She sniffed in some of this wetness, rubbing her hand under her nose. "I didn't even ask you, Edward. I'm so sorry—I just—"
"No, no, no," he said. "No Bella, I knew—I could have stopped you. Easily. I was as willing as you were."
She shook her head. "It wasn't OK, and it wasn't for the right reasons—"
"I'm fine," he said, "I love you. You didn't do anything wrong." He shifted his arms, lifting her into his lap, the spray now drenching both of them.
They sat together for some time, the water gurgling from their clothes before he spoke again.
"What do you mean, it wasn't for the right reasons?"
She blew out a breath, slightly calmer now. "I just—I want to be in control of my life. I feel like I'm...falling, being shoved around by what I remember." A shiver rattled up her back.
He felt it, but listening, didn't suggest leaving. "How can I help you then?"
Her heart rate doubled, and her breathing became shallow again.
"Make love to me," she said quietly.
His sudden stillness, and the pause before he answered told her he hadn't expected this.
Or that he didn't want to.
He was wondering if she'd seen the destruction his hands and mouth had left on the bed.
It had been so close.
Too close.
What if he—?
He'd waited too long to speak, though, and his silence was answer enough for Bella.
"It's OK if you don't—"
"No," he made himself breathe through his terror, "I want to," kissing her cheek softly. "But you're too cold here."
She didn't object when he turned off the water, snapping a towel from the rack as he carried her back to their bed.
Flicking off the worst of the dust with his hand, he laid her under the covers, and slid in beside her, the contact of their lips unbroken.
She wasn't hesitant about touching him this time, her leg curled comfortably over his hip, her fingers exploring.
His kisses followed the lines of her blood, slowly trailing down to the beating chambers of her heart. From there he let them mount the curve of first one, and then the other breast, tasting the tips of them with his tongue.
Satisfied with the sounds these explorations elicited, he continued onwards.
He relaxed his hands, running them up and down her back, sliding over the curvature presented by her spine, and its luscious blossoming into roundness.
She captured one of his hands, and placed it most precisely on herself, inviting his intimate touch.
When he slipped his finger inside, she started, and he stopped, immediately.
"Is this OK?" he asked.
She nodded, making herself relax, reminding herself who she was with.
It wasn't hard, because other sensations were curling up around his touch, gripping tighter, inviting other things to loosen.
She shifted herself to be closer, pulling at his low back, feeling a larger coldness pressed intimately to herself.
He moved his lips from hers, tracing the elegance of her clavicle with his tongue, turning her over onto her back.
Their hips had met, he resting against her, sliding gently back and forth, continuing the work his fingers had begun.
She flexed her knees back, and pulling his head down to hers, kissed him, whispering, "I want you."
The trembling in her body wasn't just from nerves, and he continued with his soft movements, letting her hands roam over his back, brushing down to his hips, curling into his navel, and then lower.
With a deep kiss that planted her head into the softness of the pillow, he finally let the angle of their bodies align, slipping himself just inside of her.
He could feel half of her body fighting it, flesh twitching, nervous, anxious. He rested there, still busying his lips with hers, one hand teasing her softly, an invitation to pleasure.
When the resistance began to slip away, he moved ever so slightly forward, feeling the tension return with a choked cry from Bella.
He became perfectly still.
"Bella," he said softly, "am I hurting you?"
"No," she whispered, shaking her head adamantly. She was trying to move his frozen stance, pushing with her hands for him to continue. "I'm OK."
Control, the voice in his head said, let her have the control.
"OK," he whispered back, and continued the touch of his fingers, nudging himself slightly forward.
These small negotiations between their bodies continued, until she felt him inside her, fully pressed there, an unnatural tremble rippling through him at the sensation he was trying to tolerate, and control.
The sting remained, though, and she breathed out a frustrated, "not so far," relaxing as he moved back a bit.
"Is this OK?" he asked, watching her carefully, amazed she'd said anything. A spasm of worry fluttered in his chest. Was she in pain, and he'd caused so much she couldn't help but ask him to stop? Was she being honest—?
"No," she said, kissing him, "it's beautiful."
His own breath out was part relief, and part a laugh. How she surprised him.
"Good," he said, returning the kiss, tasting her lips with this tongue. "Because I want it to be exquisite for you."
Knowing her limits now, he found a soft rhythm, listening to the beat of her heart, twirling his fingers in the soft hair below her navel. When he felt the tension return to her body it was with gasps that had nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with the grip of a pleasure she hadn't known before.
Feeling the rippling of this release, he allowed his own, moving his hands to the safety of the bed, where he compressed the blanket into hard pucks.
Her eyes widened, and she gasped again, feeling the sensation of his pleasure inside her.
The sound of fabric, tearing, brought her back to herself.
Both pillows bore signs of distress, their casings torn and shredded, innards protruding from them.
His hands were not still. Rather, they were slipping over her, lips over hers again. She realized the touch wasn't intimate. It was clinical.
He was checking her, making sure he hadn't hurt her.
"I'm fine," she said, "don't ruin this with worrying."
His smile was small, and barely rueful. "Am I so transparent?"
"Yes," she said, smiling too, but widely.
Laying side to side on the bed, he pulled her to him, slipping his arms around her.
She could feel him, still aroused, barring the proximity he sought.
Her eyebrows folded together. "Didn't you—?" Then she blushed. She was still shy of such vocabulary.
"Orgasm?" he asked softly, not wanting to embarrass her.
She nodded.
"Yes."
She flicked her eyes in the direction she was wondering about.
"Not human," he smiled.
She nodded. "Is it uncomfortable?"
"No," he said, kissing her. "Not at all." He continued with the trail of kisses, his hands moving more softly now.
Bella was still, though. Thinking. "Do you want to—again?"
It was his turn to stop. "I think," he said carefully, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear, "that it shouldn't be me setting the pace."
"Good," she said, and leaned over, sliding herself on top of him.
He stopped her with his hands. "Bella," he said, trying to think of how to stop her without hurting her feelings. "It's OK to go slowly."
The tears were a surprise to both of them.
"What?" he said, feeling her come to rest on his navel. "What is it?"
"I'm afraid," she said, "that I'll be...frightened again. That I won't' be able to be with you again—that I'll wake up, and I'll be back to square one."
"I don't think you will."
"There are no guarantees, Edward."
"No," he said, "there aren't. And if we're at square one, we know how to get where we want to go. And if that doesn't work, we'll just take it easy. There's no rush."
"Then be with me," she said, "now. While I can."
He nodded, and felt her take possession of his body again, so differently than she had before, this time with the taste and sound of pleasure on both their lips.
